Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Todoroki Shouto died the day All for One was defeated. 

“Please say your name and describe your quirk for the camera.” 

“Todoroki Shouto.” The boy straightened. “My quirk lets me produce ice on the right side of my body and fire on the left.”

“Can you show us please.”

He raised his right hand, and a small obelisk of ice wrapped around his fingers. He didn’t look down. 

“And your fire?” 

“I won’t be using that half to be a hero.” 

“This is just a demonstration so your classmates can get to know you before you meet them. It helps to get to know one another if they already have your face and quirk figured out.” 

“I don’t care about that. I’m here to learn, not make friends.” 

There’s something hollow in the way the sun hangs at a greater distance on some days over others. How when it seems like the world needs light the most, it staggers away, allowing dust, smog, and debris to cover it entirely, appearing only as a white, distant disk, nothing more, nothing less. 

Red bleeds into frame. A distant halo of white to give it shape. Izuku’s eyes trace around the sun. Watching, feeling, it move. There’s a sort of acceptance in the act. The belief that when he closes his eyes again, he’ll never wake up. 

Only—“Midoriya. It’ll be okay. Help will come. I got you. I got you.”—Izuku had already shut his eyes, preparing for death. He wasn’t supposed to wake up. He wasn’t supposed to feel his lungs, constraining with the effort to keep himself breathing. And almost certainly, he wasn’t supposed to see Shouto above him, clutching him to his chest while he rocked. 

Only one person had gone in. Izuku was destined to die with that choice. 

“Name and quirk?” 

“Midoriya Izuku, and my quirk is.” The boy shakes his hands, well, shakes altogether. “My quirk is err.” 

“Come on kid we don’t have all day.” 

“It’s a—you see,” he said, “it’s a strengthening quirk.” 

“Demonstrate for the camera please.” 

The boy rubbed the back of his neck, “I can’t.” 

“You can’t?” 

“I can’t control it yet, but that’s why I’m here.” Both of his hands' clench. “So, I can master it so I can become the greatest hero.”

“If you are unwilling to demonstrate your quirk, let’s move on to the next set of questions.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen something like it.” The newscaster says. A blinking record button on the top of the screen. “It was incredible.” 

“I agree, but what’s really incredible is their ages,” the other broadcaster says. “The winner, Bakugou Katsuki, turned sixteen a month ago. However, the real star, who everyone is bound to keep watching after such an impressive display is the Number Two Hero, Endeavor's son, Shouto. I can see why his father has kept him out of the spotlight until now, to have a debut such as that? He’s going to be an amazing hero.” 

“As are the other students. What was the name of the kid he fought during the third round?” 

“Iida Tenya, another hero family, helping to secure the future.” 

“No, the one before that, the other one who broke his fingers. Something Midori?”

While the anchors fail to get the name right, the screen shifts to show the moment the boy used his flames. The moment the air collapsed in on itself. The brief moment it was quiet in that stadium of thousands, and everything rigid and hard and terrible, no longer mattered.  

Hey Shouto! Mom and I were super concerned. Don’t you ever do something so stupid again. You had us worried sick. We wish we could see you, but the heroes said you had to get debriefed before you moved into your new home. I’m happy for you, nee-san. Promise me you’ll make lots of friends. Okay? Text me sometime. I miss you. 

Whenever Izuku wakes up after injury, it’s always his hearing that comes first. He hears the flight of the heart monitor and nurses, mumbling to themselves as they check his vitals. He hears the leaky sink in the attached bathroom that always drips no matter where he is brought to. He hears his mom’s quiet tears and All Might’s gentle encouragement. 

Now, Izuku only hears labored breathing, and the insistent mantra of you’ll be okay, you’ll be okay, you’ll be okay. 

It’s the voice, not the words, that gets Izuku to open his eyes. The sun, having abandoned him to dip below the city skyline, leaves the sky grey pale, not yet ready to surrender to night. His chest hurts. It rattles when he breathes. His arms, dead weight, one dangling, one overlaying his chest. He thinks, perhaps, he can feel his toes, and that’s a relief, all things considered. He closes his eyes and sees All for One. Impossible to defeat without death. But based on the pain alone, Izuku managed to do it—he had survived. 

“You’ll be okay.” 

Izuku refocuses and stares up at his savior. Todoroki Shouto doesn’t fit the narrative. He can’t fit it because Shouto left in the rain to disappear and never came back. He didn’t come back. Even being held against his chest, while the other moves away from the epicenter of destruction, moves to safety, moves back towards society, Izuku can’t help but think that it’s wrong. Thinks that the one moment he closes his eyes, Shouto will be gone again. 

But still, “Shouto-kun?” 

Shouto doesn’t stop, at first, it doesn’t even appear that he had heard him, but after two steady breaths that Izuku feels against his right shoulder, Shouto says, “you should rest. We’re almost there, I can see the flare now.”

With a lot of effort, Izuku turns his head to see where they are headed. In the distance, a red stain of smoke trails up the grey sky. 

“What happens when we get there?”

Shouto’s response is not the answer Izuku is searching for. 

“Welcome to Class-A’s illegal fights to the death. I’m Kaminari Denki your host—” 

“And I’m Mina! The better, cuter, and flashier host!” 

Somewhere beyond the camera, there is a groan. 

“Today, All Might gave us the super important job of recording heroes in action to see how moves translate onto screen—

“—and to know how it feels like to fight while knowing people are watching and recording you,” Kaminari finishes. 

There’s an orange inferno behind them. The pair jump in unison, turning around just in time for Bakugou to laugh in the center of it all, to his back Todoroki is fending off Midoriya, who seemed unprepared for a coordinated attack. The commentators fall silent at the display and watch the trio shift back and forth between attack and protect. Protect and attack. Attack—but at least they are having fun. Children playing make-believe. 

Midoriya seems to ignore the camera, focusing on the person behind it. He is wearing a t-shirt. It’s baggy. It makes him appear sickly. A note on the date in the corner makes it easy to forgive the occurrence. Midoriya picks at his fingers in his lap. At last, the therapist asks, 

“Do you regret coming back to UA?”

Midoriya’s eyes do not waver. His voice does not shake. 

“I regret not saving everyone,” he says. 

Notice to Pro Hero Eraser Head: 

Possible sighting of a new vigilante. Proceed with caution. Unknown quirk. Unknown motivation. No current network. 

Priority: low. 

“What are you doing up here, Todoroki-kun?” 

The camera jostles as Midoriya takes his final step onto the graveled roof of Alliance Heights. Todoroki turns to him, from his seated position on the edge of the roof. His knees are to his chest. 

He says, “Hello, Midoriya.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” Midoriya says, waving the camera around, “and really, I could go elsewhere Ashido-san wanted me to record her dancing, I think, for the project, and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. So, if you rather I leave.” 

“You can stay,” Todoroki says, returning to face the sky. “I don’t mind the camera. I know how important your grades are to you.”

Midoriya continues across the roof. Gravel crunches underneath his boots. He sets his phone down, still rolling, and sits beside Todoroki. 

“Honestly, I can’t believe I had to draw the short stick and record what I do every day. I’d much rather take notes like you and Uraraka-kun are doing.”

“Isn’t the point of the exercise to point out what we forget in our day-to-day lives. You already take notes, it wouldn’t be much of a training exercise then.” 

“No,” Midoriya says, “I suppose it would not. Anyways, stargazing?” 

Todoroki drops his head from the sky, looking at Midoriya. “I’m watching the moon.”

(In a couple of days when Izuku has to edit his findings down, he will cut this out. He will assume that the class will laugh at the statement. No one watches the moon. No one cares about it. Izuku will keep the recording, regardless.)

“The moon?” 

“The moon,” Todoroki confirms. “My mother used to tell me a story about a boy being trapped on the moon. I don’t remember if he ever escaped, but when I was younger, I used to think he and I could be friends. It’s a little silly. I don’t know how I would’ve ever gotten there to see him—and I doubt really, anyone would have wanted to be friends with me back then.”

Todoroki's gaze is back up high, so he misses when Izuku frowns. When the light seemingly always bright in his eyes, dims, ever-so-slightly under the stars. 

(The real reason Izuku does not share this with the others)

Somewhere between promising he would not fall unconscious again and hearing the distinct sound of sirens, Izuku wakes up. This time nobody is there to keep him warm, only the jostling of cool plastic as he is raised. There is panicked shouting. A respiratory mask is placed over his face. There is the taste of bile mixed with blood. 

“He’s waking up,” someone shouts. 

“Someone start pumping morphine into him.” 

“His oxygen levels are decreasing.” 

It turns to buzz eventually, as rising anxiety is quelled over a concoction meant to save his life. He cannot ask where the other has gone, only stare at the sky as he is lifted into the ambulance. 

There is one star. It watches over Izuku. It curses him. 

Todoroki glares at the camera. He doesn’t pretend to act like he is watching the therapist behind it. After five minutes of tense silence, the therapist starts with, 

“Our conversation is confidential; the recording is only a precautionary measure in case I forget something.” 

Nothing. 

She clears her voice. “I understand that Deku-kun was brought back to UA and that you were part of the effort to bring him back. I understand this isn’t the first time you’ve volunteered to rescue a classmate; how does this repeated task make you feel?” 

Slightly (if you’re watching for it), Todoroki flinches. His eyes get darker.

“My brother tried to kill me, wouldn’t you rather unpack that?”

“I think it’s important for us to focus on achievable goals. I understand that you and Midoriya were friends, being left in the dark and being scared is something a lot of your classmates are also feeling right now. You’re not alone in being frustrated with him and coming up at a loss for what to say to him. We can take that hurt and craft questions and topics you may want to discuss with him.”

“It wasn’t the first time he tried to kill me either.” Todoroki says, raising his chin. Defiant. “It was the first time someone hugged me and actually meant something by it, though.”

The therapist sighs, refocusing the conversation on the eldest Todoroki sibling. 

In a police station in Musutafu, overworked and understaffed, a random secretary will take a stack of papers and begin pegging them to a board. People went missing all the time before. In the after, it’s somehow worse. Between a picture of a toddler and a picture of a wanted criminal, Todoroki Shouto’s school photo is unsmiling. At the bottom it affirms, missing.

“We’re splitting into two teams, with heavy hitters on either side. While it’s important to be cautious of a trap, it seems likely that All for One planned it so that our forces would be split,” Hawks says to the group. It’s comprised of the strongest remaining heroes, as well as the important figures called out by the villains—mere children, but in the wake of utter chaos, some of the best fighters.

Regardless, the camera keeps moving, uncaring while Todoroki leans over into Bakugou’s personal space, asking something of him that the camera can’t pick up. Midoriya hears it though, harshly whispering something to only the pair, but Bakugou brings it to the table’s attention. 

“The teams aren’t balanced.”

Best Jeanist and Hawks share a look, but it is Endeavor who speaks. “We feel it’s necessary to stack our deck on both sides of the fight. If we don’t anticipate the worst—

“Touya doesn’t want to share the spotlight,” Todoroki says, “even if All for One demands it. He’d rather go rogue. Bakugou’s right, you're not sending Midoriya enough support.” 

Midoriya bites his tongue. The older heroes talk amongst themselves. Eventually, it is decided. The teams are re-split.

VIGILANTE #MS2987

CODE NAME: Wraith Phantom Sunrise Yokai (*note this is unofficial and according to - CLASSIFIED -)

AGE: 18-21

GENDER: Male

AFFILIATIONS: CLASSIFIED and Falling Sun

QUIRK: Unknown

LAST LOCATION: Tokyo

“We think it’s your kid,” a detective says on the other end of the call. 

“Do not approach him. I am on my way,” the hero says. 

“Police are already in pursuit. If it is your kid, he’s in a world of—

There is an explosion on the other end. A distant roar from someone else. Not much later, the phone line goes dead. 

It’s rather grainy. The video footage is nearly impossible to see due to the rain. People spend weeks going over it. They try to piece together the puzzle and find clues that will lead them to answer the question of what happened that night. 

In the video, they watch as Endeavor falls from the sky. A burning meteor as he craters into the cement. In seconds the youngest Todoroki rushes toward him. He falls to the ground and shakes him. His back is to the security camera from across the street. 

The villain Dabi is slow to make his approach. Leisurely, walking over with his hands in his pocket, unconcerned with the way the rain pummels his skin. He says something to his brother that gets him to stop. He smiles, all knives, and raises his arms. In both hands, sparks of blue, even in the downpour. 

The young hero is trembling. He is shaking his head.

They piece together the villain giving his brother a choice. They do not know what that choice is. 

The child stumbles away from his dead father. The villain laughs. It is only once they are gone—15 minutes later—that Hawks flies in, collapses next to Endeavor, and wails. It is fruitless to watch the recording any longer. It makes no sense to watch other children bear to witness this type of destruction. 

UNDERGROUND HERO REGISTRATION

HERO #3334

STATUS: ACTIVE

CIVILIAN NAME: SHINSOU HITOSHI

AGE: 18

QUIRK: BRAINWASHING

HAIR COLOR: PURPLE

EYE COLOR: PURPLE 

GRADUATING CLASS: UA CLASS A YEAR XXXX

AFFILIATIONS: ERASER HEAD AND ERRORerrorErrOR 

HERO NAME: PSYCHOSIS

Before he wakes, Izuku has a dream. He sees Shouto throwing up his arm and shielding him with a wall of ice as All for One disintegrates into nothing. After that the image shifts. Instead of collapsing on a battlefield, he’s with Shouto in a field of red poppies. He can hear the ocean in the distance and wonders if he approaches the cliffside, he’ll get to see it. 

Shouto is saying something, but Izuku cannot make sense of it. Words without prose, without meaning. He asks why Shouto is leaving. Why he’s leaving again?

Shouto looks as sad as he did when they started school. 

He tells Izuku goodbye. 

He walks away. 

No matter how hard Izuku runs he will never catch him. He will never drag Shouto back and convince him to stay. He can only watch as Shouto disappears into the horizon in a flash of light. 

He will have the dream again. 

Detective Naomasa, after a hard day of work, will be the one to stop in front of the missing poster sign. He will stare at the child in the photo while his companions celebrate the defeat of All for One. They will cheer. The city will be overjoyed. It will celebrate for days. 

In the autopsy room in the basement, a new file has been created. It reads like all the others. On the day All for One was defeated, the heroes lost none. A correct story on a technicality alone.

In the morning All Might will come to accept the body, in the place of the family. They will come, one last visit to Japan, before they abandon it for good. In a year no one will remember what had happened. In a year, the only Todoroki worth discussing would be the villain still at large. 

Naomasa takes down the poster. Inside his desk, the case file reads: closed. 

Izuku comes to a couple of times in the hospital. Each time frantic voices call out to him. Each time he tries to wake up fully and fails. He dreams of winter snow and heterochromia. Of a hero who others claimed no longer was. 

On the fourth day, he wakes up for good. Bakugou and Uraraka are there. They are bickering. It’s soothing in its familiarity. Uraraka notices he’s awake first. She bounds to his side, grabbing a cup off a table, and handing it to him. He’s grateful for the water. 

“You ever pull this shit again. I’ll kill you for real.” Bakugou says, approaching, but keeping his distance. 

“Everyone’s glad you’re okay, Deku-kun,” Uraraka says, “We were all worried when you went in alone, but of course, you managed to drag your body to the nearest ambulance.” 

Izuku’s brows furrow. 

“I didn’t,” he tries but his voice is scratchy even after the water. Uraraka places her hand on his shoulder.

“It’s okay. You don’t need to push yourself,” she says, “you did good.” 

“Where is he?” 

Uraraka glances to Bakugou. He rolls his eyes. 

“All for One’s dead. Once you were evacuated a team went in. All that was left of him was his legs. A fucking miracle you didn’t go with him.” 

It isn’t a miracle. It was a shield. A sparkling structure of ice, and a warm hand there to tug him back the moment the world exploded. It was Shouto. 

Izuku shakes his head. “Where is Todoroki-kun? He saved my life.” 

Uraraka’s eyes glisten. She squeezes his shoulder again, dropping her gaze. Bakugou makes a noise, glaring at the wall. 

“Guys?” Izuku asks, “I know it’s weird, and he might not be the most liked person right now, but I need to thank him. If he wasn’t there, I would have died.” 

“Deku-kun.” 

“I know. I know. Last time was bad. It was bad on all of us. But maybe we can get some closure now? Maybe we can stay in touch. I mean graduation is only weeks away and just because we’re Pros, and he isn’t, doesn’t mean we can’t all hang out. We all miss him. I miss him.” He drops his gaze to his lap. “It’ll be better. I know it’ll be better. Why else would he save me?”

“Stop it.” Bakugou all but growls. He pulls Uraraka back, who has started to shake. “Half n’ half didn’t save you.” 

“Yes, he did,” Izuku insists. “He carried me through the rubble to the paramedics. If it wasn’t for him—” 

“Stop.” Bakugou’s voice breaks. It is so unfamiliar sounding that Izuku stares. Bakugou rubs his face. “Fuck. One of those stupid nurses must have said something when you were being taken into surgery.” 

“Bakugou,” Uraraka warns. “We were told to wait.” 

He glares at her. “I didn’t say shit.” 

Izuku stares between the two of them. “What happened?” 

Uraraka sighs, trying to force a smile. It makes him more apprehensive. He knows he won’t get anywhere with her. He turns back to Bakugou, who has never been gentle with his feelings. 

“What happened,” he asks again. 

Bakugou crosses his arms. 

Before he speaks Uraraka states, “It’s not your fault.” 

He doesn’t believe her. Bakugou grounds his teeth and clears his voice. 

“Half n’ half’s dead. They found his body the morning of the attack.” 

“But I,” Izuku shakes his head, laughter blossoming out of his chest. “He held me. I saw him. He saved me. I remember. His ice shielded us. He was there. He was.” 

Uraraka wears sympathy; Bakugou contempt. 

His laughter turns to tears. “You have to believe me.”

But neither of his friends meet his gaze. 

It takes eight minutes for the light of the sun to reach Earth. It may take a millennium for that same light to reach even the smallest pinprick of stars. Past, present, and future all rolled into one indistinct light. It is there, in that darkness, which carries light forward, neither coming nor going, the true key to immortality. A deathless night. Eternity. 

In a rolling headline, playing while the meteorologist discusses the upcoming weather, “Todoroki Rei and family land in Japan for Private Funeral.” 

Izuku thinks in that short time between graduation and becoming a full hero that the world is wrong. He believes it so much that All Might is forced to bring him to the precinct because he’s not sleeping. He’s not sleeping so he can run through the night on some half-formed plan he considers a patrol, constantly searching. Detective Naomasa looks decades older than when Izuku last saw him, he has the case file ready for Izuku to see, as well as the autopsy report. 

Izuku reads it. Then rereads it. Somewhere between gunshot wound, self-inflicted, and quirk enhancer, he loses his ability to read. It doesn’t matter much. Izuku learns to lie afterward. He begins to pretend that he is okay. 

He tells his family, his friends, that Todoroki Shouto is dead. 

It will take time for them to believe him.

It will take far longer for Izuku to believe himself.

In hopes of sharing some positivity and showcasing how much stronger the world is after All for One’s demise, UA’s graduation is broadcast to the nation. People will note that previous graduations were also broadcast, but it will be hard to ignore that this one is played on every major network. It will be harder to ignore, how most everyone tuned in to see the savior of Japan walk across the stage to receive his diploma, all smiles. 

In the future, they will call him the next Symbol of Peace. They will call him All Might. They will call him the greatest hero. For now, he is only Midoriya Izuku, Hero Alias: Deku, age 18. The person who saved the world and sacrificed no one, not even himself. 

It is Underground Hero Eraser Head who reads off the list of the graduating class. He reads through everyone. No hesitation in his voice with little inflection while the crowd cheers as their family member crosses the stage. Midoriya Inko is shown when her son passes. There are tears in her eyes. 

The only moment the hero pauses is after reading Tokoyami Fumikage, who crosses the stage with no problem. The hero clears his throat before he reads out loud, 

“Todoroki Shouto.”

Though there is no one to accept the achievement, the crowd, the kids, clap thoroughly anyways. 

Izuku stands on a beach, dress pants rolled to his ankles, shoes abandoned on the sidewalk. The ocean is still cold this time of year. It manages to burn slightly, around the edges of his toes. Easy to ignore. Far away his classmates are already going home, moving on, Izuku will too, in the morning. Leave Musutafu for good to take his place under the current Number One Hero. All Might will be there, his lip quivering, eyes proud. Izuku will have trouble shaking his hand.

Right now, however, he is watching the moon. A crescent of light between stars. The waves lull beside him. Weeks prior, the Hero Commission asked him how long it was going to take—they thought themselves generous letting him complete school—Izuku does not know. 

Selfishly he wants to hit restart. Risk All for One winning if it meant this reality ceases to exist. But, Izuku’s quirk does not allow him to bend the fabric of time. All he has is this. A nation of people clamoring for him to write the rest of his story, but if he cannot change time, he can at least do this, take a momentary respite from the chaos of the world. If he's allowed anything, he takes this reprieve.

Once he's back at the parking lot, he looks back. There in the sand, a lie. Two sets of footprints, side-by-side to the ocean shore. A bittersweet reality he turns away from. His one steadfast choice. He does not grieve. He does not cry. 

UNDERGROUND HERO REGISTRATION

HERO #3335

STATUS: ACTIVE

CIVILIAN NA— file corrupt

aGE: 

QuiRK: 

H IR CO R: 

 Y CO : 

G G SS: 

     S: 

 HERO NAME : GHOST

Chapter Text

Ashido and Uraraka pressed together, cheek-to-cheek, grinning for the camera. Beyond them, class-A celebrated the end of their winter work studies. On every available flat surface, a plate or cup sat. Salty bags of chips were left open, revealing crumbs as someone cheered. The rest of the group in the middle groaned, having lost the game they were playing. Bakugou stood in a victory pose—more fitting in the middle of a battle, a magazine cover, a character in a video game. 

Ashido scoffed, taking the camera from—Iida, based only on the faint sound of his voice, calling after Ashido that the purpose of this video was to document the whole class, not whatever antics she wanted to get into for the night. Ashido called something over her shoulder, but much like the board game the class was playing, it was lost. 

For a moment, the camera searched out potential victims for the next possible testimonial. The person who would be forced to awkwardly discuss how their work studies went or put up with whatever the camera person wished for them to do, which, based on Ashido, holding the camera, probably meant something embarrassing. She was looking for someone specific as the viewfinder went between groups. Yaoyorozu and Jirou. Uraraka, now speaking to Iida, patting him on the back. The group playing the board game in the center. Bakugou back on the ground, next to a grinning Kirishima. Until it settled on those furthest people from her, tucked under the widow on a loveseat. 

Izuku’s hands waved around his face, possibly the fifth time he told the story of what he got to do. Next to him, Shouto nodded, leaning on his hand, braced on the back of the couch. Not bored, or tired of Izuku’s ramblings, simply comfortable with the conversation they were having. 

In a matter of seconds, the camera got closer to the pair. Close enough that it even picked up the snow on the ground outside. The frosted tint to the windows. The pale mole on the underside of Shouto’s chin, only to disappear as Ashido wrapped her arm around him, causing the camera to lose focus.

“What are you two doing?” Her voice, tinny. Izuku, stunned by the interruption, having not seen her coming, didn’t immediately respond with the recount of his last fight, which allowed Ashido to barrel forward with her presumptions. “I know what this is. You’re talking about girls.” 

Not caught under Ashido’s arm, Izuku was able to lean back, shaking his head and arms, blushing. Shouto was harder to make out, just a hint of disappointment based only on how his lip twitched when Izuku fell silent to Ashido’s arrival. 

For her part, Ashido didn’t seem to care what she had interrupted or didn’t interrupt, continuing, “Spill it, which one of you decided they wanted to date a super hot intern, working for Endeavor? Or wait!” The camera jostled again, losing focus of Izuku, who got more and more flustered as she pointed to herself. “Is it one of us? What girl in our class are you secretly admiring?” 

At that, Izuku did manage to hide himself behind his arms, shaking his head. The camera turned to Shouto, believing he would be the one to admit what they had been talking about before they were interrupted. But Shouto was not looking at the camera, only Izuku beyond it, as if Ashido’s teasing hadn’t even registered, or were so below what he could and did care about, he didn’t feel the need to answer. 

At the time, however, Izuku took his silence as confusion. Absurd, since Izuku knew what confusion looked like on Shouto’s face and that wasn’t it—Shouto would ask too if he was confused; he stopped holding back from asking Izuku anything. 

Shortly, Shouto would answer the question. Succinct and to the point. No, they weren’t talking about girls. They were talking about a new move Izuku mastered, and Izuku was giving him pointers on ways to further combine his quirk. Boring , Ashido would yawn, disappearing back to the crowd. To the board game. 

Maybe the reason Izuku didn’t know what the rest of the class was playing was because he could never get past this frame; before Shouto said a thing. 

It was not something someone would glean from watching the video in passing. Izuku only knew it was there because he had sat across from Shouto, peeking through his arms, hoping Ashido had got the hint to leave them alone—she had not, not yet. The crux of it sat on the opposite side of Shouto’s face then what the camera captured. 

But, even now, Izuku could see it in Shouto’s eyes. In the way, the left side of his face lifts minutely. 

Todoroki Shouto, preserved as smiling. Eternally happy.

On the second monitor at his desk, a live broadcast of the news continued showing highlights of the Pro Hero Rankings. 

“Low crime-rates this week, leading to the latest announcement of the top ten heroes, make those tight margins nearly impossible to close.” 

Izuku wasn’t paying attention to what he had turned on when he entered his office once he was free to leave the ceremony earlier that night. His show costume—the one that was a shade darker than his normal costume, the white of his gloves routinely bleached white, and red shoes with not a single scuff—sat bunched around his torso. He had unzipped the top half of it as soon as he sat down, the walk to the locker room too far away to be bothered into changing into something else.

While Shouto sat frozen, smiling at Izuku, the other screen showed clips of the speeches each hero gave. Uraraka glowed at the end, taking the microphone from Kirishima, before passing it along to an older hero. One by one each of them spoke, reminding the audience that they were grateful to be held in such regard. 

After Bakguou had passed the microphone to him, and Izuku to Hawks, he had leaned into Izuku’s space, telling him to just wait. In six months, he’d be number one. Incidentally, Bakugou had been making that same threat since they broke into the ranks—seven and five after graduation—and neither of them had ever surpassed the two heroes who did trade the Number One and Number Two Spots. This time around, Hawks had sat back in Number Two, but if Izuku had to guess, the winged hero preferred it that way. Out of the top five, Best Jeanist probably was the safest Number One Hero. A true hero from before the war that people trusted. 

Not that it kept Izuku from being aware of how close the top four heroes were. In a way, Bakugou was right, one good fight, and he’d pull ahead of all three of them. And, he was Number Four. Meanwhile, Izuku was even closer to surpassing Hawks and Best Jeanist. The Hero Commission had been pushing for it to happen, only now, it seemed like the inevitable was finally drawing close. With or without Izuku’s input. 

He hovered back over the image of Shouto, purposefully not thinking about where his friend would have stood had things been different. Long ago, he had managed to convince himself not to dwell on it. The warming beer where a coffee mug should be, the indigo sky, and the fact he was watching old home videos on the matter notwithstanding. 

There was another video Izuku usually liked to watch next. It involved Kaminari brainstorming ways to get the class to trend. He decided to put Bakugou and Shouto together in the kitchen after their first public interview blew up. The cookies they made did turn out good, even if Shouto left the kitchen with more white hair than red after Bakugou turned on him for using baking soda instead of powder. 

“Our next guest was the once elusive Underground Hero, Eraser Head.” 

Izuku’s attention flitted back to his monitor, watching his old high school teacher fill half the screen, mirrored by a news anchor on the other half. Her set was bright compared to his backdrop of a dark outer wall. Izuku didn’t know why Aizawa continued to suffer through interviews when he didn’t like doing them.

He missed the cursory introductory statements, attention back on scrolling through hours of videos, searching for the one he wanted next when the news anchor asked, “You’ve come out in recent years as one of the main dissenters against the hero ranking system, why is that?”

Izuku smiled when he found the video, having missed it first because he forgot the last time he had changed the icon for it to a cookie. Bakugou’s frozen anger met him as he opened the file. 

“…a different hero deserves to be standing in the Number Four, if not Number Three position.”

The statement kept Izuku from starting the video, eyes back on his teacher. Aizawa’s expression had changed. He wasn’t bored. Dead serious with his statement. Curious enough, Izuku waited. Aizawa has always been a good source of information. It was unlike him to say something so baseless. 

A hidden safe spoke to Izuku’s problem with analysis. Analyzing ranked Pro Hero’s was an easy pastime. As public employees, all of their information was readily available as long as someone was patient enough to sift through it. Izuku was. Furthermore, the guidelines for what each hero was ranked on individually hadn’t changed in some fifty years, making it rather simple to predict where everyone would land once everything was said and done. Bakugou, himself, Hawks, and Best Jeanist might have been in a tight race, but the rest of the Top Ten had healthy margins in between them. 

The news anchor said as much, “ While I commend Kamui Woods for his dedication, he has said multiple times that he doesn’t believe he will ever move past Number Five.” 

The wrong thing to say, based on Aizawa’s expression alone. It was a trap. The same tactic that was used on Izuku one too many times when he was in high school: make him comfortable in knowing the answer, and then have the rug pulled out from underneath him as his sensei showed him exactly why he was wrong. 

Aizawa took too much satisfaction in pulling out a slip of paper from his scarf, clearing his throat to say, “Dynamight had a personal best record of 787 people saved in the last six months. Deku put away an all time record of 1148 villains in the same period, ahead of Hawks’ 974, and Best Jeanist’s 842.” 

“All of which are impressive numbers. Any one of these heroes could have easily been the Number One hero in previous generations. Japan is truly lucky to have such strong defenders. I know you must be proud of your former students.” 

“I am,” Aizawa said, “ but villain takedowns and saving civilians aren’t the only two factors that make a hero. In fact, recent trends show that it’s getting increasingly difficult for heroes to find work—

“Trends that point to the fact crime is decreasing. It’s quite an accomplishment, you wouldn't disagree with that?” 

No one would. The fact that crime had stagnated, even fell, since All for One was defeated was one of the biggest accomplishments the Hero Commission, and current Top Ten Pro's had. All together they made Japan safer. They didn't have to worry about that resting on one hero anymore, and it was working. 

However, Aizawa continued with, "that may only suggest that the hero landscape is changing, and the Hero Commission, the Top Ten Pros, aren't ready to face it yet. Let alone the rest of the top 100, and the profession as a whole.”

It had, Izuku couldn't fault his old teacher for that statement. But, I hadn't changed enough to warrant Aizawa going on tv to give a warning. There would always be another Big Bad that would need to be taken down, and if it wasn’t someone threatening total annihilation, it was petty small stuff. Thieves using their quirk that puts more people in danger, various quirk trafficking rings, or drug dens.

Izuku was ready to turn the interview off, catching the rest of it in an article, or snippets later on, when, after the news anchor interrupted Aizawa again, asking him to make his point, Aizawa did. 

“Japan needs to pay more attention to its underground heroes. In the same six months, another hero has saved 908 people, more than Dynamight or Deku and has helped put away 899 villains. That alone means they’re up there with the best.” 

“The ranking system is multifaceted. While those two things make up an important part of the system, public relations, merchandising, and much more, contribute to the total of as well. Underground heroes stay in the shadows for a reason; no one knows who they are.”

“But you do know of them,” Aizawa pressed. “You wouldn’t be so defensive had it been a traditional hero.” 

“You’re perpetuating a story, which has been repeatedly debunked, not only by reputable news outlets, but by the Hero Commission themselves. Ghost isn’t real.” 

“No?” Aizawa’s question was emphasized with a raised brow. “Most heroes save with only an idea. It’s how All Might was able to inspire so many. The belief that no matter what someone will be there. The hero scene is changing, my advice for any of the heroes standing on that stage tonight: Pay Attention.” Then he shrugged “Maybe, Ghost isn’t real, or he’s many people wearing the same mask, but to a lot of people he is. A symbol of what's already come.”

“There are some who say that by recognizing underground heroes for their work it puts them in more danger. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“If he’s not real, what does it matter? The point is, the way things stand right now, not everyone is being recognized for their work. For keeping Japan safe. The moment underground heroes cease operations, is the moment the cracks in this system start to break apart. The top ten may not realize it yet, but they owe Ghost a lot more than keeping charge of the shadows.”

Aizawa didn’t wait for the anchor to respond, pushing back on the notion that Ghost was even a real being, to walk away from the camera set up that had been recording him. There was some commotion as the cameraman and whoever was overseeing this interview tried to get him to come back. But it was too late, Aizawa had already disappeared into the night, leaving an exasperated host. 

She was quick to smile, thanking the empty wall for his time before cutting to commercial. Uraraka and some other female heroes filled the screen, selling perfume in pink bottles. Izuku’s cue to shut off the news. However, when he turned back to Shouto, and the video to come, he found he couldn’t hit play. Aizawa’s words troubled him. 

He opened a drawer at his desk and took out the abandoned notebook there, starting on a new task. He grabbed his pencil, rolling it between his fingers, eying his search engine, though ultimately, Shouto won, he always did, and he hit play. It was tradition, after all. Only instead of leaning on his desk, watching videos, he had memorized years ago, Izuku worked.

He began with a search.

Izuku woke to a crumpled ball of paper hitting his forehead and the smell of coffee. Without lifting his head he grabbed the wad and tossed it blindly into the room. Bakguou swore but dodged it readily, holding the tray of coffee above his head to not spill it. 

“For someone who complains about their back constantly, you sure like to make a shitty habit of sleeping at your desk.” 

Bakugou set the tray of coffee down. Izuku grabbed the closest one, stifling a yawn. 

“How else am I supposed to guarantee fresh coffee in the morning?”

“Make it yourself in that fancy pot that Cheeks left you that’s been conveniently collecting dust since she moved out,” Bakguou said, “Instead of draining my pocket book on this expensive crap.” 

“We both know you’d still go to the cafe down the block. You like their scones too much to stifle my coffee addiction,” Izuku said. 

Bakugou huffed but he didn’t immediately leave to head to his desk on the other half of the office, only an All Might mural between them. He lingered beside Izuku, sipping his coffee and taking him in. 

In truth, Bakugou knew the real reason Izuku spent more nights asleep at his desk, using a notebook as a pillow instead of walking back to his house. It had been easier when Uraraka was around. She always had a way to get him to pause, relax, lay simple facts down on a piece of paper and tell him that Japan wasn’t going to fall apart if he got a few hours of sleep. In the interim, after she had moved out to live with her fiancee, the silence of his home wasn’t so forgiving. If something happened because Izuku wasn’t there, he wouldn’t forgive himself. Being at the agency negated that issue. He’d be ready at a moment's notice.

While Izuku accumulated to being awake, shaking his mouse to get the monitor screen to load and debating on taking a shower, Bakugou pulled his notebook toward the edge of the desk. Izuku didn’t try to stop him. It was usually good to have a second set of eyes on these types of things. Bakugou noticed things Izuku often missed, and likewise. They made a good team. The only team Hero Deku worked on—dared too.

“You let Aizawa get to your head,” Bakugou said but he didn’t push the notebook away, flipping backward a couple of pages to where Izuku’s latest entry had started. 

“You saw the interview?”

Bakugou shrugged. “Ei’s been having trouble sleeping, likes having on background noise, and my sleeps schedule’s been fucked since that week of overnights we did. Besides, sometimes extras have good points.”

“You think it’s weird, don’t you? That there’s supposedly this hero, who we’ve never met, that’s doing our job but apparently better.” 

“No,” Bakguou said. “Underground heroes are underground for a reason. No ones supposed to know what they do. They wouldn’t make very good spies otherwise.” 

Of course, Izuku had worked with a variety of underground heroes in the past. Mostly, when their plans went south and the big leagues needed to come in and clean up a mess. But, they could also be incredibly useful for gathering information. Shinsou was. It was almost scary how fast he could gather the things Izuku needed and the things Izuku didn’t even know he needed. 

“Besides,” Bakugou said, “the news anchor was right. No one knows who they are, or how many people they are. The joys of hiding behind a mask instead of facing public scrutiny.” 

“I think we’re actually wrong about that,” Izuku said, tugging the notebook. Bakugou got the hint, lifting his finger. Izuku turned it once, pointing out the second to last paragraph. “The Hero Commission has trained groups in the past to all embody one fight style in order to feign one sole hero. It fell apart because they couldn’t guarantee an exact replica. While it’s likely there are copycats, I think the original hero, is the only one.”

“Huh,” Bakguou said, continuing to read on, “good luck getting our databases updated with that info. The Hero Commission isn’t going to like it if you keep pointing out their errors. They’re still mad at you about last time.”

The last time being when Izuku found out that they still had a program in place for scouting young quirk users, gauging them as potential heroes. A supposed practice of a bygone era. But Izuku had to be careful where he pushed, no matter what he did to try to regulate them, try to make them into the organization they should be, they could still destroy him. They were his boss. There was only so much Izuku could do. 

“Christ,” Bakugou said, “where did you find this shit? We’re supposed to believe this masked vigilante took down twenty guys in under five minutes and not a single fucker can say what his quirk is?”

Izuku was glad Bakugou found it as appalling as he did. For their rank, he and Bakugou had been tasked with a lot more, sometimes with a lot less time. But they also had the benefit of their quirk, backup if necessary. It wasn’t supposed to be something other regular heroes had to deal with. 

“I was skeptical too, but then I saw this,” Izuku’s monitor was left on a video he discovered last night. “People not remembering minute details about fights isn’t too out of the ordinary. I thought I could skip the vague details and just watch a video to draw my own conclusions but there are none, besides this one. Even Shinsou has mandated training or fighting videos that any hero can ask for, but not him. It’s odd.” Izuku shook his head. It didn’t matter. 

He pushed back his chair so that Bakugou could see the screen better. Bakuogu leaned forward, zeroing in on the fight that was happening. Izuku watched it too. When he found it last night, he thought it was more like a fluke. There was something wrong with the footage that caused the quality of it to be poor no matter what Izuku did. Furthermore, the video itself was under thirty seconds. The battle was over too fast to properly assuage what was happening in it. 

It also wasn’t as if the hero was fighting a no-name criminal with a bat. His opponent was massive and had some sort of glass-yielding quirk that should have put the hero at a disadvantage given how many times a window shattered, and the villain merged the pieces into a sharp knife, attacking the hero. 

Izuku paused the video. “See how they were just there, ahead of the villain.” He pointed to the spot where the hero stood ahead of them.” He hits play again. The hero was gone. “At first I thought it was a teleportation quirk.” 

The hero was back on screen, attacking the man in the back, who screamed, but when he turned around the hero was gone again. He had to pause and scroll back as the next exchange took place.

“But they’re not disappearing and reappearing. See here.” Izuku slowed the footage just enough to make out the curve of the hero's dark costume, hardly distinguishable in the shadows. “They’re attacking, then jumping out of the way before the other can retaliate. I only know of a handful of heroes whose reaction times are that fast, let alone being able to maintain that speed to succinctly take someone out.”

Izuku let the footage play out. What ended the battle was the hero wrapping his hand around one of the glass weapons, breaking it in two then stabbing his opponent. The villain had gripped it, shocked to be taken down by their own advantage, before they fell to their knees. The hero was nowhere to be seen.

“So, what? Am I supposed to be impressed with some fancy footwork, or do you think some of these other hypotheses of yours might be correct,” Bakugou skimmed the list, reading, “Mind Manipulation but only for confusion, activated at sprinting or jumping. Really Deku?”

“Shut up,” Izuku said, grabbing the notebook. “It was 3am. I'm allowed to be tired. Besides, I think it is obvious what’s happening here. At the very least they have some type of resistance quirk. But, what I think is more apt is that they’re fighting quirkless.”

“A quirkless underground hero, who’s somehow managed to be good enough for the big leagues.” Bakugou’s skepticism dripped. “Come on Deku. If that was you out there, sure, I’d buy it, maybe. But some petty vigilante turned hero? They’d get killed before they even started.” 

“Vigilante?”

“I told you, you weren’t the only one with sleeping problems. “

Izuku shut the notebook, taking his friend in fully for the first time since he entered. There were shadows on his face that weren’t there months ago along with the hints of stubble when Bakugou usually was clean-shaven. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Bakugou shook his head before he was done. “Not here. But we can talk this weekend when I force you to leave the office. Ei and I will make you some food. Besides,” Bakugou dropped the notebook, waving him off, “I know you much rather focus on your latest quirk crush.” 

Izuku scoffed at that. “It’s not a crush.” 

Bakugou nodded, an easy smile falling on his lip. “And I wasn’t a page away from turning to see a vague drawing to point out all the intricacies of a costume and another list of quirks the hero may have?”

Izuku didn’t dignify Bakugou with a response. Drawing the hero's costume had been hard. On spotty information at best. The only thing he could say with absolute certainty was that the underground hero's eyes were red. No one could say for certain why, just that it unnerved anyone who saw it. One of the criminals he had left tied up for the police to find had called him Yokai, which Izuku found to be appropriate, and he never met him. But what else do you call a hero that was more myth than anything based in reality?

“You wouldn’t want to meet them though, just to find out why they're like this. Every single other underground heroes has more of a presence than he does.” 

“Sure,” Bakguou said, “only, so I could fight them, knock them down a few pegs. It was obviously just a recruiting tactic by Aizawa. Their numbers are down and if they can point to a hero that’s supposedly better than us?” Bakugou didn’t have to scoff. He wasn’t even wrong to imply it. “Then more people might think of working only at night with dark alter egos or whatever.”

He had a point. Ever since All for One was defeated the number of people joining the profession was dwindling. While the villain had only escaped jail for less than twenty months, he had irrevocably changed how society viewed heroes. Their luster had started to wane, and it was only slowly building back up to full luminance. Furthermore, after all the death and destruction that followed during the several battles that had taken place, many people didn’t feel like it was worth it to risk one's own life. Izuku didn’t blame them. He wondered too if he lost too much already for where he was now. 

Shouto one time teased him that he would be the Number One hero at graduation. There had been mirth in his eyes as he said it. A joke, but deep down Izuku knew Shouto meant it too. He believed in Izuku enough to trust that he’d get to the top someday. In six months, that might truly be the case. 

Izuku glanced back down at the notebook. At the incredibility one person achieved all without a single accolade. A better hero than he.

Bakugou, done with their conversation, was back at his desk, leaving Izuku with a notebook of questions he’d never have answers for. It wouldn’t be the only one. 

Not long after Izuku had sent his ceremonial suit back to be dry cleaned and then stored for the next important press conference, his pager was going off. An emergency only in the sense that Izuku had to climb three flights of stairs to meet Best Jeanist, and a grumbling Bakugou, who had left for patrol not twenty minutes earlier, in a boardroom. Only, when Izuku pushed open the door, expecting only the two of the men, he found two others with them. 

Best Jeanist, obviously prepared, sat at the head of the table, going over paperwork. Bakugou sat glaring at the woman across from him, who in turn kept her steely gaze on him. In all the time he knew her, The President of the Hero Commission never backed down. However, usually, meetings with her required them to go to their headquarters. Never to them. Izuku couldn’t say the last time she came to Best Jeanist’s agency. Next to her, sat a stranger. Not at all bothered by the tension between the president and Bakugou. 

Izuku apologized for being late. Best Jeanist waved him off, asking him to take a seat.

“That is everyone,” Best Jeanist said. 

The president nodded, switching her attention to the man beside her. He didn’t waver under her. He simply reached under the table and pulled out a briefcase, snapping it open. 

“I trust this room is secured,” he said. 

Best Jeanist nodded. The man pulled out three manilla envelopes, sliding them to each hero while the president cleared her throat. 

“Before we start with anything. You must sign these forms.” A piece of paper followed the forms. A contract. Every hero was familiar with them. For legal reasons, confidentiality was sacred. Only the penalties usually associated with breaking the agreement were stiff. Not a simple fine but the threat of jail time, their hero ranks scrubbed. Izuku eyed the pen ahead of him. 

“What we are about to discuss can under no circumstances be discussed with anyone outside of this room,” the president said, “unless given written and verbal authority to do so.” 

“Which would be,” Bakugou said, tapping his pen on the wooden table, otherwise slouched in his chair. 

“I cannot say until you sign.” 

Bakugou rolled his eyes, but he did listen, pushing the paper back toward her and crossing his arms. The president gladly took it, handing it back to the man with the briefcase. Best Jeanist shortly followed suit. Meanwhile, Izuku read over the contract. Read it again. All the while, his pen bled into a bubble at the start of his name. 

“How big of a threat,” he found himself asking.

“The lives of every single person in this country.”

Izuku got the pen to move. The characters of his name were rough, scratchy. The man plucked it up, reviewing it before sliding it into his case.

He said, “the camera feed to the room has been cut. We have thirty minutes.” 

“You may open your folders,” the president started. The heroes complied. A memo to meet them on the first page. “Three days ago, the National Institute for Natural Diseases was robbed.”

Izuku took the first set of photos. Bodies laid sprawled in pools of blood. Izuku flipped to the next page and read the names of the dead. Only six workers in total, two of them were security and four of them must have been scientists, working late based on the timestamp, which placed the crime at 1:23 am. The next page was a detailed hypothesis of how the villain broke in.

“Publicly, the institute deals with all sorts of medical phenomena, creating vaccines for each flu season for instance. However, what is less known is the underground levels of the institution. It is where the country houses the most dangerous pathogens. Some are studied in hopes of finding a cure. Some are kept frozen and locked in place, too dangerous to be exposed to the public. And one, is a man-made creation dating fifty years ago purposefully mutated to hinder people with quirks. If exposed to the public then, it was estimated it would have killed at least eighty percent of the quirk-user population. With the number of quirkless people now, that number translates to almost seventy percent of Japan's population.” 

“And you were just keeping this type of thing on ice, for what? Fun,” Bakugou interrupted, pulling more paperwork out. 

“Destroying a disease like this, especially man-made, is not so simple, Dynamight,” Best Jeanist interrupted. “If I recall it was created as a weapon deemed too dangerous to use. It could withstand extreme heat and cold and had no manmade or natural enemy”  

“You are right,” the president continued, “which is why it is housed in one of the lowest levels, under maximum security. At the time, it was believed that we could simply wait out its life span, and recent prognostics suggest that it had weakened and would probably fully break down within the decade without interference.”

“But,” Izuku asked as the president fell silent. Izuku stared at the picture of the empty container.

“Given its lethality, and the number of villains unbothered in trying unethical experimentation, its existence was a highly guarded secret. Where it was in the lab, known only to the scientist fielded and granted access to study it. We are still trying to rule out a possibility of a mole, but we think it is more likely that the organization was hacked and as far as we can tell currently, they left no digital footprint in their wake.” 

Izuku flipped to the next page, reading while the president continued to say, “Video footage is subpar at best and shows only one figure, which is included in your documents. They managed to break in, undetected, kill six employees, and steal the pathogen in under thirty minutes. It took two hours for someone to find the first body.”

“Shit,” Bakugou said. 

“We have no leads on the suspect, nor the organization they are working for, though we suspect one of the yakuza gangs, trying to fill the vacuum the League of Villains left years ago. Given their actions, their resources are innumerable. However, due to the lack of demand since it was taken, we are under the belief that they are not ready to use it.” 

Izuku didn’t dare to voice how much of a risk that was. He suspected they already knew. 

“Luckily, the pathogen isn’t easily replicable without the proper equipment, which can only be found in three places within the country. All of which have had their security increased tenfold. Furthermore, while it was hypothesized that under the right conditions the virus could begin to heal itself, its healing would take time. We are looking at a timeline of 5 to 6 months before the pathogen is at its full destructive power, meaning we have time to retrieve it, which is where you come in.”

The president clasped her hands. “When deciding who to put on the case, we realized that only this agency and Hawks’ had the resources necessary to conduct the research into finding out who stole the item. We are in contact with Hawks and working on coordinating with him only. The fewer people involved the better. Under no circumstances can this information be let out to the public. It would cause national hysteria, lead to interference from other countries, and scare other villain organizations into retaliation, risking the nation. Besides, while whomever did this hasn’t acted yet, if they feared the whole top 100 coming for them, it might cause them to act rashly, prematurely releasing the pathogen and killing thousands.”

Izuku took a deep breath. Biological weapons were not something he was keen on researching. Bakugou seemed to be in the same headspace, glaring at the folder as if it was the villain. 

“So, what do you need us to do?”

“Normal patrols with possible infiltration. We will be giving you access to the institute as well as it’s camera feed. You might be able to catch something that we miss. But I must stress once more, this is not your normal villain takedown. This operation must be done as silently as possible. Because of this we have to extend our network to at least one more individual. Hashiguchi-san.”

The stranger, Hashiguchi, cleared his voice.

“I don’t expect you to know me, and I don’t expect you to remember my face when I leave. I am the director of the Society of Underground heroes. While it has been decided that your organization has the most resources and money available to go forward with the mission, there is a fear that you don’t have the tact needed for the mission.” 

“You want to say that again, unibrow?” Bakugou sneered, an explosion dancing on his fingers. 

Hashiguchi ignored him. “In the interest of making sure the process goes as smoothly as possible I have compiled a list of heroes that would be the most beneficial to the mission. You only need to pick one. Upon your request we can organize a demonstration of their skills for you to observe.” 

“And what if we decide their help is unnecessary,” Izuku had to asked. Bakugou and him made a good team. In the years after UA Izuku struggled to fully trust working with anyone other than him. It led to him overextending himself in many situations and many more injuries. A new person, with an unknown set of skills and quirk, would be a distraction. 

“If you do not want to work with us, then the case will no longer be your concern,” Hashiguchi said simply. “We cannot afford to let this knowledge slip and while our resources are slimmer, we could manage, if pushed, to get the case done. In the simplest terms, the margin of error if you work by yourselves is high. The likelihood that my organization would meet or exceed the deadline if we worked by ourselves is equally high. The only other option then is cooperation. But I assure you these heroes are the best.” 

Bakugou scoffed, but Izuku spoke before he could. 

“You said we get to choose?” 

Hashiguchi produced another folder. He slid it across the table. 

“Of course, though, my recommendation, the one we need on this case, is on top.” Hashiguchi said, “I trust you will come to similar understanding.”

At a warehouse in Kagoshima, four men dressed in dark clothes stood in front of unmarked crates. They smoked and talked quietly. Their guns swung lazily on their backs. A car approached outside. Its lights highlighted the rows of boxes that surrounded the men. The four paid no attention to it as it parked. Two people stepped out. They avoided puddles, making their way to the door. A woman entered first, wearing a cheap suit and a Cheshire smile. The men mirrored her smile. High above them, a phantom watched. 

“Boys,” the woman said, “please tell me you’ve been good.” 

A man with a single horn, but more muscle than what could be healthy, hit the top of the crate. “It’s all right here. Perfectly packed and ready for the market.” 

“Excellent.” The woman clasped her hands. She turned to her companion whose expression was neutral. “Shall we begin?” 

The horned man started to open the crate, pulling open the lid to reveal rows and rows of tightly sealed blue bags—powdered quirk enhancers, highly addictive. The man whistled, eyes brightening, and stepped forward. 

“Sora, darling, you’ve certainly outdone yourself.” 

Sora’s smile grew wider, but just as the man reached into the crate. A circular disk landed on his arm. He swore, trying to wipe it off before a zap of blue electricity caused him to drop. Immediately, the four other men reached for their guns. Their quirks exemplified muscle, not weaponry. Easy game. 

A fog entered from above as well as another disk. It hit one of the guards in the center of the chest. He dropped. The remaining men shot in that direction.

“Kenji on me,” Sora said. A faint glow surrounded her as she made her way in the direction of the door. The fog was thick. Behind them, the two other men screamed as the apparition made quick work of them. Kenji tightened his grip on his rifle, barely making out the outline of Sora in front of him. It did not matter, by the time they reached the door, the entrance was already blocked. 

“Ghost,” Sora seethed, “I thought I made myself clear last time you stuck your nose in my business.” 

Behind her, Kenji stumbled backward, “ Ghost?” 

He didn’t get far before the golden hue surrounding Sora expanded, entrapping him and dragging him forward. 

“Here I thought prison would get you to quit smoking,” Ghost said, their voice was crackly, mechanical. “Maybe the second time.” 

Sora laughed. “Not this time.” She lifted her finger towards Kenji’s head. “I won’t hesitate to kill him. Let me go and this doesn’t have to get bloody.” 

The man whimpered, trapped. 

“Very well,” Ghost said, raising his hands. “You’ve discovered my hero's weakness. Let him go.” 

“How about you step away from that door first?” 

Ghost obliged. Red eyes, unblinking, as he stepped further into the fog. Only the top half of his body to be seen. Sora threw her captive down and reached for the door, blindly swinging it open, ready to run out of it. She did, thinking the open space was as it was, not a trap. She fell backward, unconscious as if she had run full speed into a wall. 

Ghost sighed, stepping towards the door, and shutting off the weapon. He began to bend down to handcuff her when a shot rang out, echoing across the warehouse. 

Ghost rolled their shoulder—that would leave a bruise—and straightened. Kenji shook. He raised his gun again and shot this time for the chest. Ghost moved before it could hit them, dancing back into the shadows of the mist. Kenji called out when an elbow met his back, he swung to try and intercept it only for his knees to be knocked in from a different direction. In three more hits, he was on the ground, unconscious. 

“Can you believe the thanks I get for saving someone’s life?” Ghost didn’t turn around when another person descended from the rafters. He kicked the gun away. “I mean a bullet to the heart. Way to turn down a man gently.”

“Are you done?” 

Ghost walked back to Sora, finally handcuffing her. Police ETA was less than five minutes. The manufactured fog was already lifting, revealing the others, leaning against the one crate, bound. He came back to the final man. 

“You’re getting worse at staying discreet,” Ghost said tying the man’s hands. “Besides, I thought I outgrew the need for a babysitter.”

“You know that’s not why I’m here.” Eraser Head said. Sirens made their presence known, at a distance, but coming closer. “People have been trying to get in contact with you.” 

“I was on a mission. You’re the one who taught me to focus on one task at a time.” 

“Don’t be a brat.” 

Ghost would roll his eyes, but as it stood, his digital retinas were meant only to emit a steady glow to unnerve people, not to show his previous mentor how little he cared for his statement.

“What’s the mission?” 

“Best Jeanists’ Agency has requested your resume. I wasn’t given any more details other than to bring you to them.” 

“And if I refuse?” 

“You know that’s not how this works kid.” 

“Of course.” Ghost said, walking towards the door. “Any word on which hero requested my help.”

“Hitoshi tried to find out but he’s up against a firewall. The most he got is a memo, stating that the agency is looking for weak points in their security and is requesting spies to point them out.” 

The wind outside was cool. Red and blue lights bounced off the nearby buildings. 

“And Toshi can’t be the one to do that because?”

“They didn’t ask, and his schedule is busy,” Eraser Head said. “You have the time.”

“To make fun of a hero agency's bad security,” he tried, with a light voice. Eraser Head didn’t comment. They both knew the reality of their work. He sighed. “I’d be almost offended if that’s all it was. But.” Ghost watched the first police car come to a stop. “It would make things easier.” 

“You knew this would happen sooner or later,” Eraser Head said, lifting his arm to squeeze the hero’s shoulder. In a whisper he concluded, “It’s time to go home.”

By the time the police reached the door, the two heroes were gone.

Chapter Text

With no new information, and the annoyance of having to pretend that everything was normal, Izuku found himself entering the conference room, again. So far, they had only met with one underground hero, and they were about as forthcoming as a houseplant. Besides, their resume was limited. They had only worked in Tokyo. They hadn’t done much fieldwork. They didn’t like Bakugou.

Today Best Jeanist was sending someone else, but he didn’t say who. It made Izuku fear the worst, but when he opened the door and saw familiar purple hair, he couldn’t help but grin. 

“Shinsou-kun,” he greeted. 

Shinsou spun around in his chair. His hands hovered over the keys of his computer. He smiled, which somehow hid his exhaustion. 

“Deku,” he said, bowing his head, “you’re early.” 

Izuku rubbed the back of his neck, brushing along the short hairs. It wasn't hard to be early when he didn't leave. With his other hand, he held a cup of coffee and the folder Hashiguchi had given them. He wasn’t in his hero costume, just a pair of slacks he stored in his locker at work, which he knew Bakugou would point out the minute he entered their office. 

“I’m trying to figure out a lead,” Izuku said plopping down in a chair, “so far we have nothing but—” 

Shinsou raised his hand, stopping him. “From what I’ve gathered this is highly sensitive information.” 

“Yeah, but,” Izuku said, pulling out his notebook. “I’m actually relieved you’re here. Hashiguchi-san must have added you at the last minute since your profile wasn’t given to us. I’ve been really stressed about working with an unfamiliar hero. But if you’re here, I know we’ll be fine. You’ve got Aizawa’s stamp of approval. I have half the mind to just hire you right now, but I know Kacchan would throw a fit if I did. So, we will wait. He’ll be here soon enough.”

Shinsou sighed. “I’m not here for your job. I’ve got my own missions and miscellaneous shit to deal with.” 

Izuku’s shoulders dropped. “Oh.”

“But I will be in Tokyo this coming week, even if we’re not working together, we could still catch up. I made plans with Iida but you’re more than happy to come along unless you wanted to do something different?” 

“I,” Izuku didn’t really go out. He tried a bit when he first went Pro. It was a way to reward himself. But, even a small break made him feel guilty.

“I don’t know. With this thing, and my other work. I’m not sure about my schedule as of late.” 

Shinsou didn't get a chance to offer again as the door slammed into the opposite wall. The drywall only saved by the rubber stopper. Bakugou stood in the entry, steaming more than the cup in his hand. 

“Where the hell have you been?” 

“Working,” Izuku deflected. He straightened his notebook so that it aligned with the folder below, which held the underground hero files.

“Wrong answer. Ei and I went over to your place last night because we were in the area. You were supposed to be off by 9:30.”

Izuku frowned. “Last I checked, I didn’t need a babysitter, Kacchan.” 

Bakugou scoffed, “I didn’t offer to be one, but I’m not going to always be around to catch your slack.” 

Before Izuku could respond, Shinsou cleared his throat. He gave Izuku a look that just read we need to talk. Between him and Bakugou, Izuku resisted the urge to run out the door and start a patrol with an intern. Someone who didn’t know him well and, therefore, wouldn’t be able to tell when he was faking it. He only wanted to be seen as a hero. A hero who did not need to lean on others, nor worry those around him who wished that he did.

“Eye bags,” Bakugou said, sitting down beside Izuku. Izuku was grateful at that. Bakuogu not pushing when he should. “You finally give up the shadows to join the big leagues?”

“I solved more criminal cases than you did, last year,” Shinsou said, “besides, I can’t stand wearing jeans. My boss lets me wear sweats and t-shirts.” 

Technically speaking, Shinsou was his own boss. Bakugou rolled his eyes at his response. While there was an underground system with contracts that were delegated out. Most underground heroes got to choose who and where they fought, or if they fought at all. There was a freedom in that choice that Izuku hadn’t been aware of when he signed up for his current job. Big agencies solved big problems. Their efforts went to stopping large-scale attacks, not systematic issues. They were not expected to spend months or even years working on a case. They were meant to stop villains as soon as they appeared. 

“Unfortunately, I don’t have all day to sit here and discuss the ease of my hero career; I did come here for a job.” 

“Which is?” Izuku asked, bringing his cup of coffee back in front of him. Shinsou spun in his chair. He typed a few things as the projector screen blinked to life. The first image to pop up was something Izuku was familiar with. It was their agency's notice, asking to hire an underground hero. 

“When you sent these out, you were really only waiting for one response, correct?” 

Izuku and Bakugou shared a look. 

“We were encouraged to pick one person; but, we wanted to interview everyone we could, just to make sure. Besides, this was only supposed to be our second interview,” Izuku trailed when Shinsou clicked a button and the image dispersed, revealing, 

“Ghost,” Shinsou said, “is the best underground hero in the business. In whatever shortlist you have, none of them will compare to him, won’t even come close.” 

“If he’s so great then why the hell are you here and not him,” Bakugou asked. “We have shit to do too.” 

“Let’s just say my friend’s a little shy,” Shinsou flicked another button and this time the image fell away to reveal a video, “and it’s much easier to discuss his abilities through practical demonstration.”

Izuku straightened. Unlike the video footage he had found before, this recording was crystal clear. It showed a man, clad all in black, briskly walking in a darkened corridor. At the end of it, he reached a ladder and quickly began to climb. 

“If he’s on camera, how is he avoiding detection,” Izuku asked as the ladder came to an end. Ghost walked along another corridor.

“Generally speaking, his suit is made out of fiber that was based on a quirk that could interfere with electromagnetic waves. When activated, recordings don’t pick him up—he’s usually not so blasé as he is here, but it’s a time-sensitive case.” 

“So, he’s messy when pressed,” Bakugou said, “what a ‘perfect’ option.”

“If we were doing this practically, you wouldn’t be able to see him at all, negating the performance. Besides the halls he’s in right now are service only. The lights only turn on when a person enters.” 

“He’s passing through sensors without being detected,” Izuku said, “is it another application of his suit, or is it his quirk, or is it a combination of the two? It would explain a lot if it’s his quirk. I mean there’s a foreign hero who has the same powers as a chameleon, but I don’t think they can just pass-through sensors without detection, and of course there’s Hagurake-kun’s quirk, but she also had problems with being spotted on sensors and thermal radars and—” 

Bakugou hit him in the shoulder, mouthing the words, “quirk crush.” 

Izuku shoved him back, returning his attention to the screen and apologizing to Shinsou who waved him off. 

“It’s his suit.” Shinsou said. “He started with a prototype but has added modification throughout the years, which you should be seeing soon enough. As I was saying, since the lights aren’t going off as he passes each section the guards, or whomever is watching the cameras, aren’t being alerted that there is an unknown presence in the hallway. He of course, has the benefit that the guards are looking at hundreds of smaller screens that are mostly dark. If you’re not expecting him, he’s impossible to spot.” 

Izuku had to agree with that. Even though he knew the hero was walking or climbing, the shadows seemed to cling to him at every move. At any moment it seemed as if he was about to disappear from view. 

“Sounds like this place has lax security then,” Bakugou said, crossing his arms. “Give me his fancy outfit, and I’d do just fine, probably better.” 

"You're welcome to ask. But I’ll warn you, it’s stuffy, skin-tight, not at all breathable. Also he’ll kill you if you damage it.” 

“I’d like to see him try,” Bakugou said, though Izuku could tell he was intrigued too. While he was scowling, his eyes were following the screen with innate interest. 

“What is security like?” Izuku asked. 

“If I had to guess, the owners would claim top of the notch. Armed guards in the hallways, metal detectors at the entrance—not that he waltzed right in—laser sensors on the windows, cameras everywhere. This place has thermal right? I’d say that as well. Some places actually have pressure plates below their ladders that set off alerts when pressed. That was a messy battle. However, he got lighter boots. They absorb sound and deactivate most floor sensors when stepped on,” Shinsou rolled closer to the computer. “Now, pay attention to this next part. I think you’ll enjoy it.” 

Ghost must have climbed at least fifty stories, on top of running back and forth between the halls, but he didn’t seem winded. Of course, it was hard to tell through a camera and his outfit hid all of his facial features. But now that he was moving slower, there was a practiced grace with each step, featherlight. He reached a doorway, raised his arm, and pushed back his sleeve. 

“Right now,” Shinsou commented, “he’s verifying camera footage. Before every infiltration he acquires all the information he can possibly get on a target. He’s aware of every person in the building and where they should be. Whose quirk’s he’ll be up against if it comes to a fight. But he always breaks their security in order to avoid such confrontation.” 

Ghost rolled back down their sleeve, and with zero hesitation opened the door. The camera footage significantly brightened. Izuku had to blink.

Ghost stood in a hallway. With all the lights on, he stuck out. Izuku would’ve been more concerned for him if he didn’t recognize the painting he leisurely strolled past or the reception desk he walked by the moment the receptionist turned around. While the shadows were minimal, he used them effectively. 

“What the fuck is this,” Bakugou asked, standing. Ghost reached a door. It had two familiar name placards on it. Ghost tried the handle, and Izuku released a slow breath. Honestly, he wasn’t that certain he had locked it, and given Bakugou’s current reaction that would’ve sent him over the edge. However, just as Izuku was thinking that a crackle filled the room. 

“Toshi, you don’t think they’ll help me out here, right?” It was grainy and inhuman, “maybe butter them up a bit. I bet Dynamight would love your poetic take on the soft rose color of his eyes.” 

Shinsou lazily leaned back in his chair, slightly swinging back and forth. 

“I think it’s cute you want them to engage with you,” Shinsou replied before turning to Bakugou. “Though, I think Dynamight’s warm gaze is set on kill not love.” 

“You have three seconds to explain yourself, or I’m sending you out a window.” Bakugou said. “What is this?” 

Shinsou shrugged. “Your agency is the one who gave him the notice to help point out the flaws in security. He’s just following through. Though, I am surprised how lax the security is, considering this place houses the best of the best, right?”

“Fucker. You let him in,” Bakugou said. 

It was Ghost who scoffed. “As if I need someone to hold my hand, though, Toshi, can you be a dear and ask Bakugou what his nickname was in middle school? I only have three more tries before this thing blows up.”

Through the camera, Ghost typed out the word bitch, which flashed in red, denying him entry. 

“That’s it,” Bakugou said, walking towards the door. “I’m sending this fucker back underground. If he’s lucky it won’t be in a casket.”

Izuku didn’t bother to try and stop him, knowing well enough that when Bakugou was itching for a fight, it was a fight he got. Meanwhile, Ghost was typing out All Might Wonder Duo. The panel blinked green before the door clicked open.

“He got our passwords too,” Izuku said, curious. 

“Actually, he didn’t have time for that,” Shinsou muttered, “he’s playing a game.” 

Izuku didn’t sit on that for very long. The pair didn’t exactly hide that they were fans of All Might. Plus, it was easy to assume there were more gadgets in his suit that let him anticipate passwords. 

“ETA,” Ghost’s question filled the room. 

“Candlestick left the room thirty seconds ago, taking the stairs you have two minutes tops,” Shinsou said as Ghost entered their office. He approached Bakugou’s desk first, pulling out a sticky note and writing something on it. It was only after he was slapping it on the computer that Izuku made out “Ghost <3 U.” After that, Ghost approached Izuku’s desk and sat in his chair. He leaned back, looking out the window. 

“Toshi,” he said, clasping his hands behind his head. “Don’t you just hate it when a house looks big on the outside but is smaller on the inside?” 

Izuku’s stomach dropped. Ghost popped open the secret compartment on his desk and hit the button that was inside of it. 

“Sure, my first apartment was like that, the couch was too big for the room.”

Ghost stood back up. “This place is certainly big enough for a couch. About here.” Ghost extended his arms in front of the All Might mural they had up on an otherwise blank wall. He walked along the wall, fingers grazing the white paint until he reached the point that had dipped when he hit the button at Izuku’s desk. He didn’t hesitate to put in the four-digit code, which only unlocked another panel. Ghost put his right hand, completely gloved, over the sensor. The screen lit up in a familiar blue before the wall slid to the side. 

Shinsou was speaking, saying something about how his gloves worked, but Izuku was too caught up in what was happening. Ahead of Ghost, were rows and rows of his hero notebooks. Of course, the early ones were relatively harmless, but the later ones, in the wrong hands could be detrimental to villains and heroes alike. It also didn’t help that since his bout with insomnia his ability to fill a single notebook had increased. 

Ghost scanned the rows. He picked one at random and flipped through the pages. From the angle, it was hard to see which one. He put it back and grabbed another one. Based on its placement, Izuku could surmise it was from high school, relatively safe. But before Izuku could ask if there was something in particular he was looking for, an explosion went off in the background. Ghost seemed unperturbed by the sound, walking out of the secret safe and closing it. 

“He’s not actually going to fight him,” Izuku asked when Ghost continued to leisurely walk towards the door, “Kacchan won’t pull back unless he gives up willingly.”

“You should have more faith in your heroes,” Ghost said as the door flew open. Bakugou stood, heaving, explosions on his fingertips. When Izuku returned his attention to Ghost he was gone. 

“Not so fast, fucker,” Bakugou said, not only turning on the lights but sending a relatively contained explosion into the room, lighting it. But even with the flood of lights, Bakugou was still forced to take a step into the room, searching for his target. Izuku was as well. Shinsou pointed to his monitor. 

“You’d be surprised how many people simply just don’t look up.” 

Sure enough, Ghost was propped up in the corner of the room, nearest to the door. He was playing with a device on his wrist before he reached into a pocket on his belt. Meanwhile, Bakugou stalked further into the room. He reached Izuku’s desk first, almost comically, bending down to look underneath it. Distracted, Ghost dropped from the ceiling, silent. He could’ve walked right out the door. Instead, he stopped at the entryway and leaned against the frame. 

“I thought you’d be taller than me,” Ghost said. Bakugou hit his head on the underside of the desk. It didn’t slow his attack, left arm raised, a calculated explosion. Izuku expected the hero to dodge, but Ghost didn’t move. The explosion hit him in the center of his chest. He didn’t even stumble back. 

He said, “minimal stun grenade.” He rubbed his chest, “you take down 35% of the villains you fight with that move. You’ll have to do more to take me down though.” 

Bakugou roared and the desk chair was sent flying back. Ghost did move this time. He retreated into the hall, a far narrower space. Izuku didn’t know which hero benefited more. In one-on-one Bakugou rarely held anything back. Any apprehension his friend showed was in his slow gait. Bakugou's sneer sharpened, to make him seem a little bit more unhinged than any other hero. While it was a regular face on him, it did a lot to unnerve both petty villains and unsuspecting heroes.

Ghost stopped in the middle of the hall, seemingly for no reason. He raised his fists in an almost childish gesture to indicate a fight. His feet weren’t planted, and his arms were not nearly high enough to protect against a swing to his face. Bakugou’s smile grew.

“You want to play in the big leagues?” 

“I don’t play while I’m at work,” Ghost said, “but I can extend this security exposé, to demonstrate fighting techniques. Last I heard you were struggling with updating your style.”

That’s all it took. Bakugou flew, closing the distance between them. Without his hero costume, he was raw fury, which, for Bakugou, was usually enough. He pulled back his right arm, his fist glowing orange, and swung for Ghost’s unprotected face. Only, Ghost was no longer play-fighting, in mere seconds, he shifted, and twisted, which caused Bakugou’s fist to overshoot. With Bakugou following the momentum of the attack, Ghost wrapped his arm around his shoulder and flipped him over. Bakugou’s back hit the ground with an audible thud.

With one knee pressed into his stomach, Ghost said, “this might sting,” before slapping Bakugou’s shoulder. He stood, and a flash of blue lightning shot across Bakugou’s form before the hero froze. Bakugou foamed at the mouth, but it appeared whatever Ghost had hit him with, kept him from speaking. Ghost saluted him before he was running back down the hall. 

“He didn’t seriously hurt him,” Izuku asked, turning to Shinsou “did he?”

Shinsou laughed. “From personal experience, no. It’s no worse than accidentally brushing elbows with Kaminari. But they’re effective little buggers.” Shinsou rested his hand on his chin. “He calls them wraiths. They can paralyze anyone un-mutated for up to five-minutes.”

“I gave him a small dose,” Ghost said. He reached the end of the hall. Instead of going back to the service hallways, he turned into a bathroom. “He’ll only be down for a minute.”

In the bathroom, Ghost entered the last stall, before hoisting himself up and crawling through a vent, hiding from view. 

Shinsou spun in his chair, to fully face Izuku. “So, what do you think?” 

“What’s his quirk?”

“Classified.” 

“Name?” 

“Ghost.” 

Izuku rolled his eyes, pulling out all the information they had on Ghost. Even his registration in the underground network listed his name as Ghost where it was supposed to state his real name and other personal information. His file stated he had at least a high school degree. From where? It did not say. It did not speak of his family, or the city he grew up in. There was a memo that stated in case of emergency contact: Shinsou Hitoshi, but that was it. 

“I’m supposed to just ignore the fact that he has no background information?” 

“The dead don’t usually have updated files,” Ghost said, causing Izuku to jump. The video camera was still focused on the vent he had crawled into and for some reason, Izuku assumed he had stopped listening. 

“But he’s not—you’re not,” Izuku looked at Shinsou, “you’re bullshitting me.” 

Shinsou shrugged. “A lot of underground heroes claim to like living in the shadows. However, we don’t really. Technically, even wonder boy isn’t one-hundred percent anonymous. But only two people know his real identity, therefore, out of everyone he is the most covert. He’ll get you into the places you need to be, and the places you don’t think to look.” 

Izuku didn’t doubt that, but he chewed on his lip. 

“Isn’t it lonely?”

“No,” Ghost said, “it’s practical.” 

The door opened to the office, and Izuku spun around. 

“Where the fuck is he,” Bakugou said, stomping inside. Izuku glanced at Shinsou, who was leaning back in his chair. Bakugou walked around the table and pointed to Shinsou’s chest. “You tell that emo bastard to get his ass here right now.”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t attack my colleague,” Ghost said, only his voice was no longer coming from the speakers in the room, but the corner. All three men turned to it, and a pair of blue glowing eyes blinked to life. Ghost stepped out of the shadows.

He was taller than Izuku expected and lean. His suit carved out his muscles, but they weren’t bulky like his, or even Bakugou’s. Closer, Izuku could now make out the different edges of the fabric. His boots went up mid-calf. There was something tucked into either of them. From there he had a utility belt strapped around his waist with several pockets. Whether they were filled with weapons or first aid products was yet to be seen. He had more pockets along a pseudo vest that only went to underarms. His lower left arm was bulkier than his right from the device Izuku had seen him use earlier. 

In the light, Ghost removed the black cowl, but it only revealed the fact that his head was completely covered. A black-chrome face mask adorned the lower portion face, which must have been like Shinsou’s, explaining the way he sounded, especially if he was trying to mask his voice. The rest of the mask on his face seemed rather soft, save for the electronic eyes which Izuku couldn’t tell if they were well-integrated goggles or something built into the face mask.

Izuku itched to write something down.

“I know you said you wanted to go through the rest of the interviews, but tell me honestly,” Shinsou said, “how many people do you think can actually break into this place, and claim they defeated the Number Four hero, without any problems?”

Bakugou eyed the hero. “He got lucky.”

“He predicted your moves, and took advantage of it,” Shinsou said simply, “I don’t know what you’re up against, but trust me, he’s your guy.”

Bakugou scoffed. “Well, Reaper, I ain’t saying you won, but I will concede that I’d rather not deal with any more interviews. Deku?” 

“I agree,” Izuku said, “you really were amazing, Ghost-san. We’d really appreciate it if you helped us out.”

Shinsou clapped. “Perfect, he’ll just fill out the paperwork, and then I get treated to a nice early lunch.” 

“Hold on,” Ghost said, “I didn’t agree to anything besides pointing out flaws in security, which I already did.” 

“Yeah, but,” Izuku’s eyes drifted to Shinsou, expecting clarification, but receiving none. “Certainly, you didn’t think that’s all this was about?” 

“Of course not,” Ghost said, “I had just assumed, ranked-pro heroes, would understand that not everyone can drop everything on a whim to work for them. My job is more important underground then sipping coffee in a high-rise in the middle of Tokyo.”

“Ghost,” Shinsou warned. "You  told me you would be fair.” 

The rest of their conversation was silent. Tense seconds that only alleviated when Ghost uncrossed his arms. 

“I looked over the other files. Black Jacket or Caspian are both capable underground heroes. Or pay for Shinsou’s work to get transferred. After me, he’s the best,” Ghost said, shoving his hands in his pockets. Perhaps they were too stunned to stop him when he walked out of the room. 

“Aizawa’s going to have my ass,” Shinsou said, rubbing his hand across his face. “I told that old man he was the one who needed to be here. He doesn’t listen to anyone.” Shinsou turned to Izuku, “I’m sorry about him though. He really is a good hero, just shit with people. Not one to play nice with others no matter the stakes.” 

Izuku pushed himself out of his chair, “I’ll be right back.” 

He got to the hall as the elevator door was closing. Ghost slouched against the wall, but with his uninvited guest, he stood to his full height. Izuku hadn’t felt small in a while—he wasn’t. But, Ghost stood a good ten centimeters taller than Izuku. Izuku straightened, before slapping the emergency stop on the elevator. Ghost chuckled. It was less robotic than over the speakers, but it was still unnatural. 

“If you think that’s all it would take to contain me, you’re mistaken,” Ghost said, stepping forward. “I have multiple ways out of here, and in this contained space, I am at the advantage in a fight.”

Izuku wasn’t ready to find out if that was a bluff or not.

“I’m not here to fight. I’m here to,"

“Talk,” Ghost sighed. “Your duo is very predictable. It’s a wonder the villains haven’t sorted you two out yet.”

“We make a good team.” 

“I know,” Ghost said without bite. He raised his wrist and flicked his hand. “What do you need?”

“Why won’t you help us,” Izuku asked, trying to search the hero, but coming up empty without a true face to land on.

“Shinsou’s wrong, I’m not as great as I look, and you don’t have enough experience dealing with underground heroes to tell what’s good and what’s not.”

“That’s not what Aizawa-sensei said,” Izuku interrupted. He bit his cheek, but when the other said nothing, he continued. “He said you’re up there with us and that if it was fairer, you’d be the Number Three hero.”

“Number Four,” Ghost said, shaking his head. “I can’t beat you.”

Izuku thought it was a funny clarification, but he knew plenty of heroes who were put off by his strength or by his ties with All Might. 

“That’s still top five. It has to mean something.” 

“It’s bureaucracy.” 

“It’s cold numbers and assembled facts,” Izuku stepped closer. “Look, you’re right, we don’t work with underground heroes. We fight in different arenas. But doesn’t it concern you that we are seeking you out for help? The supposed best, understanding that they cannot do this alone.” 

“Like I said, there are others that are equally qualified.” 

“Not for this,” Izuku said, “as far as I know, less than ten people are aware of the situation. It’s that sensitive. Not all heroes, even the underground ones, are that careful with information.” Izuku took a deep breath and then plunged. “Five days ago, the—” 

He hit the ground hard, Ghost over top of him. 

“Classified information is classified for a reason,” he hissed. Izuku knew he was going to have a bump on the back of his head. Knew that his back would certainly protest another night of sleeping at his desk. Somehow, he did not care. 

“We need help,” Izuku repeated. “As a hero who wishes to protect Japan, please, help us.” 

Ghost kept his hold on Izuku’s chest. Nothing in his face gave him away, and Izuku could understand why all those forums didn’t dare to describe what it was like to see Ghost up close. It was unnerving. The only possibly kind thing was the blue of the eyes. They seemed to pulsate at every second. Izuku held his breath, waiting for Ghost to make his next move. 

“You won’t let this go, will you?”

“Not likely.”

“And those assholes at the Society will probably keep me from work,” Ghost muttered to himself. He lifted his arm, and played with the device saying, “you have forty-five seconds before I decide it’s no longer useful to keep jamming the bug in here.”

Izuku didn’t comment on the fact he had no idea that an elevator, of all things, was being recorded. 

“Also, the cameras have been off since you entered, so that won’t be an issue,” Ghost said, “So?”

Izuku didn’t have time to think about that aspect either. Against the hand holding him down, he told Ghost everything he knew as fast as he could.

“The National Institute for Natural Disease was broken into, and a highly sensitive man-made virus was stolen. We have at least six months before the pathogen is back up to lethal potential, which if it got that far would kill the majority of the quirk population, not to mention the psychological horrors associated with a pandemic on that large of a scale. We have no leads, save for some crappy recordings, which shows the villain already in the facility and taking the virus. He killed six people and left before anyone knew. We are way over our heads and the only reason we were sought out is because we have the money to go deeper than regular heroes and can brush through some of the red tape. Otherwise, I am certain they wouldn’t even have told us, but I don’t know if I really believe I am capable of stopping something like this. I usually just come out and punch bad guys. But without knowing said bad guy that’s not really plausible you know? We need someone who can sneak into places we cannot and gather information we wouldn’t think to seek out. And—” 

Izuku was cut off by Ghost raising his hand. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything, before stretching it out towards Izuku to grab it. He hoisted Izuku up, which really should’ve taken more effort than he made it seem. 

“You’ve got yourself a mess then?”

“Yes.”

“And you want me to do all the sneaking until the very end where you and Dynamight come out and punch a couple of dudes and get all the credit?” 

“No.” Izuku said. “Of course, not. We’ll thoroughly credit you. I’ll make sure of it. It’s really not fair how much work underground heroes do without being recognized by the press, or at the very least, the Hero Commission. I mean you are heroes after all, that sort of thing should be awarded no matter how it is done.” 

“Midoriya,” Ghost interrupted. “I didn’t choose to become a hero so I could one day become the Number One. I did it to help the most people I possibly could.”

Most if not all heroes were altruistic, Izuku didn’t know why he was caught off guard by the underground hero’s statement. As if he construed the whole profession as selfish because they didn’t want to fight on national tv. 

“I get that. I want to help people too.” Izuku said, “sometimes I feel like I’m not doing enough. But I have to believe I am trying my best, or else.” This time Izuku did manage to catch himself before he started ranting to a stranger about his current dilemmas. Ghost didn’t seem to have much faith in him and Bakugou, and if he told him he wasn’t grateful for his position, he’d probably lose what little ground he had made with the hero. 

Luckily, Ghost did ignore him, and even better he was saying, “I will help you, But, on my terms. I’m sure in any other sphere you would be more capable than me, but we cannot risk it for this.” 

“Alright.” Izuku said, trying not to let his relief flood his voice. “What are your conditions?” 

“I need unlimited access to this agency’s computer networks as well as any other agencies working the case. I suspect that they are riddled with holes. If this is the case, any villain will be able to track your movement’s by infiltrating them. It is probable they already have, but we can then lead them on a goose chase—also might be able to trail them, but I doubt that. Because of this, I’ll install my own secured server where we will base all the information.” 

“You created your own server,” Izuku couldn’t help but ask. 

Ghost shook his head. “I had it made. I don’t have the time for that.”

Izuku looked to the ground, silently berating himself while Ghost continued. 

“I will also need to prep you and Dynamight. While I am good at fighting alone, given the magnitude of the situation, it would be better if we all had back up. Because of this, you will have to adapt your fighting style to match underground heroes. It shouldn’t be too hard, but it means you’ll have less opportunities to rely on your quirk.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll begin going over the details tonight and get in touch with you at some point in the next thirty-two hours. In the meantime, Dynamight’s transfer to Hawk’s agency must be expedited. By the weekend no later. Therefore, if one agency is compromised, the other can still work on the case.” 

“What?”

“Don’t worry we’ll still be working together, and if Hawk’s isn’t up to speed, have Best Jeanist get him there. With both agencies' resources, I hope we’ll be able to do this faster.” 

“Kacchan isn’t going to leave,” Izuku said. “He hates being told what to do.”

“It’s a good thing he’s already made the decision then,” Ghost paused. Izuku’s face must have said it all. “Oh,” he trailed, “you two are close. I thought you knew. It was in his file and while it hasn’t been announced to the public…I’m sorry.”

Izuku heard what Ghost was saying. He understood what Ghost was saying. But? It felt as if the elevator cord had snapped, and they were plummeting sixty floors. Bakugou leaving? It was inevitable. Izuku knew that. But somehow, he always assumed it would be later, much later in their careers. If Bakugou wasn’t at his side, then?

Ghost squeezed his shoulder, shaking him from his thoughts. 

“He’ll still be on the case. As much as I hate to say it, for the time being, we need him,” Ghost reiterated. “We need all the resources we can get.”

Izuku nodded numbly. “Okay. Anything else?”

“No,” Ghost said, reaching around Izuku and pressing the emergency stop. The elevator shook to life. “Like I said, I’ll stay in touch.” 

He tapped his screen again and Izuku’s attention darted to it only to distract him from thinking about his problems. 

“I thought you said you were only jamming us for forty-five seconds?”

“I lied,” Ghost said simply. “I don’t have the patience to deal with people who avoid getting to the issue.” 

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open, revealing the bustling lobby. For some reason, Izuku expected the top floor.

“Sorry, no tactical helicopters,” Ghost paused, “this time,” before turning to the crowd, and then his voice changed. It sounded female, even less robotic. 

“Oh my gosh, is that Deku?”

Izuku had made the mistake of stepping out of the elevator with Ghost as the civilians in the lobby of the agency, all simultaneously turned to them. 

“It is!” Someone yelled. 

He was about to ask Ghost if this was some sort of payback as the crowd all surged asking for an autograph, but the hero was already gone.

“If you keep pouting like that you’re going to end up with wrinkles,” Hitoshi said around a mouthful of chips. 

“I’m not pouting,” Ghost said, sitting across from him—diagonally, far down the bench. They were in a park. Over the hill there was a playground full of children, enjoying a break after lunch as their respective parents chatted mildly on park benches. Even this far away from them, Ghost sat in the shadows under the tree. Hitoshi could have too, but with the weather warming, and the sun high above him, he didn’t want to miss the opportunity to get some much-needed light. 

“Could have fooled me, I haven’t seen you this upset since that Mouse-guy pulled the slip on you down in Fukuoka.” 

“You promised,” Ghost said.

“You promised Aizawa too.” 

Ghost couldn’t furrow his brows nor did his frown deepen. His scowl was contained to red eyes, which he dutifully switched back to once he paid Hitoshi for his time with lunch. He could, however, cross his arms with his back straight and glare like a brat. When they were younger, it used to piss him off. A lot pissed him off about Ghost, actually. But, not that anger had dulled to thrum, flaring only occasionally. 

Besides, Hitoshi was a man of opportunity. This was the biggest one yet and still Ghost had almost thrown it away. He  was stubborn. He had to be. This life. If he cared about at all that Hitoshi might be mad him, he wouldn’t be where he was. If Hitoshi cared that his friend was upset with him at this very moment, he wouldn’t have survived high school. Their friendship was a simple balance, the foundation of which hadn’t cracked in eight years.

“From what I could gather, they really do need you. This isn't some yakuza con meant to trick you.” 

Ghost sat in silence but his left arm squeezed tighter around his right bicep. Sensing Hitoshi had caught the movement, Ghost turned away. He watched the children as they ran around the play set. This far away, they only heard the shrillest shrieks, but Hitoshi knew what Ghost was searching for. What he always was searching for. 

“It doesn’t have to be me,” he said. 

“You’ve never been a good liar.” 

“No,” Ghost said, “I suppose not.” 

He turned back to Hitoshi. “I am doing this my way, Tosh. You can’t interfere. You can’t—

Hitoshi raised his hand, silencing him, “I know. Trust me, I know. Hell, I think that was the first time I saw Dynamight since we graduated, and Deku, shit, it has to have been years.” 

He couldn’t help the frown that slipped in after that. He did like Midoriya. When he joined Class A in their second year, he knew he was stepping into a void that wouldn’t lightly be filled. Todoroki Shouto’s desk had been cold as if the boy had chiseled it in ice before he left. Midoriya wasn’t the first one who came up to him, welcoming him to their class, but he never treated him small. He never treated him like it was his fault that Todoroki had abandoned school. Maybe, because Midoriya was too focused on other things back then to care, or maybe because Hitoshi was one of the few people who didn’t try to quell the dusty color of shadows that appeared in his eyes after he came back home in the rain with one less friend then he had gone out with. 

Even then, Hitoshi knew better than to ask, and then when Ghost was unceremoniously dropped into his life, well, it hadn’t seemed like much of a burden to help Aizawa out. They both needed allies he had said. He was silent in his demand that they both needed friends. As Ghost’s one and only friend, Hitoshi had made sacrifices. Not cozying up with the Number Three and Four heroes wasn’t too much of a hardship, considering everything. Underground heroes rarely interacted with Pro Heroes. They didn’t need to. And, yet.

Hitoshi picked out a piece of meat from the side of his sandwich. He pinched it between his fingers before he asked, “did you at least find what you were looking for in Midoriya’s secret closet? You had about two minutes cut from the feed.” 

Ghost was slow to nod, sitting on his thoughts, which stretched tight as Hitoshi ripped the piece of turkey in two, abandoning both slices to the crumbs of his chips. 

Ghost’s voice dropped when he said, “you were right, they don’t know anything. Any information they had on him stopped readily five years ago. It looks like Midoriya occasionally comes back to it, but he doesn’t know. I’m hesitant to hope he no longer cares.”

Was it kindness that kept Hitoshi from saying that wasn’t true? While Hitoshi didn’t see his old classmates as much as he should, he was still a part of the old class group chat. He read through notifications because information was important, and ranked hero information was irreplaceable. It had mostly become a place for congratulations, and life updates—Uraraka’s wedding ring was stunning, Kaminari’s position in Korea exciting—but, while it was missing a few voices. Midoriya’s silence in the chats was the loudest. Whenever Hitoshi managed to snag some time to talk with friends, they gave the topic the widest berth. But, they weren’t the people that had been the closest to Midoriya back in school. Bakugou and Uraraka both might have seen things differently. They saw a boy whole and healed. 

It would do no good to entertain fallacies with Ghost, however. He didn’t need the distraction. An alley cat, ready to dart at the first signs of noise.

“You were worried he knew who you were.” 

Ghost shook his head, bowing it, “no, I knew no one did—I just, I never thought I’d ever speak to him again, either of them.” 

The first sincere, non-combative thing Ghost had said all day. Without his voice modulator, it matched the spring flowers in pink. Whatever it was, though, Ghost wouldn’t risk his life on this. The novelty of speaking with Midoriya and Bakugou would fade as would the mission, and Ghost would fade back into nighttime obscurity. 

“It doesn’t have to be like that anymore,” Hitoshi said, “we could really open doors with this—not just you but all of us.” 

“You sound like Aizawa.” 

“Maybe, Aizawa’s right.” 

“Maybe.” Ghost retook the scenery. The kids were slowing down. Their naps approached. In a few hours he and Ghost would finish the last portion of their combined mission before Ghost stepped away from it for good—at least the summer—and Hitoshi took point, awaiting his return. A quiet blessing of underground hero work: time. Though, it could be just as cruel. 

“This can't change anything,” Ghost said at last.  

Ghost only made calculated choices. He thought in terms of compartments. Things he could control and things he couldn’t. He did everything in his power to make sure he could have control the most often. His persona was only one piece. 

“Of course,” Hitoshi said, easy as if the words didn’t stick to his teeth. As if he didn’t want Ghost to say anything else. “I wouldn’t expect it any other way. I support this. You know that.” 

Ghost nodded. His gaze flickered back to him. “You’re not the only person I’m saying it to.” The same dusty pink.

For as long as Hitoshi knew him, he was just as susceptible to what he saw ahead of him. The fact that to be there where he was now; Ghost had killed a man when he was seventeen, and that ghost still haunted him to this day. It was easy for him to say he would remain unaffected. It was another thing to actually prove it. For that, Ghost needed supported. Needed a friend.

"It's going to be okay. This mission is going to take what? At most a month? Then everything will go back to normal." 

Ghost didn't look convinced. All rigid hard lines that didn't suit his figure. For a moment, Hitoshi almost asked what he never did. What he was too scared to. Do you ever regret it? He knew Ghost would be honest with his answer. He always was. He knew it wasn't what either of them wanted to hear or face. 

Maybe sensing Hitoshi's insincerity, his concerns, Ghost said, "for their sake. I hope you're right."

Best Jeanist used an announcement space allotted to how his agency was planning to interact with local schools as an impromptu celebration, announcing that Pro Hero Dynamight had accepted a job offer by Hawks. Izuku stood with the rest of Best Jeanists’ sidekicks in the front row. He watched as Bakugou took the podium next and thanked the agency for giving him a job for the last seven years. Hawks was there too, and as in his fashion, bragged about how by the next rankings, his agency would boast the Number One and Number Two positions, which resulted in Bakugou declaring that he’d be the Number One hero before Hawks could ever dream of taking the role back. 

The press ate up their banter. By the afternoon the internet was swarming with articles as people praised the move. Izuku could bitterly agree with the few comments, lamenting that the move broke up UA’s Wonder Duo while ignoring the few clever reporters who openly wondered what Deku would do now that Bakugou was gone. Izuku did not know. Luckily, the case required Bakugou’s assistance, so it wasn’t as if he’d never be working with him again. But afterward, it was easy to picture them walking down separate paths. 

Who knew? Maybe it was time for Izuku to take that year abroad to find himself, or whatever All Might did when he went to America for that time. 

“You know people tend to find parties to be a good place to relax,” Izuku jumped. He was in his office. Several floors below, there indeed was a going away party for Bakugou. Izuku had made his initial presence; however, when a nosy reporter asked him if he and Bakugou were on the outs, Izuku took it as his cue to steal a glass of champagne and find somewhere else to sulk. 

Sitting in Bakugou’s chair, his old chair, with his feet on his desk, was Ghost. He twirled a knife between his fingers, which was absurd enough to distract Izuku momentarily. The knife wasn’t necessarily shocking, heroes used weapons all the time, but the casual nature of it threw Izuku as if at any moment Ghost would fling it, nailing Izuku in the shoulder while Ghost accused him of being a fraud.

“How long,” Izuku shook his head. “How’d you get in here?” 

Ghost’s eyes were blue. They flickered as if the man was blinking. He paused, twisting the knife, before pointing it to the door. 

“I walked in, though I didn’t expect to see you here so early.”

Izuku deflated. Great. The hero had probably been there the moment he entered the office and watched him chug the little alcohol he stole before he very clearly stated out loud that he should’ve taken a bottle with him. He didn’t quite know how long he sat zoning out, staring at the mass of buildings, trying to ignore the lights and glamor at the entrance down below. It probably was a long time given that Ghost chose to speak instead of waiting for him to turn around naturally.

“Are you okay,” Ghost asked, surprising Izuku. He took his feet off the desk. “In my past life I was told I was a good listener.”

“Is that supposed to be part of the motif?” Izuku stepped away from the window, as Ghost tilted his head. “You pretending you’re actually a ghost.”

“But I am dead.” 

Maybe just to unsettle Izuku, Ghost’s eyes shifted to red, before he started to laugh. It was off because his voice was being changed, but it was a laugh.

“You’re making fun of me.” 

Ghost shook his head. “I was curious if you stumbled upon that rumor.” He motioned to his body. “I’m a ghost that was resurrected by a quirk.”

“Wait, what?” 

While Izuku had done his diligence researching the hero he hadn’t come across that information. He found his seat, wondering how rude the other would take it if he grabbed his notebook and started writing things down. 

“A girl claimed her quirk allowed her to talk to dead people. She said it wasn’t as powerful as her grandma’s quirk, which could resurrect people," Ghost continued. "One of my first official cases was near the village her grandma was from. I apparently killed her, but if you charge me, I can claim hearsay.”

It was hard to tell if the hero was bullshitting Izuku or not. Hard to pinpoint because his stature was stoic but open. His face, unreadable. 

“After my apparent assassination of a little old lady and catching of the subsequent villain, the Commission took me in and trained me to be a fighter. It doesn’t really matter though, does it?" He leaned forward. His hands coming up to support his chin. The knife still pointed to the door. "Rumors add to the façade. They make villains take a second look when they realize who they’re fighting. You understand that.”

“I suppose," Izuku whispered. He was tense. He tried to breathe it out. Ghost's position didn't change. He didn't take his eyes off of him. "But wouldn’t it just make you a bigger target? To kill the unkillable.” 

“All villains want to kill heroes. I’m no more at threat than you, Best Jeanist, or Dynamight.”

Izuku almost corrected him by telling him that his job was more dangerous since he worked alone, but the words got caught in his throat. He had to remind himself that he wouldn’t be working alone. He’d take a sidekick or something. He’d become friends with more people—he’d become more friendly with his coworkers. Maybe he’d reach out to one of his older classmates, someone who needed a job. 

“So, if you’re not an actual ghost,” Izuku said, “where’d you come from?” 

Ghost didn't started amazing—he didn’t—but from what Izuku had found and the information the Society had given him, Ghost almost did appear out of nowhere. Izuku found it probable that he had been a vigilante, though there were no records to prove that theory. 

Ghost didn’t respond, and Izuku was going to reiterate the question differently, perhaps asking if the Commission really did take him in, when Bakugou entered. 

“You’re late,” Ghost said. 

“You’re a creep who targets people in bathrooms,” Bakugou said, walking over to Izuku’s desk. “Why’re here anyways? Don’t you think people will notice if I’m gone.” 

Ghost shrugged, “most likely not. Hawks is good at distracting people.” 

Ghost pulled something out of one of his pockets and tossed it over to Izuku. Izuku easily caught it, questioning when he saw that it was a phone—a nice phone. It was a newer generation than his current one, but it had the same All Might case on it, which was supposed to be an exclusive. But then again, who was he to question the ways of Japan's supposed Number One spy. 

He glanced over to Bakugou who was holding a similar device—one that matched his phone and case too. 

“There are only two contacts on that phone. One is to me, the other each other. Memorize the numbers then delete them. Do not put our names in. If you receive any calls that are not from us, make note of them immediately. We’ll be able to tell if it’s a hack. It has the same interface as your normal phone and shouldn’t draw any attention if you use it out in the open. Please do not lose it, while it has a tracking chip in case it gets stolen, I’d rather not have to blow it up if it gets into the wrong hands.” 

Izuku didn’t know if he wanted to ask about the device being a potential bomb or the fact that Ghost was going to be tracking him for the foreseeable future. He didn’t get a chance to ask either because Ghost was pulling out more items, this time paperwork. 

“These are your assignments for the week.”

Izuku glanced down at the grid of weekdays, anxious until he saw. Monday: Save a cat stuck in a tree—smile for the cameras. Thursday: Catch a plane falling out of the sky with one hand—make sure you thank the reporters for allowing you to protect them. The other days were much the same

“Is this supposed to be a joke?” Bakugou voiced Izuku’s question. 

Ghost leaned back into the chair. “The ones in the blue boxes are, let’s say, suggestions. I don’t care what you do during your normal ‘hero’ patrols as long as it doesn’t interfere with my job.”

“But this is our job too,” Izuku said, setting the paper down. “We don’t have time for, ‘shaking the hand of the mayor while being given the key to the city—don’t lose it.’ Whatever that means.” 

“It is critical, for both the public’s sake and to keep our perpetrators unguarded, that you and Dynamight remain in the spotlight while conducting your normal hero careers. The moment one of you disappears from headlines is the moment people start to question things. We can’t have that.” Ghost paused, “if it makes you feel any better, I too, will be working double shifts. We all need to keep up appearances.”

Bakugou scoffed, “we have to pull overtime while you get to sit in a beanbag chair watching people all night.” 

“You do know I apprehended more villains than you did last year? The two years before that too.”

Bakugou took a step forward, but Izuku stopped him with a warning,  “Kacchan, he’s right.” Izuku wouldn’t have thought about it on his own, but people did watch them. For fans and criminals alike, any deviation would raise suspicion. “But we’ll need time to adjust. We aren’t prepared for the extra night shifts like you.”

“We don’t have a lot of time,” Ghost continued, “but I made a plan for that. Tomorrow you two will accompany me to a bar frequented by hero’s and vigilantes alike. While I trust your fighting capability, we need to do a dry run to get you used to surveying people.”

“Like Underground Hero Boot Camp or something,” Izuku muttered, pulling at his lip.

“Hold up.” Bakugou said, “and how are we supposed to believe you’ll be able to guard our backs? What if things don’t turn out as easy as you’re making them appear, and we need your help to take down the big bad?”

“It won’t come to that.”

“Bullshit,” Bakugou said, “you’re supposed to be the one with all the contingencies. I don’t want to lose an arm because I expect you to counter one way with a villain, and you decided to do something stupid.”

“I have researched your fighting styles plenty,” Ghost said, “it won’t come to that.”

“That doesn’t mean we know yours,” Izuku added, withholding the, we know nothing about you . “This place has a pretty good gym. We could spar to get a feel for one another. If we’re already taking a small break to learn your terrain, it’s only fair if you properly learn ours.” 

It sounded like Ghost clicked his tongue.

“Tomorrow morning. It’s the only time available,” Ghost said, “but if you’re not well rested for tomorrow’s mission, that’s on you. You can think of it as a learning curve.”

Izuku asked, “and our mission?” 

“Like I said, we’ll be going to a bar. It shouldn’t raise suspicions since you both can use the excuse of Dynamight’s recent career change as means for celebration. Additionally, I am acquaintances with the owners, I can pull a few strings for a price. You two should be able to roam around freely, and I should be able to see if you make any mistakes—not that you should treat this any less than you’ll treat the proper mission.”

“And you’re sure we have time to be wasting on something like this,” Izuku couldn’t help but ask. It was only tomorrow, but still, that put them a whole day behind. A whole day where the villain could be working out a different way to release the pathogen, killing everyone. 

“We do. This is important, while we have a safety net if one of you gets caught, we do not if both of you do. Your assignment tomorrow is to try and find a man known as Candy. Get him to sign your hand.”

Izuku waited a moment for Ghost to continue with more, but the man had fallen silent. 

“That’s it?” 

“That’s all I’m giving you, yes.” Ghost said. He rubbed the serrated edge of his knife with his thumb. “I suppose we can make it a competition if you two would like.”

Knowing Bakugou, Ghost didn’t even need to suggest the possibility of it being a competition. He’d want to show off no matter what, especially to a cocky underground hero with a penchant for seeming like he didn’t take things seriously enough. Besides, Izuku had some unsettled grudges, and sometimes fighting with Bakugou was easier than talking to him. Given Bakugou’s lack of rejection of the idea, Izuku knew they were on the same page. 

A timer somewhere on Ghost’s suit went off. “It looks like our time is up. I do recall a party both of you are supposed to be attending.”

Bakugou pocketed the new phone and schedule. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t you dare hold back tomorrow, or else I’ll kill you.”

“I’m already a ghost.”

Bakugou snarled, a small explosion on his fingertips, “I’ll put you back where you belong then. Got it.” He glanced back at Izuku. Izuku waited for something, some indication that they needed to talk. It did not happen. Instead, Bakugou dismissed him with a “nerd,” and he was out the door. Izuku deflated in his chair, staring at the unfolded piece of paper ahead of him.

Make sure you smolder just enough at the camera to get women to swoon—remember 18–32 year old women are your demographic.

“You didn’t tell me whether or not you were okay.”

Izuku’s gaze flickered to Ghost. He tried to picture the hero in a past life. A small child with dark hair and pale eyes. One who offered their hand to other children when they got knocked down. It didn’t quite fit who was in front of him. Ghost seemed to be the type of person whose only concern was for themselves, and their ability to get things done. But that didn’t quite track either if he was bringing up Izuku’s wellbeing again. 

Who are you?

“What makes you think I’m not.”

Ghost’s eyes were blue again. Izuku missed when he changed them. He wondered if there was a button somewhere he couldn’t see, or if it was something more powerful than that. It was silly to think it was a quirk. The ability to change his eye color, fake eye color no less, but it was intricate, some type of technology that made as much sense to Izuku as the hero ahead of him.

“I don’t,” Ghost said, “but distracted heroes make for dead heroes. If something is bothering you, it’s better to deal with it now, early on in the mission, then wait for it to implode come the end.” 

Izuku bit his tongue to keep from saying, you don’t know me.

Regardless, Ghost amended, “trust me. I know how much unspoken anger can hurt a person.”

“I’m not angry.”

“Then don’t sit on it until you are.” Ghost stood. “I’ll be in touch, and I advise going home for the night. There’s nothing more here you can do. While you might make it tomorrow on little sleep, I don’t make a habit of relying on people who don’t take care of themselves.” 

On principle, Izuku didn’t rush to follow him out, eager to prove that he’d listen to whatever the man said. No, Izuku sat in his chair and pulled up the security footage of the institution break-in. He watched as a cloaked man appeared out of nowhere, before reaching the first victim. Izuku pulled out his notebook, flipping to a free page, only to stop when he came to his entry on Ghost. He eyed the door, almost expecting the phantom to still be there, before returning his attention back to the computer. 

With a heavy sigh, he shut his monitor off. He grabbed the notebook and left his office. The hallways were mostly quiet, low-lit, very different from the party below. Izuku left in one of the back exits. There was no guarantee he’d actually sleep when he got home, and just because Ghost said there was nothing for him to do for this case, did not mean there was nothing he could look into. If anything, it would be a distraction. One he desperately needed.

Chapter Text

Izuku, yawning, showed up at the agency at six am. When he had got home the previous night, he discovered his kitchen counters had dust on them—his mom would kill him if she ever found out—but one look at his bed had him collapsing in a heap. He slept straight for a near four hours, the longest stretch in recent memory, before he was up and fidgety. He spent the rest of his morning—late night—on the internet. 

It started innocently, catching up on headlines from outside of Tokyo, and his other friends' most recent takedowns. Uraraka was getting extra praise ever since she broke into the top ten. They were due for a lunch date. Izuku made a note to call her when the hour was more humane. Kaminari was doing a stint talking to kids about the uses of electricity, and Tsuyu had stopped a band of pirates. Eventually, he came across a headline from Kagoshima about a notorious drug smuggler back behind bars with police commending the efforts of Ghost. Izuku almost slammed his laptop shut out of spite, but instead, he looked into the little information the hero had given him the previous night. 

Sure enough, he found the thread, detailing a girl with a strange quirk—plenty of people were quick to point out she was most likely quirkless but didn’t want to admit it—and her supernatural grandmother. Izuku ended up skimming through their background information until the thread discussed Ghost’s so-called first appearance. While there wasn’t anything too unusual about the way the villain was defeated. It did say that afterward, the hero hurried off. One daring soul followed after to thank them. They said that the person had ripped their mask off. They said that their hair was white and long—like a fair maiden someone snickered in the replies—which many others pointed out as evidence that Ghost was indeed dead. Dead and from some bygone era where men wore their hair long. Izuku had scoffed at that, before starting his day. 

Izuku didn’t expect anyone else to be in the agency's gym. Not until closer to seven, where they would have almost two hours of uninterrupted sparring until Bakugou had to go off and deal with the press and Izuku his patrols. Of course, Izuku was incorrect, and the gym’s lights were already on. He was ready, searching when he entered. None of the equipment was touched and it almost appeared empty, until Izuku reminded himself to look up. Leaning against the rafters, was Ghost.

“I’m beginning to think you’re actually haunting me,” Izuku called up, if for nothing else to hide how unnerved he was around the other. But the man didn’t respond. “Okay,” he paused, “I’m just going to go change and then warmup for a bit.”

When he came back to start his stretches, he made sure he was facing where the other hero was. He didn’t want him sneaking up on him again. After about fifteen minutes of stretching, and Izuku debating if he wanted to get a run in, Ghost moved. If Izuku hadn’t thought to look for him, he was sure he would have missed him. Nonetheless, Ghost was moving, startled, it almost appeared, as he raised one arm up to his chest. 

“Are you okay?”

Ghost didn’t jump, but his shoulders raised and lowered twice before his whole body moved to take in Izuku below. He swung his legs over the beam he was perched on, dangling them for a second, before dropping. The mats took the sound of his landing. He made the rest of the trek to Izuku just as silent, sitting down to mirror Izuku’s position. In his whole get-up, it was almost amusing to see. 

“I am well,” Ghost said, stretching to reach his toes. “Were you waiting long?”

“No,” Izuku said, moving back, “can I ask what you were doing or is that classified as well?”

Izuku meant it as a joke, but he knew his tone was off. It would have been fair to take it wrong. Ghost, meanwhile, was extending his stretch, suggesting that making his torso and legs parallel was only a mere effortless act, painless. Izuku uselessly thought maybe this was his quirk. Superhuman flexibility—perhaps he did need more sleep.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Ghost said. “Not a lot of places where I can.”

“You were sleeping in the rafters?”

Ghost tilted his head towards him. “I was waiting and shut my eyes.” 

Izuku’s responding laugh was both in pity and in surprise. “We have beds here, you know? They get the job done even if they’re not the most comfortable.”

“Is that why you stay here? Japan’s Number Three Hero can’t afford a bed?” 

“No.” 

“No,” Ghost parroted, returning his attention back to his stretches. Because Izuku couldn’t help himself, and really any length of silence made him uncomfortable, he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind, which, when one spent the morning doing research, was typically that. 

“Is it true your hair is actually long and white?” 

Ghost paused, his back perfectly arched, before creeping his way back up. It wasn’t until his back was straight that he spoke. 

“So, you found the thread.” 

“You kind of pointed me in that direction.” 

Ghost studied him for a bit before settling on, “you do realize I wear a mask, which covers my whole head that I almost never take off?”

Izuku did note that and wondered what events did warrant the hero deciding to take it off. He slept in the rafters, so he didn't when he slept. His only two allies were underground heroes as well, so it stood to reason that they never needed to see Ghost maskless either. Perhaps in the comfort of his own home if Ghost had such a place to call home. He hadn't gone their the previous night, after all. 

“Is that supposed to answer my question?”

“Having long hair would be a nuisance. I would have to incorporate it into my look, and I would risk villains grabbing it if it wasn’t contained.” Ghost started stretching his arms. “Like I said, that information wasn’t reliable, too many people already know my identity as it is.” 

Two. Two people were too much for Ghost. It was insane. Izuku couldn’t fathom deciding to live like that. Even now, when Izuku was struggling to keep his closest friends close. He wouldn’t drop every one of them until he was only left with two confidants. People, who Ghost trusted, but still chose to stay here instead of seeking them out. It had to be a terrible way to live, lonely. It wasn’t as if Izuku had forgotten his own string of nights where he thought the very nature of associating with anyone, was good enough as holding a gun against one of his friends’ heads. An extreme act wasn’t an answer. They were self-made prisons. 

“I wasn’t one to make friends growing up,” Ghost said. “It’s not as bad as you think.”

Izuku dropped his head, reaching forward to stretch out his lower back, biting his tongue to keep from muttering out loud. When he leaned back, Ghost was sitting cross-legged, staring at him. 

“Look,” Ghost started, “I know it’s in a hero’s nature to pry, and trust me others have before, and probably more will after you. You don’t understand why anyone would do this. Why someone would feel the need to be a hero like this, when every single other hero proves that I am paranoid. But that paranoia has kept people safe. I will not sacrifice their safety in order to smile at coworkers, while grabbing a bagel and a coffee from the breakroom, or to grin and pose for cameras, waiting to market my face for merchandising, or to even be labeled the Number One Hero in recognition of a job well done. I know I do good work. I am a hero. In terms of our partnership that is all you need to know.” 

Ghost stood, he stretched out his arms, before falling back into a relaxed position, satisfied with his declaration.

“I thought you said you looked into us all before entering Best Jeanist’s agency.” 

“I did.” 

“Then you would know that out of all the heroes out there, I do know what its like to put the world above myself. What you’re doing is wrong no matter how many people you claim to save. It destroys people.” 

It destroyed Izuku, and before he could even attempt to heal from it, the rest of his world shattered. There were very few days throughout the year that Izuku allowed himself to dwell on what-ifs. Nothing could have changed his mind back then, but if he had known what was coming when he stood in the hospital for the last day, a hallway to an elevator and a hallway to a friend he thought was okay standing on his own, maybe, he would have chosen the latter. It wasn’t the worst mistake of Izuku’s life, no, but it was a mistake, nonetheless. 

“I’m not you,” Ghost said. “It hasn’t been a few weeks, errant days, unhealthiness. I have done this for years. I doubt even you will manage to change my mind by the time we are done here.” 

Ghost stood. Izuku wondered if the night prior had been an act. Izuku too gullible to accept the genuine concern the other man had offered. He had said it was only for the case, but Izuku had read it differently. Naively. Ghost’s only concern was a job well done. If Izuku couldn’t deliver that, he was off the case. That was that. 

Therefore, Izuku had to prove himself valuable. He had to ignore all the flags and signs that told him when someone was not okay in favor of saving the day. At the very least, he was good enough at that by now. If Ghost wanted to be an enigma, so be it. Izuku had more important things to figure out than a shadowy hero who he didn’t even know existed two weeks prior.

“Bakugou is here,” Ghost said five seconds before the door to the gym burst open. Bakugou stood at the entrance, wearing similar clothes to Izuku. He rolled his shoulders, said nothing of the strange mood that had fallen between Ghost and Izuku, and marched in. 

“What did I miss,” he demanded, only stopping once he got to Izuku on the ground. However, he didn’t linger on Izuku long, which was fine for Izuku. They still hadn’t talked. Izuku feared getting into a screaming match with Bakugou was not a step toward proving he was fit for this case, give Ghost much trust in either of them to have his back.

“Stretching,” Ghost said. “I will spar with Midoriya until you are ready.”

Ghost was already standing in the center of the blue mat arena. White tape created a square to keep spectators from accidentally interfering with the match—and keep them safe lest a quirk got out of control. The rest of the room beyond him was filled with lifting equipment, weights, and punching bags in the far corner. The second floor of this gym housed a track, treadmills, and ellipticals, all overlooking the room.  

On certain nights, when morale was low, Best Jeanist would have his employee open spar, which could draw a crowd within the rest of the building—if the workload was light and the pair fighting was interesting. The first time Izuku and Bakugou “fought” a cement pillar had to be replaced, along with about half of the overhanging lights. Izuku had a faint scar on his temple from it. It had been fun. A bright highlight.

However, now, Izuku expected Bakugou to tell Ghost he didn’t have to waste time stretching. He wanted his rematch now for what happened in the hallway. Only Bakugou, reserved, met Ghost in the center of the arena to go over the rules of the gym with him. The main rule was that if he was going to use his quirk to dial it back, while the room could handle a lot, it wasn’t exactly quirk-proof. To which Ghost replied he’d keep it in mind, but they wouldn’t have to worry.

“You do know that if you’re going to fight with us, you’re going to actually have to use your oh-so-secret quirk in battle with one of us around,” Bakugou said. 

“I don’t use my quirk to fight.”

Bakugou leveled his gaze at him as if to challenge Ghost into denying his claim. When Ghost said nothing, Bakugou shook his head. “Suit yourself. You’re the one who chose to fight Deku first, and he packs a mean punch quirk or no quirk.”

“We can start off slow,” Izuku said, stepping over the white line. “There’s no need to go crazy.” 

“No,” Bakugou said, “we don’t have time for the preliminary bullshit.”

“He’s right,” Ghost said, backing up to test the ground beneath his feet. “We’re here to spar, not to go through the motions. I trust you understand how to fight?”

Izuku didn’t need to see Bakugou’s expression to know it was mirrored on him. Ghost was lucky he said it to him, Bakugou would have exploded him through about a foot and a half of concrete for just the implications. As it was, One for All surged. Had Izuku been younger, he was apt to start glowing, showcasing just how much that comment irked him. From Ghost’s expression, not-expression, red eyes knew just that. He was toying with them. A cat amused that his food still breathed. Lots of people underestimated Izuku. He didn’t enjoy proving them wrong, but he didn’t hold back either. 

He stalked past Bakugou who whispered, “be sure to kick his ass.” Izuku was inclined to do just that. He got to his position opposite of Ghost, raising his fists, One for All thrumming, a quick reach away. 

Across from him, Ghost didn’t feign ineptitude. His form matched Izuku’s. Ghost watched him, waiting for the moment they would start. Not at all nervous about the prospect of fighting Izuku. There was no reason for Izuku to be nervous fighting him. He reopened and closed his fist.

“You guys planning on starting anytime soon,” Bakugou said from the sidelines, starting his own round of stretches, “or do you need a formal invitation?”

In the process of responding, Izuku found himself on his back, the wind knocked out of him, and sore calves. Somewhere Bakugou was laughing. Izuku jumped back up, spinning around. Ghost, meanwhile, was back at his starting point, he was studying his hands, bored as if he hadn’t just put the Number Three Hero on his ass in a matter of seconds. Izuku rubbed his mouth on the back of his arm. So that was how they were going to play it. Ghost eyed him, still unconcerned, sensing Izuku’s shift. 

Izuku jumped. He knew Ghost was fast and would react by moving away from where he thought Izuku would land. Izuku needed to read his movements. He needed to see Ghost’s left foot, turning ever so slightly—and Izuku fell, landing a solid hit in Ghost’s right shoulder while he used the rest of his momentum to take out Ghost’s legs. The hero began to fall with Izuku over him. However, mid-fall he repositioned himself. As soon as his back hit the mat, his feet pushed up into Izuku’s stomach, forcing him back. He used the rest of his moment to somersault backward out of Izuku’s range. But, before Izuku could think to chase after him, Ghost darted in. He punched Izuku in the gut, jumping away the moment Izuku thought to retaliate, only to hit him again in the back. 

For what seemed like an eternity, but really was no more than a few minutes, Izuku found himself struggling to counter, struggling to defend, and anticipate his opponent’s next move. Absurd. Izuku made a habit of analyzing his opponents mid-fight, exploiting their weaknesses to his advantage. Izuku’s old taunt from before about Ghost not knowing Izuku, rang when the other man knocked him in the head, causing his ears to ring. However, it was what made Izuku hesitate enough to realize that Ghost had used this same technique in the video he had watched. Ghost wasn’t there, at his back after he hit him. He was already gone. He was jumping out and jumping back in he was—Izuku didn’t follow the retreating hand, he turned, grabbed Ghost by the bicep as the man went in for another punch, and threw him over his shoulder.

Ghost landed hard. Izuku’s arm crackled with One for All—an accident. Even if his quirk was active, always active, he never used it without conscious effort. Especially, against an opponent whose quirk didn’t warrant such a massive attack. Didn’t exist at all. 

Ghost’s responding laugh was condescending. “So, we’re taking this seriously now?” He wrapped his hands around Izuku’s forearm, launching himself up. “Glad it didn’t take you too long.”

Izuku staggered ready for the counter move when Ghost raised his hands, pausing and glancing to the sidelines. Bakugou stood, finishing the last of his warmup by stretching out his arm across his chest. Again, he didn’t focus much on Izuku, responding to Ghost’s unasked question. 

“You won’t win a rematch, Reaper.”

“Maybe,” Ghost said. “But, I won’t be the only one you’re focusing on.” Ghost turned back to Izuku. “Of course, as long as you both think you can take each other.”

Bakugou laughed, while Izuku spoke. “I’ve been beating Kacchan since high school.” It didn’t feel as good as the thousand other times he had said it in this very place.

Bakugou’s, “you wish, nerd,” echoed just as hollow. If Ghost heard it. He didn’t say. 

“What do you have in mind?”  

“One on one on one, though I’ll be at the advantage, small skirmishes are one of my specialties,” Ghost said. “But I’d rather not hold back, so keep up.” 

Bakugou charged forward, Ghost jumped, and Izuku hesitated. He watched as Ghost landed on Bakugou’s shoulders, and pushed the hero down, before flipping off of him and landing on the mat. He met Bakugou’s immediate attack head-on, parrying and twisting before he was shoving Bakugou away toward the edge. Bakugou grappled to get a grip on him, but Ghost didn’t let him, dodging out of the way. Ghost should have kept his attention on Bakugou, as any sane person would, but this wasn’t that type of fight. 

Ghost’s attention snapped to Izuku. As he left Bakugou chasing after him, he jumped, and kicked, landing two feet properly against Izuku’s chest. Only enough to cause Izuku to stagger. As Ghost fell down, Bakugou was right there to swing for Izuku’s face, which he just narrowly dodged. He narrowed his eyes at Ghost who had rolled away from under the parrying feet. He said, “come on, hero . ”

Izuku did, ignoring Bakugou to chase after Ghost, attacking him with more fervor than he had in their one-on-one match. However, Bakugou wasn’t so keen on being left out, targeting anyone he felt wasn't giving him his due. It then went on like that. Izuku traded blows with either of them, choosing to focus on one, only for the other to take advantage of the distraction, gaining the upper hand. Izuku knew Bakugou’s fighting style, but something about the dance-like quality of Ghost made him brasher. 

Ghost played them against one another. At first, Izuku tried to be conscious of it, but as the hours wore on, he found it didn’t matter. As many times as Bakugou and Izuku teamed up to focus their energies on Ghost, Izuku found himself, barraging Bakugou only to have Ghost come in to add extra pressure, causing the hero to fall. But once Bakugou fell, Ghost would turn his attention to Izuku. The cycle repeated itself.

It reminded Izuku of high school when Aizawa would have them spar on days when the class was uneven for one reason or another. This was more focused. Back then they would make use of their quirks. He’d have to be aware that if he paid attention to not getting captured by Tsuyu, Yaoyorozu would be behind him making a canon. It was fun in its chaos. 

This wasn’t chaotic. They were reacting too well to each other’s moves. Ghost was filling in the gaps that were left behind by either hero as if he had been doing it his whole life. As if this was just a normal occurrence in the agency before they all went their separate ways for the day. It was nostalgic, though not.

When Ghost said they were going to a bar, Izuku assumed something quaint. A hole in the wall-type of place where no one would notice them or question why they had come. They were celebrating—the easiest lie—exuberance didn’t make sense in pairs. 

They were dressed casually, as per the instructions, standing in front of a nightclub—one famous for hosting heroes. A place Izuku recognized as somewhere Uraraka had talked about going for her bachelorette party. It was definitely not what he had in mind when Ghost had reminded them to prepare for the night. 

It was loud from the streets and people lined up to get in. Izuku fiddled with his phone—the fake one—and tried to act as if he belonged amongst the other partygoers, waiting in line. It lasted all of five minutes before Bakugou grabbed his cuff and pulled him to the front. 

“As if a joint like this expects us to wait in line,” Bakugou said, while onlookers caught sight of them, flashing camera lights and calling out to them. Izuku knew most of them were heroes but that didn’t mean they were any different from normal fans. 

Two bouncers stood at the front of the line. Both with their arms crossed. Izuku was able to pull himself out of Bakugou’s grasp, readying an apology. However, what happened instead was the bouncer on the right—unfairly large—saying, “you’re late,” stepping aside, “you almost missed the show.” 

Izuku didn’t know what that meant. Only, he was ushered into a dark hallway with pounding music. Instead of being led up to where he assumed the music was coming from, he was nudged downstairs where all he could see was Bakugou’s hair and the bright red of his shirt collar. 

The person guiding them opened another door. If upstairs was loud, downstairs was deafening. Izuku and Bakugou stepped forward into a room full of people, a spattering of chairs and booths, and what appeared to be— “Shit,” Bakugou said. “Where can I sign up for this?”—a pit. An actual arena.  

It wasn’t that big, considering, but inside on sandy dirt two people fought. The crowd, the ones paying attention, were jeering at the contestants. Izuku would have been nervous, had he not immediately recognized several Pro Heroes, a few ranked even. However, between the cropping of heroes, there were others, which were more concerning than being recognized by one of his colleagues here.

Before he got too far, Izuku grabbed Bakugou’s blazer. “We have a mission to complete,” he hissed, “besides I don’t think it’ll look very good if one of Japan’s top heroes participated in a pseudo fight club against a vigilante, itching to make a statement.”

Bakugou’s eyes went over the group, almost shimmering. “It would do them some good, help distinguish what makes a hero.” 

“Kacchan.” 

Bakugou pulled himself from his grasp. “Relax, Izuku, I’m not going to do anything stupid. You should get a drink,” he stepped away. “Candy can probably smell your anxiety from here.” 

Izuku boiled, dropping his arm. Bakugou waded through people as if this was just a regular Saturday night to him, betting on a fight club. The other people in the room watched him warily, but Bakugou true to form didn’t give them a sideways glance. They were beneath him. As far as it mattered to him, Bakugou was the best. He was going to win Ghost’s challenge and find a way to get into the center of the arena to beat all the people posted in this room. 

If Izuku headed towards the equally congested bar it wasn’t because he was listening to him, but because he also had stakes to win. Bars made for good information and sitting at a bar and not ordering a drink was just an unnecessary red flag. If anything, a beer could help stop his foot from tapping against the bottom rung repeatedly. 

A few other people sat down. They pointed to the tv in the corner, which showed the fight down below. A man came and clapped another on his back, asking about bets. They all laughed. Money was exchanged. When it seemed like the one was going to leave, he hesitated, dropped his voice, and said, “ Yokai .” 

The once boisterous group silenced and shared an unreadable look. 

“ Yokai ,” one asked. Izuku couldn’t distinguish if it was awe in his voice or fear. Before Izuku could hear more the bartender slammed another beer in front of him. Izuku blinked at it before looking at the man. 

“Who’s Yokai ?”

The bartender shook his head and walked away to talk with another person, demanding a drink. Izuku turned back to the betting group and found they had left. In fact, the crowded bar was getting sparse. With the night still early it didn’t make sense. People had no sensibilities to stop at just one or two drinks. He thought he spotted one of the men from the group. He grabbed his new beer and followed. Perhaps this demon was somehow related to finding Candy. 

He followed the oblivious group of men, weighing the odds of the night being staged. He could picture Ghost watching from one of the many cameras that must have littered the room, eating popcorn while laughing at Izuku for following easy bait. Or rather, if Ghost was on the floor somewhere, not in costume, watching him right up close. Was the person he just bumped shoulders with the hero? Shinsou had once said underground heroes had to be versatile. They wore a lot of hats. How many personas did Ghost keep to use? It couldn’t be hard for a spy to coerce a group of men to talk loudly, knowing Izuku would hear and follow them. Even if it wasn’t something he needed to pay attention to at all. Yokai wasn’t Candy. 

Unless?

Izuku stopped. The men had sat down in stadium seats, laughing. The seats around them were beginning to fill up. Izuku didn’t want to risk getting stuck in a bucket seat when he realized this was all a hoax. It was safer to meander at the top of the fight pit than watch it. He paced, waiting for someone else to gift him a piece of information while the atmosphere in the crowd changed. Anxiety mixed with excitement. An incredible combination. Izuku glanced at the arena floor to find it empty, save for a cleaning crew. Clearly, setting up for another fight everyone else seemed to know about instead of him. 

Maybe that was his goal? Candy was a player. If he was, Bakugou’s plan was probably more succinct. Get into the ring, and find Candy in the pseudo-locker room. He didn’t have time to search the upper levels of the room to see if he could spot his childhood friend. 

Instead, Izuku turned to a pair next to him—a man and a woman—and reminded himself to be as nonchalant as possible, to ask, “Who’s fighting next?”

The woman laughed, collapsing onto his shoulder. “You don’t know?” The man pulled her back, saying something in her ear. “Ah, you don’t know.” 

“Is it Candy?”

“Candy,” she asked, brows furrowing, “Who’s that?”

Izuku sighed. Not a fighter then. Or, at least, not the fighter who was getting the crowd to pulsate with anticipation. There was also still the chance that Candy the name the fighter went by. Izuku was still at zero. He ignored the sour aftertaste in his mouth. Out of spite, he wanted to sit down, watch this fight, and then start back up with the challenge. Bakugou would mock him for it for sure, but Bakugou had apparently long since stopped carrying about Izuku’s opinion, maybe it was time for him to do the same. Besides, Izuku wanted to win this. Needed to. 

“Midoriya!”

Izuku stumbled into turning at the sound of his name. Technically, this wasn’t a covert operation. Ghost couldn’t knock him for people recognizing him. People had recognized him entering the place. Only, Izuku hadn’t exactly prepared for running into people he knew. 

Ojiro Mashirao wasn’t an unfriendly face to see among strangers. He was waving with a can as he walked towards Izuku. Izuku would be amiss to completely ignore his former classmate. So, he stayed rooted, waiting for Ojiro to approach. 

When he did, he said, “I didn’t take this to be your type of thing. Doesn’t really fit with your whole reform hero society emblem.”

Izuku swallowed. “It was a recommendation, Kacchan wanted to go somewhere new to celebrate his promotion.”

“Bakugou’s here?” Ojiro glanced around him. “I suppose. It figures he’d ditch you for the others.” 

Izuku bit his tongue. Bakugou hadn’t done that. He was following orders. Had they come here on a normal night, Bakugou would be charging his way to get front-row seats as Izuku tried his best to apologize to everyone they passed. Granted, if this was a normal evening with their friends, Izuku wouldn’t have been alone with just Bakugou. Kirishima, Kaminari, and Uraraka, if she was feeling brawly, would all be there accompanying them—if it was a normal night, Izuku wouldn’t have been there at all. Something Ojiro would know. But, Izuku reminded himself, this wasn’t real. He couldn’t screw up too badly on a practice test to find someone to sign his hand. 

“It’s actually only us,” Izuku said, “though, I’m still not quite sure where he is.”

Ojiro patted his shoulder, offering him a pitying smile. “It’s a shame what he did to you. My agency, while not exactly up to date on all the gossip, couldn’t believe it.”

Izuku would be pressed if he let Ojiro give him the I’m sorry speech that everyone had been handing out to him since Bakugou’s announcement. 

I’m sorry your supposed best friend didn’t tell you something so vital. 

I’m sorry you’ll be working alone now.

I’m sorry you don’t remember what it’s like to make friends, and now you don’t feel like you’re able to. 

“So,” Izuku said, turning back to the stadium. A woman with horns stood on a platform in the middle. “Do you know what’s happening next?” 

Ojiro frowned. “I wish I did. All I know is I was supposed to have one of the premier spots but was yanked last minute for a special guest.”

“You fight here?”

“Got to make a living somehow,” he shrugged, “if you’re not in the top fifty, this isn’t a bad gig. Most of the time people rely too heavily on their quirks and close combat is kind of my thing.”

Izuku tried to picture Ojiro down below with cheering fans, egging him on like they had been when he first entered the place. It didn’t exactly fit with the version of him Izuku had last interacted with in high school—had it really been since high school; Izuku was supposed to be better than that. Of course, he knew not every person in his class had made it to the Top Ten, or even Top Fifty, but he had assumed they still got paid decently enough not to resort to brawling in a basement. 

The woman in the center was handed a microphone. Her smile blinked to life on tv’s spread all over the top platform. Her echoing voice followed next. 

“Now, and with much anticipation, I welcome our next fighter. Undefeated for two-hundred-and-sixty-four matches.” The crowd was cheering, beside him, Ojiro whispered something akin to awe. “Coming back from his five-year hiatus to put on one spectacular show for you all, please warmly welcome the demon himself, Yokai .” 

The screens went from the woman to a metal door sliding up to open. As if they were sparring gladiators, not men. With careful steps into the dirt pit, wearing loose red pants, a shawl, and a cowl, was Yokai . Completely relaxed while people screamed and applauded. 

“Sometimes it’s hard to believe someone like him would give this up,” Ojiro said, mesmerized. “It’s a vigilante goldmine, one for most heroes as well, he was probably making thousands a night.”

“And our first opponent to our Prince of Demons is Onyx Colossus.”

The other man was a behemoth. Easily taller than Izuku and more grotesquely muscled, black vines of it wrapped around every bit of exposed skin. Comparatively, Yokai was small. But that didn’t hinder the crowds' reaction to what they saw below. Boos, for the giant. A splattering of uneasy applause. And, the drowning shouts for Yokai to kick their ass. If it was possible to see, the fighter  almost seemed to smile for the crowd. One hand in the air, accepting their praise. 

“Do you know what he gave it up for,” Izuku asked as the woman stepped off her podium and the two men approached the center. 

“You probably don’t know him. He’s kind of below most people’s radars,” Ojiro said, “but if you believe the rumors, he’s almost a legend amongst the vigilantes down here, hoping to replicate his success.”

A bell sounded. The brute moved his fist surprisingly fast, pummeling their opponent into the ground. It stirred up the dirt, masking the center of the arena. It made it harder to see. But Onyx’s shouts of pain weren’t nearly as obstructed. Nor were the bright flags of red that followed Yokai around as he made his move, attacking this opponent in the back, easily dodging when the man attacked, picking and choosing with blindspots to take advantage of. In seconds, they   had their opening. The man fell to the ground on his knees. The winner climbed on top of him. The crowd roared. 

“Nowadays, though, he goes by Ghost,” Ojiro said.

Izuku’s teeth clacked as he closed his mouth. It was a distraction. He had fallen for it. Right now, Bakugou was probably chatting, charming, a bunch of people, learning who the hell this Candy person was, mere minutes away from getting his hand signed. Meanwhile, Izuku had been distracted by a name, standing flabbergasted under a tv while Yokai , Ghost , brought down that monster of a man in eight concise hits. The crowd screams mocked him.

“People say he’s amazing,” Ojiro continued. “Makes you wonder why he spends so much time hiding.”

It did. 

The announcer was back out, holding Ghost’s hand in the air, and calling out his next competitor while his first opponent was being hauled out on a stretcher. 

What caused a person to fight with such precision no matter the situation, but still decided that it was too dangerous for anyone to know their identity? It didn’t make sense. Ghost was clearly more than capable of fighting against whatever threatened him.

“Well,” Ojiro said as the arena was reset, “I’m going to try and make back some of my money. Who knows, maybe tonight, Ghost loses. Enjoy your evening Midoriya.”

Izuku didn’t want to say that he doubted that it would be the case. To admit to Ojiro that he had talked to Ghost, fought with him, that morning, seemed disingenuous. It made it seem like Izuku and Ghost were friends when Izuku couldn’t even classify Ghost as an acquaintance. He knew nothing about him. 

Regardless, Ojiro was waving, after Izuku muttered his own goodbyes, disappearing into the crowd. Izuku sat there by himself, watching as a person with a snake quirk took center stage. Ghost danced around them, putting on more of a show than an actual fight. People ate it up. 

Izuku started walking when that fight ended, not aiming for the bar exactly, but somewhere quieter. He was surprised to find Bakugou leaning against a wall, alone, nursing a glass. He was glaring at the tv. Izuku stepped beside him. 

“Find anything interesting?” 

“Do you think he just brought us here to show off,” Bakugou asked.

“He said he owed the owners a favor. This is probably it.”

“I don’t like him.” Despite his attitude, Bakugou didn’t dislike many. Sure, they had to prove themselves first, but once they did. He’d earn his begrudging respect. Ghost probably thought beating him in the hallway, the spar, and now this had earned him that. Bakugou’s pursed expression said otherwise. 

“You don’t have to like him. We just have to work with him.”

Bakugou shook his head. “How is us walking around a crowded room, asking for some idiot called Candy any practical application of what we’re going to be doing besides wasting our time? We should be working on the case.”

“Keep your voice down,” Izuku hissed.

“Or what? He seems pretty occupied right now,” Bakugou said. On the tv above the bar Ghost was fighting a man, who manipulated metal spears. “You think he’s going to give us a letter grade telling us we did a bad job.” Bakugou scoffed, taking a drink. “He’s cocky and cocky bastards make mistakes. We don’t have that luxury.” 

“We need him.”

Bakugou glanced at him. “Don’t do that.” 

“What?” 

“Your peacekeeper shit. I know you agree with me, so just say it. This is just as frustrating to you as it is to me.” 

“It doesn’t matter if it is,” Izuku insisted. Ghost was walking the perimeter. People were chanting his name, well his other name. “Just because he was a vigilante doesn’t mean we shouldn’t trust him.”

“So, you’ll blindly trust a guy whose word is shit, but their fighting style is impressive, so I guess it doesn’t matter.” 

“Why not? I trusted you, didn’t I?” 

Bakugou’s arm dropped. His attention fully on Izuku. Not anger, aggravation. Remorse, jarring here of all places.

“Deku, I wasn’t keeping it a secret on purpose.

“The press was going to get to it Monday. I found out about it three days ago. When exactly would you have sat me down for this if you hadn’t already?”

“I told you I wanted to talk. Me, Ei, and you.”

“Sorry, if I don’t believe that the one day you actually get me out of the house, you risk ruining it by telling me something like this.” Izuku barely heard his own words.

“It’s not that easy,” Bakugou said.

“Fuck that. It was just ‘hey, I’m thinking about leaving,’ or ‘Hawks offered me a job and I took it.’ Do you honestly think I would’ve pushed you to stay if you had?” 

Bakugou’s brows furrowed. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you.” Dismissing him by drinking again, watching Ghost fight as if minutes ago he said he wanted to do anything else. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You blow things out of proportion,” Bakugou said, “I didn’t tell you because it didn’t matter.” Izuku scoffed. Bakugou continued. “We didn’t sign our contracts together; I didn’t need to run it by you to break mine.”

“As my partner, you should have told me.”

“Goddammit Deku, we’re not partners,” Bakugou seethed. It earned a couple of looks from the few people around them. He lowered his voice when he continued. “None of us can be the best if we keep things the way they are. I needed change. We both did.”

Izuku took a step back. “So, that’s what this is all about? You’re upset because you’re not Number One, and you thought I was going to what? Spoil the announcement by crying on tv, getting sympathy support for the next round of polls? Or tell the world that I’m so much better off now that I can finally work alone, and I don’t need to babysit you? I’m sure the press would get a kick out of that.”

Bakugou glared at him. “You still don’t understand shit.”

“I understand plenty.” Izuku said, “good luck finding Candy—I’m sorry I got in your way while you searched for them.” 

Izuku stormed off into the crowd, not paying attention to where he was going. He rubbed at his eyes and then scolded himself for it. He would not cry here. It wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t as if his world was irrevocably changing as someone else decided that putting up with him was too much work. Bakugou too, of all people. Izuku had thought they had moved past this petty stuff years ago when they worked together to initially defeat the remnants of the prominent League members and then teamed up to search out and find any other villains who had escaped Tartarus. It hadn’t been easy work, but they had laughed on little to no sleep, trusting in one another. Izuku hadn’t allowed himself to get too close to people, not after—but with Bakugou it was different. It had always been different. 

Izuku stumbled into a bathroom and headed straight for the furthest stall. He locked himself in while he tried to get ahold of himself. Sobbing quietly was awkward, but at least he wasn’t screaming and making the other patrons wonder about his inability to handle a breakdown. He counted down from ten—then thirty—then he counted the tiles he could see, and the screws holding the stall together. He kept counting until the tears were only a trickle, but he knew he had to wait a bit more before trying to stand. It was at this moment, that the door opened and closed outside.

Izuku straightened, putting his hand over his mouth, to hopefully muffle any embarrassing sounds he made until a wrapped piece of taffy slid under his door and someone said, knocking on the stall, “Open up, Problem Child.” 

Izuku opened the door, more out of a habit of not wanting to get in trouble with his homeroom teacher, than any other logical reason. He blinked up at Aizawa who was opening a piece of candy and plopping it in his mouth. While chewing he asked, “Any particular reason you’re hiding in a bathroom?”

Izuku shook his head, glancing down at the taffy and back at Aizawa. Aizawa rolled his eyes before sitting on the ground outside the stall and patting the space next to him. It was disgusting. Black good mucked up between the tiles. A yellow unidentified stain leached up into the walls. Izuku slid off the toilet, grabbed the piece of candy, and joined him. 

“You two were taking too long,” Aizawa started, “I was getting bored.”

“Sorry,” Izuku said, fumbling with the piece of candy, but not actually eating it. “I guess I’m not cut out for this kind of work.”

“No, you’re not,” Aizawa confirmed, “but you were never going to be amazing at it tonight. Though, getting into a fight with your confidant isn’t exactly something we genuinely feel the need to teach in Underground Hero Training 101. Besides, I’m pretty sure I taught you better than that.”

Izuku frowned. “I’m sorry.”

Aizawa hit him over the head. “If I hear you apologize again Problem Child, I’m taking this perfectly unsigned hand to Ghost and giving him the victory.”

Izuku peered up at his old teacher, “but I didn’t win? You found me.”

Aizawa pondered it for a moment, before asking, “what do you know about this place?”

“Nothing.”

Aizawa gave him a level look, “try harder.” 

“Well,” Izuku tapped his knee, thinking, before saying, “it’s marketed as a night club, but apparently if you have the right connections, you get escorted to this sketchy basement fight club where heroes and vigilantes bet money on fighters who make their living entertaining people. Fights aren’t always certain, which upsets some, and fighters can probably leave whenever they want—or I suppose if they’re too powerful to stop from leaving. That announcer lady was probably in management if not the owner, she seemed too satisfied when she introduced Yokai for her to be just a regular employee. The people here have a good time, even though there’s some tension between vigilantes and heroes, which apparently doesn’t apply to Ghost because he has a foot in both worlds, but he’s working as an underground hero as of now.” 

Aizawa nodded. “And what did you know about this place beforehand?” 

“It’s a bar. Find Candy.”

Aizawa dropped another piece of taffy into Izuku’s lap. “I know it might not seem like a lot, and really it’s not much different to what you already do as a regular hero, but being able to walk into a place, and understand the atmosphere of it, is critical to this job. In a different life, your observational skills would have made you a great underground hero.” 

Izuku laughed, “though not as good as Ghost, right?”

“Ghost is,” Aizawa paused, “a special case.”

“He’s amazing,” Izuku said, undoing the wrapping of one of his candies. “I watched him take down Bakugou in less than a minute. He sparred with me this morning without challenge, and now he’s batting around fighters as if they’re nothing.” He lifted the candy up to his mouth. Sour on the tip of his tongue. “If anything, I’m just going to slow him down.” 

“Well, you should know,” Aizawa said, twisting an empty wrapper, “I knew Ghost when he was a petulant fifteen-year-old with too much spite. I then knew him as a whiny eighteen-year-old, who was tired of getting his ass handed to him fight after fight.” Izuku looked over at his homeroom teacher, wondering if this was somehow too much information to be giving away, but not daring to say anything to get him to stop. 

“I knew him as a fashion disaster, trying to put together the optimal outfit that would allow him to be the best version of himself, which took many painful years, bruised ribs and a broken jaw to perfect. What he possesses now was not something he was born with, but what he adapted into in order to become a better fighter and a better hero. Something I know you’re familiar with too.”

Of course, Ghost wasn’t born as he was. No one has their life shaped in order to be the greatest possible hero of their generation. Ghost had to have struggled to get where he was just as Izuku did when he didn’t know his quirk. Like Bakugou had done when he found out other people were amazing too. But still, that didn’t satisfy Izuku completely. It couldn’t.

“But why hide?”

Aizawa sighed. “That isn’t my choice to say. Though, you should know that you will never have a more loyal person fight at your side.”

Izuku frowned, searching for the words to ask his question. Aizawa squeezed his shoulder. 

“I’m going to tell you he doesn’t need saving, though knowing you, you’ll ignore me. I’m also going to tell you to trust him, just because you don’t know the face behind the mask doesn’t mean he doesn’t have kind eyes and a hero’s heart.”

When Izuku ran away, his teacher never brought him to the back of the class, asking him if he wanted to become an underground hero. At some point, he had done that with Ghost, meaning Ghost possessed something Izuku did not. The small missing piece that distinguished a hero from an underground one. Izuku had to trust that Aizawa knew what he was doing when he made that choice years ago. 

Aizawa stood. He started towards the door, but stopped snapping, turning partially back to Izuku. 

“I also knew him as a star-struck seventeen-year-old, telling me he was one day going to be as good as his favorite hero,” he smiled. “You should know I told him you were a terrible role model, but he’s awfully stubborn. I know he never listened to me.” Aizawa returned to the door. With a wave he finished with, “at the end of the day, you were both fantastic students. I have no fear that you will be able to solve whatever this mission requires of you.”

Izuku stayed seated long after Aizawa left him in the bathroom. If he was honest with himself, Izuku never wanted to become an underground hero or a vigilante. However, it was clear to him, now, that Ghost did. He had put all his effort into being great at that one thing so that he could prove he didn’t need anyone. Izuku wouldn’t change his mind—a part of him didn’t even think he’d be able to if he put his effort into it. What Izuku could do, however, was help him. This task required underground heroes and pro heroes alike. If Izuku just focused on the mission, nothing else, it would be alright. 

It would be,

“ alright,” Shouto said.

They were on a platform, loading two unmarked cars. It was beginning to rain. It bounced off the glass as wipers hurried to wipe it away. “I’m not scared of a little rain, are you?”

“No,” Izuku said, stretching his arms. His tendons complained as they did whenever the weather changed, and the rain was cold. Early for the season. “Half my quirk isn’t fire, though.” 

“Well,” Shouto said, “all of my brother’s quirk is, so that has to count for something.” As if to prove his point he tilted his head up, letting the water completely wash over him. It matted his hair to his forehead. Made red bleed. “It’s a good omen.” 

“Really?”

“Yes,” Shouto said. “It means things will finally change after this." He dropped his head back down to look at Izuku. For some reason the blue of his left eye was more piercing. The gray midnight black. He didn't smile, but he was sure. "I can feel it.”

Izuku believed him. 

Chapter Text

The life of a hero was hectic. The life of a top hero, even more so. While Ghost had told them they were allowed to do whatever they wanted to on their “off days,” he hadn’t considered how rigorously scheduled they were. Technically speaking, no one could predict when crime was going to happen; however, with enough statistical evidence, it was easy to make educated guesses. That was why Izuku was sent on patrol downtown at a perfect time to take down a villain. 

The villain was large. He had threatened to take out several buildings. Izuku did what he had grown reliant on. He wrapped the villain up in Black Whip and then soared. Most villains couldn’t handle the sensation of falling back to Earth, simultaneously trying to deal with a Pro Hero who could fly. The whole ordeal was over in a few minutes, high above the city. 

When he landed with the villain in tow, the police were there as well as familiar reporters. He handed the villain off to the police, asking them if they needed any help with the transport and their department number. An intern generally filled out Izuku’s incident reports now—he was too busy for even that, apparently—but he liked to know all the information needed, just in case. They told him he was free to go.

He started to walk away from the police, wondering how rude it would be for him to fly off before giving a statement to the press. He didn’t have to play the press’ games, and he could very well go about his day, but that clashed starkly with his image. Izuku was the people's hero, as such, he had to make it seem like he enjoyed engaging with the public. Not that Izuku didn’t. He did, well, he had, back when he wasn’t so restless. So jittery. 

Nevertheless, Best Jeanist was paying him for a reason, and one such reason was to make steady appearances in newspapers across the country. Also, of course, there was that pesky ranking system, which all but dictated Izuku talk to them. It only grew more mundane the more tired and restless he was.

Izuku stepped under the tape and smiled. Immediately cameras went off and microphones were shoved in his face. 

“Deku! Do you know what the villain was after?”

“Deku, can you be sure he had no accomplices!” 

“Deku. Do you think this attack had anything to do with the attack earlier today during Dynamight’s conference?” 

Izuku swallowed. “I was unaware there was an attack. His agency didn’t reach out for support.” 

“Was there a reason you weren’t invited to the press junket?”

“Dynamight, and Hawks’ agency, did not reach out. As far as I know it was a private in-house discussion,” Izuku lied, wondering if he had somehow missed an invitation to speak on behalf of Bakugou’s career. Not that Bakugou wanted anything to do with him right now. It was probably better that he didn’t attend. Izuku was sure the tension would have been palpable. 

“Is it true then,” a reporter asked, “that you and Dynamight will no longer be working together in the future?”

Izuku wished he didn't have to witness the concern in her face. He wished he had a better answer for her than I don't know, because Bakugou’s words from the club echoed. He wanted to forge his path. Izuku stood in the way. 

“While I cannot say when we will work together next,” Izuku placated, “it is likely that our paths will cross. Hawks’ and Best Jeanist's agencies have held team ups in the past. We will most likely be asked to do team ups in the future.”

Izuku backed away from the reporters. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Wait, Deku!" A different reporter pushed their way through the mass of people. Izuku didn't recognize them, though their zeal was palpable. "Will this affect Best Jeanist's anniversary celebration for the defeat of All for One, now that you both are separated?”

Izuku blinked, thoroughly caught off guard. He had forgot. Well, not forgot, more so, he had been too distracted by everything else that it slipped his mind. It was okay. He was fine. However, he couldn’t reveal that to the press. For many of them, they saw it as his crowning achievement—the day he saved Japan, and possibly the world—to suggest he forgot was to think that he didn’t care. And if he thought too hard about that reality, the world started to fray.

“Any questions for Best Jeanist should be directed towards him. I am not at liberty to say,” he bowed his head as a silent goodbye before leaping away. 

They hollered off more questions, but he was already flying away, looking for another excuse to distract his running mind. Patrols could do that. Patrols were easy. Patrols were falling from the sky and stopping a villain. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.

Izuku was watching the security footage of the break-in for what seemed like the millionth time. Once again, the person appeared, walked the short distance down the hall, and killed the first scientist. The scientist hadn't seen them. They didn’t make any outward notion that they had even heard the stranger. They stood, holding a clipboard and then a knife went through their back, and they were a crumpled mess on the floor. This repeated six times. Izuku wondered what kind of training a person had to go to become that silent and to avoid detection in a high-security place like this. 

Regardless, Izuku gave up on watching that part of the video. He focused on the beginning, trying to figure out how the villain got in. Days prior he had thought that maybe the institution recorded their videos in thermal—or if they used thermal as part of their security. They did. He got sent a copy of the video, and to his utter frustration, the villain didn’t give off a heat signature. Or rather, he had some type of equipment that hid their signature. This led Izuku to his next trial. To go through the video coverage called: “poor.” 

He wasn’t too optimistic that he’d be able to find anything, but without any other instructions from Ghost, Izuku was antsy to feel like he was participating. 

His underground partner seemed to be making himself scarce, though not completely silent. Just yesterday a news broadcast from Akita lauded the mysterious hero for saving twenty children from a hostage situation. The kids they interviewed were stood in awe rather than traumatized after such a harrowing experience. They said he defeated the villains in a matter of minutes after falling from the sky. 

Most people don’t look up. 

Izuku retook his latest recording. Ghost made a habit of observing from up high, it wasn’t too much of a stretch to think that someone else would as well. Izuku started going back through the recordings at ten times the speed, looking for any of them that showed the ceiling, or parts of the ceiling. In one he could just make out a weird instance of an irregularity, he marked it. In another and odd shadow. But it wasn’t until three in the morning, after seemingly going through every recorded image he was given, that he stumbled upon the recording. 

It was in a small stack that Izuku hadn’t tried before because the note said that the camera was broken—it had been scheduled for repair the next week. By broken, Izuku had assumed the feed would have been partially missing or obscured. By broken, what they meant, was while the other feeds held movement, the camera moved back and forth down the hall, the same instance caught on at least five cameras, this one was stuck in place. It was stuck staring at an upper corner. It was in this footage that he saw the wall shift into some swirling type of goo and then the killer drop out. 

Izuku slowed the footage down. It was in less than a quarter of the frame. It appeared like the man was holding something—an activation switch, maybe—and then he was out of frame. Izuku started speeding through the footage, hoping that the villain had left the same way, but had revealed more of himself. While the video progressed, he pulled out his burner phone. He hesitated after typing out the number. Ghost never directly said they couldn’t contact him, but this was important—it seemed important. He sent the text and waited. 

When the villain appeared again, they were more in the frame, though not by much. It didn’t give Izuku any clearer insight on their identity. But he was able to see them place an object on the wall. Izuku paused the recording and took a picture of the object. He was in the process of zooming in on it when the door to his office opened. He tore his gaze away from his work to blink at Ghost. While he had asked him to come, he didn’t expect him this early. 

“Midoriya,” he greeted, walking towards his desk. “I’m beginning to think I need to add sleep to your schedule.”

Izuku bowed his head. Earlier Best Jeanist had said he had to leave the premises of the agency by midnight, but Izuku, without Bakugou watching over him, had less of a prerogative to obey the command. Besides, he had discovered something important. It was worth it. 

“I didn’t think you’d get here so soon,” Izuku said, moving his chair slightly to let the other hero see the monitor. “I didn’t know you’d come at all.” 

“I’ll always come if you ask,” Ghost said, turning to the computer and the frozen screen. “What camera is this from?” 

“FN-2187.”

Ghost typed across the device on his wrist. He played with it before reaching across Izuku to grab his mouse. He hesitated, however, glancing back at Izuku. 

“May I?” 

Izuku nodded, asking, while Ghost clicked on an icon that had popped up on the bottom of the screen, “what are you doing?” 

“Downloading this image, and hopefully the rest of the video to a software that will increase its resolution,” Ghost said as the image loaded. He pointed to a grey spot on the image Izuku had paused. “This is most likely a logo. Depending on where it is from, we might have a lead.” 

“And if it’s stolen?” 

Ghost was silent for a moment, seemingly watching the green bar progress, waiting for the image to load. 

“All support item businesses are required to report lost or stolen merchandise to the government. The top three companies haven’t stated that they lost anything as drastic as a teleporter,” Ghost said. “However, there is also the chance that they would rather keep that information a secret so as not to ruin their public reputation. Regardless, the logo will give us a place to start. It won’t take me long to figure out if they fudged some numbers to conceal their mistake.” 

Izuku wondered if that was all there was to it. Ghost walking into a skyscraper in the heart of Tokyo and asking plainly if they were lying to the government. Certainly, it couldn’t be that easy. 

“It’s not,” Ghost said, turning slightly to him. “But I don’t have to play nice with suits to do my job and well, breaking into high level cyber securities is something Shinsou and I bonded over years ago. But,” Ghost said, clicking on the new and improved image, and zooming in on the logo, “I believe we also have an in for this particular company.” 

The small plate said clearly: Power Orion. Izuku swallowed. They were the best in the business. They made Izuku’s last five hero costumes and were usually the ones he went to whenever he needed an upgrade because,  “I know an inventor who works there. Hatsume Mei. She’ll probably talk to me.” 

Ghost nodded. “I’m counting on you Midoriya. I rather not sit in a stuffy board room, waiting to speak to the director.” 

Ghost hadn’t even sat in their board room during his interview. Izuku doubted he would ask politely for information that they were trying to hide—if the product had been stolen. Ghost began closing tabs on Izuku’s computer and straightened once the monitor screen was dark. 

“Get some rest. Report if your friend gives you any useful information.” 

“If she doesn’t?” 

“I can handle making alternative plans, but according to the press, you are friends with everyone, so I’m sure you’ll be fine.” 

Izuku fought the urge to correct him by saying he shouldn’t believe everything he read in a magazine but thought the words too fruitless. Ghost was giving Izuku a task. Something he could easily achieve on his own. He wanted to succeed. He wanted to prove that he was an important factor in the success of the mission. 

He rose from his seat and offered Ghost his hand. After a second, Ghost took it. 

“I won’t let you down,” Izuku said, shaking it. 

Power Orion was an impressive building. It towered above Izuku when he entered the lobby and the number of people he passed rivaled how many worked for Best Jeanist. He was relieved he had come here before. He probably would’ve been scared out of his mind if this was his first visit, and he had no idea where to go. But he found the receptionist easily enough and she gave him a bright yellow visitor sticker and directions to the elevator and which floor he would find Hatsume on today. He thanked her before slinking through the crowds, managing to get on the elevator before the door closed. After stopping several times to let people on and off, Izuku reached his floor. It was only a short walk from there to reach Hatsume’s lab.

He entered the room, eying the equipment, searching for his former schoolmate. Random junk and wires littered every workable surface. Some projects even reached the floor, laying in broken heaps left for whenever inspiration struck next. Izuku stepped around it all, not seeing the person behind all of the projects. 

“Hatsume-kun,” Izuku called when he reached the center of the room. Hatsume shot up in the left corner with her goggles over her eyes and grease on her chin. Her smile was large. 

“Deku-kun,” she yelled, jumping over her workspace, and running to meet him in the middle. “How’s the new leg braces holding up? Do you think they’re too warm? Not malleable enough? Too loud? I’ve been thinking about adding a dampener to your shoes for some time—metal cleats and all—but I don’t know what material to switch to yet to make it practical.” 

Izuku raised his hands, trying to calm her down. “My costume is fine.” 

Hatsume frowned. Izuku continued before she could interject. 

“It’s great, actually, better than ever. I’ve had no problems with the leg braces. They stopped a knife from tearing through my thigh the other day, so really, they’re all good.” 

Hatsume perked up at this, putting her hand on her hip. “Then what can I do for you?” Her eyes widened. “Are you adding a new item to your outfit? I have these gloves that have been field tested by this—

“Have you had any luck with building teleporters as of late?” Izuku could hit himself over the head. That wasn’t how he was supposed to start this conversation. But then again how do you ease into: hey, by chance did your company have a teleportation device stolen in the last month, and if so, by who? He should have asked Ghost for more pointers on how to get people to spill all their secrets.

Hatsume tensed, raising her goggles above her head. “You planning a heist or something?”

“Or something,” Izuku said, willing himself not to jump to conclusions. “I may have stumbled upon someone else using one and thought it would be a fun item to add. That is, if you’ve made one.”

Hatsume stayed tense until a bell sounded throughout the lab. With a renewed smile she said, “well that’s lunch.”

“You take lunch breaks?” 

“Business mandated lunch breaks,” she looped her arm through his elbow. “Mind treating me? Hot shot heroes tend to make way more than a lowly scientist.”

Izuku let himself be dragged towards the door, only stopping when Hatsume did. She reached into her pocket before reaching into his, pulling out their phones. She placed both of them on a nearby table, shrugging and mouthing “oops” as they walked out the door. Izuku’s fake phone felt heavy in his other pocket. 

Outside her lab, Hatsume immediately started talking about the designs she was working on and which heroes she was partnered with. Izuku nodded along, not missing how her eyes darted to whoever they walked by, but also incrementally at the cameras they passed. She stayed this way, overly observant until they were a block or so away from the building, and she sighed. 

“What do you say to sandwiches and lemonade,” she said, pointing over her shoulder, “my apartment is a block this way, and I trust who did my security.” She started walking again, “you can ask me whatever you need there.”

Izuku was quick to follow her, keeping up the pretense of friendly conversation, even stopping to take photos with a couple of fans to not seem overly eager and suspicious. 

Hatsume’s apartment wasn’t big. A single room with a small kitchenette but a surprising view. As soon as they entered Hatsume locked the door and tapped at a device on the wall. To fill the space Izuku asked what it was. 

“My security interface. You probably don’t know them, but I had an underground hero test it out to make sure it’s unbreakable—well nearly unbreakable, anything can be broken if someone has enough patience and trust me, this hero has enough patience.” She straightened. “He’s kinda like you in a way.” 

“How so?” 

Hatsume tilted her head. “He makes most of his prototypes himself and then comes to me for finishing touches. Though, I’d say he's more paranoid. Nothing is allowed to stay in the lab when he’s not there and what not, but he pays well so I don’t mind.” 

Izuku debated asking who the hero was, but really, he didn’t want to be proven yet again, how small the world, well Tokyo, was. He knew Ghost didn’t just appear in the last couple of weeks, but to come to terms with all the people who did interact with him prior seemed absurd, especially considering how well-connected Izuku was to the rest of the hero community. 

Hatsume was at her fridge pulling out food and drinks, placing them on the small table. Izuku sat down and started helping her make their lunch before tentatively asking the question from earlier. 

“Have you designed a teleporter?” 

Hatsume set down a pitcher of lemonade. She was looking at it, not him, when she said. 

“I designed my first operational teleporter when I was seventeen. It was during that time when where you weren’t at UA, and the school needed a way to evacuate a ton of people and fast if the school ever got attacked. However, it wasn’t very stable so it got scrapped and us support kids were focused more on defensive measures that could be implemented on school grounds.”

Hatsume took a bite of her sandwich. Izuku mimicked her. The bread sticking to the roof of his mouth. 

“I didn’t think about teleportation again until about a year ago when my boss approached me with my previous blueprints and told me I had an interested buyer.” Hatsume frowned. “They weren’t going to buy it if it wasn’t stable, and my boss told me that I either figure out how to improve it, or he would find someone who could.” 

Izuku reached for his glass of lemonade and swallowed it down, choosing to focus on that then the alternative. 

“Do you know who the buyer was?” 

Hatsume shook her head. “It’s easier if you don’t know. When I was in college, I learned that in one of my internships. The professor had warned us that there was no easier way to get blacklisted in this profession than by asking the wrong questions at the wrong time. Heroes can be forgivable. Others, not so much.” 

“I don’t understand,” Izuku said, “Orion is a Hero Support Company.”

“It’s a private corporation with a government contract to help design items needed for heroes. It does not limit how many other contracts the company can do business with. It has a bottom line.” 

“And you just,” Izuku had to temper himself. He had to resist balking at the idea of not fighting the system and only choosing to help heroes, or maybe regular citizens who needed the extra assistance. Not crime syndicates. Not villains. “In the wrong hands, this is deadly.”

Hatsume’s jaws clenched. “It is safer to have some control than to relinquish all control. If I didn’t do it, someone else would, and then where would you be Deku-kun? Another dead end.”

Hatsume got up from the table. She walked to a wall and took down a painting. Behind it was a small safe. She opened it and pulled out a hard drive. She came back to place it in front of him. 

“If I went straight to the heroes, I’m out of a job.” She said simply. “I help more people in the long run and most villains can’t afford the rates of working through a legit company.” 

Izuku didn’t bother pointing out the flaws in that logic. It just meant that villains with the means, the more powerful ones, were. It was another problem. Another thing to lose sleep over. Izuku picked up the hard drive. 

“So, what’s this?”

“Whenever the teleporter is activated, it leaves behind a chemical signature that can be traced with that program. Ghost should be able to operate it fairly easily.” His eyes widened, flicking back to her. She shrugged. “Orion had an attempted breach earlier this morning. Hacker left no trace, though it did raise security, which is annoying. Didn’t think he’d be working with you though.” 

“What makes you think this has anything to do with him?” 

“You’re not the type of hero who has to do the grunt work of investigating things,” Hatsume said, “Something pretty big must have happened if underground heroes and the top pros are working together to stop it.”

Izuku didn’t want to agree with her, but his silence most likely spoke volumes. He pushed the hard drive towards her. 

“Could you by chance track the device now?” 

Hatsume’s eyes went to the clock on the wall, then back to him. She grabbed the device. “When we get back, you owe me an afternoon of tinkering on your outfit until I see fit.” She jumped off the chair, “and amnesty if a villain really did use this. I can’t control where my inventions end up, though I hope it’s to the right hands.”

Izuku bit his tongue, rolling it between his teeth. He tried to picture himself in a similar position, faced with being fired or getting paid. He liked to think he’d still be noble. That he would still be a hero no matter what. But then again, he pictured Ojiro at that club, fighting to make ends meet. Or even the possibility that Ghost had decided to break into a private company’s server to see if they were doing anything illegal. There was right and there was wrong and between them a large cavern of gray space that threatened to swallow Izuku up if he waded too deeply into it.

Izuku told Hatsume he would see what he could do. He told himself that it was another thing he would fix. Just one more thing that faltered because he had not always been responsible enough. His fault. 

True to her words, Izuku left Power Orion much later than he initially planned with blueprints for a new design for his costume. He had Hatsume swear that if she was uneasy about any future contracts to come to him first. He didn’t know if she would, but it helped ease his conscious as he left the premise. 

He wondered if Ghost had attempted to hack the place again—if he had gotten anywhere with it if he had. He didn’t know what they would do with the information that just corroborated Hatsume’s story. Close the company? Fire those in charge and reinstate new leaders with much more oversight? Hatsume was right, it was a private company. In theory, they could sell and not sell to whoever they liked. Especially, if the front for the buyer wasn’t suspicious, which led him to where he was now. 

Hatsume had instructed him how to install a tracking app on his phone once he was clear of Power Orion. Once downloaded, he only had to hastily write in some coordinates he had written on a napkin when he was at Hatsume’s apartment, and the last active location of her device popped up. Izuku started to slip his decoy phone back into his pocket, only to stop, and pull up the camera app. 

Across the street was a pet store. For the last fifteen minutes—from the safety of the shadows in an alleyway—he watched a bubbly cashier check people out and a yawning salesperson stock shelves. Not exactly high crime. He double-checked twice that this was the location and then waited some more, watching the two workers begin to close the place. 

He debated sending Ghost another text, letting him know what he had discovered. However, based on the fact that Ghost seemingly existed at Jeanist's agency, and Izuku’s more pressing need to succeed without help, he did not. He jumped to the roof of the building he was next to and told himself he would give Ghost the good news when he saw him later that night. 

Up high he watched the employees leave, going their separate ways. A few stray cars passed but otherwise, it was a quiet street. For close to an hour Izuku watched the front door, but nothing appeared amiss. Between boredom, and wanting to feel like he was doing something, Izuku jumped over the road, landing on the rooftop of the store. The gravel crunched under his shoes as he neared the edge of the roof, heading towards the back. He figured, maybe, there’d be a back entrance or a loading dock of some sort he could break his way into. 

Sure enough, there was a trailer attached to the back of the building. The back alley was just as desolate as the front street, though Izuku was mindful of others when he hopped off the roof. He hesitated when he landed, waiting for some alarm system to sound, but then again, this was a pet store, not the central bank. Besides—he figured as he got closer to the trailer—he could always say he was walking down the street if he got caught. Though, this next part would be a little bit harder to explain. 

He didn’t spare much of a look at the white trailer, save for where it was attached to the building. He placed one hand on the wall and squeezed his other hand between the trailer and the dock and began to pull them apart. It was slow going. Izuku was careful to be quiet, or as quiet as he could be when moving something this large. When the gap was big enough, he slid through, preparing to run right into the pet store, but froze at the sight of numerous unopened palettes, holding blue shrink-wrapped packages. 

Izuku approached the closest one. There were no outside markings on them, but considering their uniform shape, and how many of them they were, Izuku assumed it wasn’t pet supplies. He was about to tear into the one in front of him to see what it was when a small black disc landed on the back of his hand and immediately shocked him. He waved his arm, trying to shake it off, and spun, preparing to fight.

“What are you doing?”

He stopped struggling with the device, as Ghost stepped closer, blocking out the small sliver of light the open dock door left. The device unlatched itself from Izuku’s skin, falling to the ground. Izuku pointed to himself, then to the palette, he was beside. 

“Hatsume-kun’s tracker—wait, I mean. I spoke to Hatsume-kun, and she was proactive enough to be able to track her creation in case she doesn’t trust the buyer because apparently Power Orion does some pretty shady stuff, and isn’t really just a hero support company like I thought, but I’m not really surprised considering they have to make ends meet and they’re a corporation and all, but it was just a tad disappointing to hear. Anyways, Hatsume-kun knows she needs to make whatever her bosses want, so she does, but like I said, she knew she could follow this chemical trail and then tracked the last time the item powered up which was here, of all places. Maybe our evil villain is part Pomeranian? But that doesn’t explain what this is, or how you’re here right now.” 

“I don’t think our villain is part dog,” Ghost said, “what you’re standing in the middle of is a holding spot for refined Shimmer, probably between buyers since the truck is already docked, and I’m here because you’re here.” 

Ghost crossed his arms, while Izuku retook the perfect packaging. Shimmer was a highly addictive quirk enhancer, with a hallucinogenic side-effect amongst other things. It was rumored to be based on the mucus of a quirk, though whoever patented it had yet to officially divulge that information. It was highly exclusive. It was extremely expensive. It was illegal and Izuku simply stumbled upon it.

This fact didn’t seem to bother Ghost, however, as he continued,  “I wished you’d let me know you were about to go rogue; it would have saved me a lot of hassle of trying to get here first.”

“Well, isn’t it better that we’re both here? Two eyes on everything and all that? Maybe our lead left a clue amongst all this.”

“Perhaps, but we don’t have the time to wait around. I’m placing inbound at 90 seconds top.”

“Wait, what?” 

“Time to go, hero,” Ghost grabbed Izuku’s arm and tugged, pulling him back towards the trailer. “I don’t know about you but fighting fifty guys with guns was not on my evening to-do list. Next time you find a lead in the case, come to me first, so we can properly plan for this sort of thing.”

Ghost stepped out into the alley first, pausing and nodding to the open space. Getting the memo, Izuku pulled it closed again. 

“But if we waste too much time planning and waiting, won’t that make the risk of failure go up,” Izuku asked, turning back to Ghost. Car lights shone from the end of the alleyway. 

Ghost sighed, “there is a reason we are working together,” Ghost paused at the edge of a shadow. Half in, half out. He glanced up. “I don’t plan for you to trust me. But I do hope you’ll eventually trust the system. It’s the only way we win.”

Ghost brought his hand to the wall. The cars down the street were getting closer. It probably took Izuku too long to figure out that Ghost planned to climb the building. And while Ghost could hide in the shadows, slinking his way back up to the roof, it was easily faster for Izuku to jump. So, he did. 

He was able to stand on the edge and reach out to Ghost once he finished his climb. 

“It’s not like I don’t trust you,” Izuku said, securing his grip on his hand, and hoisting Ghost up. He dangled for a moment on the edge. “I know nothing about you,” he plopped Ghost on the roof beside him. “I know relatively nothing about this part of the job.” 

Ghost made a noise, which was hard to parse out through the mask. “Just because it’s something new doesn’t mean you’re useless at it.” Ghost bent down, perched overlooking the edge as two SUVs pulled into the small space. “I’m sure if you decided one day to go underground, you’d become the best in no time.”

Izuku knew people held him in high regard, but it was different hearing it from Ghost. Maybe because Ghose seemed otherworldly. A hidden shadow that could take down countries—perhaps that was taking it too far—but he had seen him fight. Had watched him infiltrate his agency and then bat around heroes and vigilantes in an arena he made his home.

Ghost wasn’t like All Might, he wasn’t saving people with a smile, but for a growing number of people, he was saving people with an idea. He was reassuring them that he would find a way to be there when no other hero was able to. Izuku could only wish to have that kind of power.

He knelt beside Ghost saying, “then what would you do?”

“Be a hero,” Ghost paused, “and maybe take a vacation.”

Izuku fought the smallest upturn of his lip, joining him on the edge. Eight men piled out of the cars below. The smallest of them went to the door and unlocked it as the others milled about. Besides the small ones, the rest of them were huge. All muscle with the quirks to amplify it. Izuku watched as the largest of them pulled the truck away from the dock as easily as Izuku had done and stepped through the opening. One followed the man through the door, the others followed the larger man. 

“No teleporter,” Izuku said, unhelpfully.

Ghost extended his left arm towards him so Izuku could see the screen. “Did you see the tattoo on their necks?” 

Izuku shook his head, as Ghost zoomed out of the image he must have just taken of the larger man. Next, he pulled up a clearer image, something that must have been taken under police custody. Besides being on their neck, the tattoo was rather simple. A black serpent. 

“A snake?” 

“One of the many heads of a hydra,” Ghost clarified. He pulled back his arm, refocusing ahead. “Getting a support item from Power Orion isn’t cheap. Only yakuza money runs that deep.”

“Why would a gang selling drugs want to eradicate most of human life with a bioweapon,” Izuku thought out loud. “Wouldn’t that hurt business?”

“Not if you’re preparing to sell a cure the moment disaster strikes,” Ghost said. “Plus, they could add whatever they wanted to it to make sure people came back while the rest of the country struggled to catch up. By the time they did.”

Ghost didn’t have to continue. Izuku got the picture. Create a weapon and the means to defend against such a weapon to have total market control. It reminded him a bit of a case he had when he was a first year. His eyes widened. It reminded him—

“Who’s currently in charge of the Shie Hassaikai?”

Without inflection, Ghost said, “there are three separate puppet leaders who drag the police around. They get enough on one to take them into custody only for another to replace them. Behind them are two more dupes—though they are highly influential, but the real leader is,” Ghost dropped his head, turning slightly to speak to him, “Kurono Hari.”

“As in Overhauls, old right hand man.” 

Ghost shrugged. “You know as well as I what happened to him. But simply getting rid of a leader, without properly taking into account every level of his underlings, leaves openings. I’m surprised the organization hasn’t moved sooner.” 

“Well, I defeated their leader once,” Izuku said, wringing out his hands, “I think I can do it again.”

“When it comes to that,” Ghost said, pointing to the door, where the small man reappeared, “but we have another issue. That man is Akihiro Teshima. He has a quirk like Shinsou’s, but it’s not as powerful. More importantly, he has no affiliation with the Shie Hassaikai.”

“Maybe your information is wrong,” Izuku said, watching Akihiro talk to someone, both eyeing the open dock door where the other men had disappeared into. 

Ghost put his hand on his chin and muttered, “maybe, however,” Akihiro pointed, and while the other man was quick to comply, Izuku noticed what Ghost must have realized as well. 

“He doesn’t have a tattoo,” Izuku said. Ghost nodded. 

“Understandably, the current members of the Shie Hassaikai are paranoid to a fault. No one joins the organization without proving their loyalty first, thus the tattoos, which means,” Ghost stood up, “we have possibly two gangs, if not more on our hands.”

The truck started up below. Its light turned on, casting dark shadows as it pulled away. In the opening, the larger man from before stood. There were still plenty of palettes behind him. Another shipment and more eager buyers. The very crime that the media had been touting for nearly five years was going down right underneath everyone’s noses. 

“The underground is unifying again,” Izuku said, watching the two separate entities close-up shop, following the trailer out of the alleyway. 

“Not yet,” Ghost said, standing, “but whoever is at the top of this thing, is most likely the person we’re looking for. If they don’t have a quirk to threaten people into submission, having the disease that eradicates most life, would. It’s only a matter of time before the smaller gangs fall in line.” 

Ghost started walking away, opposite from where the men had gone, and the pet store. Izuku jumped up to follow him. 

“And we’re just letting them go? What if they lead us exactly to where we need to be?” 

“What if they lead us to Aomori, and lowly druggies that don’t know anything except that the Number Three Hero arrested them?” 

Izuku bit his lip. Logistically, it was a safe bet. They had time to be patient. But the longer they drew this out, the more likely they would be rushing against a rapidly dwindling clock. He debated voicing his concerns or following the villains without Ghost’s help.

However,  “My cat’s name is Katsudon.” 

Izuku came to a halt. “What?” 

“I have a cat. Her name is Katsudon.”

Ghost stood singular on the rooftop edge. Behind him, the streetlights were a dull orange. They weren’t in the part of the city where neon lights made things glow, only shadows reaching out to grab whoever passed. Ghost wore those shadows around his ankles, reaching up slowly as if waiting for him to come back home.

“If you can’t trust the system, then maybe you should trust me,” Ghost started. Izuku wondered if his hearing was going or if Ghost's voice was indeed softer. If this was possibly Ghost’s real voice, just muffled under a mask. It was less creaky. Smooth even. “However, it is not easy to ask for trust when you know nothing about me. So, I have a black and copper cat.”

As absurd as it probably sounded, Izuku could almost picture Ghost holding a small cat. 

“It’s like a pun right,” Izuku said, “ Cat sudon?” 

“No,” Ghost shook his head, “it’s because I found her eating leftover katsudon when she was a kitten. Why would I name a cat, cat?”

Izuku decidedly would not get Ghost. Ghost, who was walking away from criminals because he believed that one day he could topple over the whole enterprise. Because the only true way to defeat a hydra was to make sure to destroy the one true head. The entity in charge. It meant that everything else was nothing more than distractions. People that they could waste their energy on fighting, getting injured, or caught, with no impactful damage in the end. 

“I’ll see you around, Midoriya,” Ghost said, turning back to Izuku. His eyes were blue tonight. The darkness of the city electrified them. “Though you need to promise me that you will be patient. This only works with one foot in both worlds.”

“Okay,” Izuku said, even though the idea would eat him alive, “I’ll wait.”

“Okay,” Ghost repeated, teetering on the edge. “I call her Kacchan.” 

“I’m sorry,” Izuku asked, stepping closer, thinking he misheard somehow. 

“My cat,” Ghost said, “her nickname is Kacchan.”

With that, the darkness retook its claim. Ghost bled back into the night.

Unknown Number: We have a lead. Meeting tomorrow: 22:00

Katsuki missed when his phone—his burner phone—went off. Not that when he saw it, he was immediately scrambling to get in contact with his partners. 

Deku: For the sake of our jobs, I hope we can still work together. I’m sorry I freaked out the other day. Your new suit looks good. Hatsume-kun? Or does Hawks’ go through someone else?

Katsuki sighed, of course, the nerd would pick up that he had gotten some minor upgrades since transferring. They were so minuscule, he could have done them himself, but he needed to talk to Hatsume first, and what better cover than to say he wanted a new look for his new job? Especially, when Hatsume could hasten the process by giving him a prototype, which resulted in a box sitting on his desk when he got back from his late patrol. 

See, Katsuki wasn’t content to just sit around and do nothing, waiting for Ghost to tell him where to go and who to talk to. He knew Deku wasn’t either, but Deku wore stupid hero goggles whenever he interacted with anyone new. Ghost and his mysterious quirk and mysterious background and mysterious face would no doubt distract the idiot from doing anything productive on his own, which was a shame, given Deku’s capabilities and Katsuki’s skill they probably could have this whole case solved in a matter of weeks, instead of hosting a more insecure Phantom of the Opera cosplayer. 

So, Katsuki told Eijirou he’d be working overtime all week and spent two hours each night pouring over the video feed they got. He watched clip after clip. He watched as six people fell to one shadowy man before said man took the vial and disappeared. Katsuki didn’t care much for how the person got in and out. What he was looking for was an identity. No matter how much a person pretended to be perfect, there was always a flaw. Some human error that wasn’t considered during the planning stages. 

The villain's error?

He didn’t think anyone would attack him back. The first scientist and two guards didn’t. They went down with heavy thuds, lying in rapidly expanding pools of blood. However, the second scientist had been writing when he was attacked. He was writing with a pen. When the killer stabbed him, he turned and stabbed him back. It didn’t matter much. His body fell shortly thereafter, and the villain continued, completely unfazed that someone had come close to taking out their heart.

On a haunch, Katsuki had gone to his bubbly receptionist in the morning and asked her to stab an apple with one of her pens. She blushed a pretty pink color before doing as he said. It went right through. He requested a mannequin from Hawks, who joked with him that Katsuki must get off to seeing himself. Katsuki didn’t dignify that with a response, though he did dress it in his old costume—only because that was the easiest to do. Considering the adrenaline of the scientist, and holding back his strength, he stabbed a pen into the chest of the bust. The pen pierced right through his costume and went at least two inches deep. 

He requested all the evidence from around the scientist. 

While he waited, he added armor to the mannequin. He kept a catalog of the pens. What damage did what. But from the video, it was clear that the perpetrator was not wearing anything bulky. No tactical vests. No heavy metal-plated armor. Katsuki had his suspicions about what it meant but he didn’t want to jump to conclusions. He got his box of evidence a day later. In sealed bags, he pulled out a lab coat, some paper, and a phone. He pushed them all to the side until he got to what he was after. A simple blue pen. It was shattered. Only broken bits from the top and the jagged edges of the bottom, stained blue and red. 

Now, Katsuki opened the box on his desk. Hatsume had left a note. He didn’t bother reading it, crumpling it up and tossing it in the trash. When he had specified the prototype, he had stated he wanted the real deal. They could play with designs and such later. The black material was heavier than he expected and coarse. He tried stretching it out, but there was little give. It did not matter. He got it over the mannequin’s torso, regardless. 

Stepping into the middle of his office, with the curtains drawn and his door locked—well after everyone else in this agency had gone home—he raised his finger and pointed. The explosion was small, targeted. One of his mastered moves. A nearly guaranteed way to defeat villains without putting up much of a fight. The bust fell backward. It put a dent in his wall. But he did not care. He lifted it back up, his hand grazing over where the hit took place. The material was warm to the touch. No signs of damage. It was not torn.

Katsuki bit off the cap of a pen. He gripped it tightly in his hand. He pretended to be some weak-ass scientist, who was just going about their day. Who was just doing their job when an asshole in a mask decided to stab him in the gut. He lifted the pen. The thrust wasn’t as powerful as it would have been had it been Katsuki. Katsuki wouldn’t have lost. The pen hit its target. It shattered on impact. The only difference, now, was that the puddle on the floor was singularly black. 

Katsuki rubbed his hand on the back of his leg, dropping the weapon.

Human’s made mistakes. Ghost was human. Katsuki could work with that. 

“Thank-you for getting here on such short notice,” Aoi, the director of Power Orion, said, “especially at this hour.” 

Ghost put his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels while the elevator climbed. 

“I was in the area,” he said, “any particular reason you want me to check your cybersecurity at midnight?” 

Aoi was a stout man with dark eyes. His tie was loose around his neck and part of his white shirt was pulled out. No doubt disappointing his family with another late night. Or at the very least, disappointing his wife, given the smell of sex that lingered on him. Not that Ghost would judge. High-stress life came with a multitude of ways to distract oneself from its burdens. It was just another benefit to Ghost’s job. Another piece he could play, if needed, at the right moment. Most powerful men were the same. They acted like they could take on the world and didn’t thank those who kept them protected. Ghost wasn’t altruistic in his justice either. When the day came, a man like Aoi would fall ungraciously.  

The elevator doors opened into one large office. 

“Early this morning, around four am, someone tried to hack us,” Aoi said, “being a man with a strong moral code, I worry that it was someone nefarious. I would hate for the technology I help to foster, ending up in the wrong hands.” 

Ghost enjoyed how the man swallowed when he didn’t say anything back to support his righteous claims. How Aoi had to rub his hands, during the awkward pause before hurrying off to the computer, under watchful red eyes. 

“You have full access, of course, but our clients’ names have been blacked out to protect confidentiality. I trust you will be able to make sure that the culprit didn’t get anything as well as point out any other flaws in our system.” 

Ghost walked around the desk, fingers trailing over the wood grain. 

“How much?” 

“500,000 yen,” Aoi said, “deposited tomorrow.”

“You’re cheapening out on me,” Ghost said, sliding into his chair, “considering you’re taking me off one my many cases tonight where I could make triple that, and I know you can afford it, I want five percent more plus full access to a lab and any equipment I may need, to do repairs. No questions asked.” 

Aoi glowered. “An assistant as well, I presume?”

“No,” Ghost cracked his hands and hovered over the keys, ready to begin. “Do we have a deal?” 

It took Aoi five seconds under Ghost’s gaze before nodding rapidly. “Of course, you know how these things are.”

“I do,” Ghost said, starting up the computer. Aoi leaned closer, looking over his shoulder. Ghost sighed, “are you prepared to breathe down my neck the next couple hours or do I have your trust, Director?” 

“If you find anything,” Aoi said, stepping back, “I’ll expect a report.”

“Of course.” 

Aoi gave him a short, courtesy bow. “Then have a productive night, hero.” 

Ghost didn’t look up when the door shut, immediately pulling up the programs he would need. After five minutes his gauntlet buzzed. The small tracker he had slipped into Aoi’s pocket officially deactivated after disconnecting from the building's Wi-Fi. Besides a handful of janitors on the first and fifth floors, Ghost was alone. He raised his hand to his ear and tapped. After a handful of seconds, the call connected. 

“You in?” 

“I’m disappointed you think so little of me,” Ghost said, “I orchestrated this whole thing, of course I’m in.” 

The other side laughed. “It’s unfair how easy you make it seem.” 

“Learned from the best.” Ghost said, dragging the necessary program over and installing it into the server. “Power Orion’s hacker ends up being a bored high school student from Shiozaki, who hit the first firewall he encountered, and I get complete access to Power Orion’s mainframe going forward. You think we can work with that?”

“I’m not dignifying that with a response. Though, I do want backdoor access. You’re not the only one who gets to toy with executives.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” 

Hours later Ghost walked into the night with nearly unlimited access to one of the strongest support companies in all of Japan. The only marking, a small, spray-painted ghost on the brick wall of a forgotten alleyway the building was backed into. 

Izuku got to his office late. Well, it was eight am, which was far later than he had been arriving. He flicked on the tv as he made his way to the desk. 

“Underground Hero Psychosis, being heralded for capturing…”

There was a sticky note on his monitor, along with three mugshots. Three clear images of serpent tattoos and scowling faces. 

“…drug related crimes are, of course, down in recent months, thanks to the brave work our heroes do for us, each day. But Shimmer continues to be a deadly addiction…”

Izuku rubbed over the almost impossibly neat script. He smiled. 

The best way to find the hydra’s center is to make sure to cauterize all the benign heads—even if you’re not the one who has to do it. 

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. 

Chapter Text

There were many things the dead weren’t allowed to do. Interact with the living was just one.

Shinsou’s home was small. A single room in a rather bleak building on the edge of downtown, so unassuming that his neighbors didn’t realize he left his window open year-round. They joked that it was top floor privileges, but really the type of tenants living in a place like this prefered that no one remembered a face the day after next.

Ghost stayed near the window, nonetheless. Far from the door on the other side of the dark room. Had anyone else opened it, he’d escape into the night, unseen. But Shinsou was a professional. He didn’t make simple mistakes like forgetting a random night in a random May. He opened the door and threw his keys on the table with the broken leg, saying, “you’re here early.”

“Maybe you’re just late.”

Shinsou pulled off his mouthguard, the responding smile slipping away too. “Got held up downtown by the train. Some kid lost their mom and would not stop crying. I was the closest hero.” 

Ghost did nothing. Shinsou finished taking off the top half of his costume and walked to the fridge. He didn’t offer Ghost a drink. Not that type of night. He grabbed his beer, kicked off the rest of his costume, leaving him in nothing but a t-shirt and briefs, and walked to his desk. 

The computer was the only thing of worth in the place. He shook the mouse, waking it up, and then dug into the bottom drawer. He pulled out paper, markers, and other miscellaneous garbage, leaving it empty. He then hit the trick bottom, revealing a cell phone.

He tossed the phone onto the desk and finished opening the necessary programs. A precaution never skipped. It made sure that when the phone was used, it never said where Shinsou was calling from. 

“You gonna come a little closer?”

“I’m good.”

Shinsou didn’t look over his shoulder. He picked up the phone, double checked his computer, then made the call. It rang four times before tentatively a woman’s voice filled the room. 

“Hello?”

“3334-0701.”

The woman sighed, “6378-0202” 

Shinsou typed in the digits as she read them. The computer flashed green. “We’re all good, Himura-san. How’s the weather in Singapore?”

“Warm,” she said, “how’s it fairing in Tokyo?”

“A string of rainy days, nothing awful.”

“I see,” she said. The line buzzed with empty space.

“Are you doing okay on money? I see rent went up. The cost of living has gone up here too, my landlord must be crazy to think he can get away with it,” Shinsou asked, overlooking a spreadsheet, which set his features in pale white. 

“He sends us more money each month—we are good. It is his to spend.” 

“I’ll pass it along. You had to go to the doctor last month?” Shinsou noted, checking another box. He hovered over the doctor's visit.

“No trouble, they barely batted an eye. We are safe.”

“That’s good. May I ask what it was for?”

“I was just clumsy, sprained my wrist.”

“I see.”

“We—Toshi, is he there?”

“It’s a quiet night, ma’am, always is this time of year,” he said. “Your cards all working still?”

“Yes.” Shinsou made another check mark. Softly, she continued, “Fuyumi had her second child. He’s a little over two months old. He has heterochromia.”

“Heterochromia is pretty rare. What colors?”

“Blue and gray. His name is Shouyo, and he loves everyone he meets,” she paused, took a deep breath, and then said, “I was thinking about coming, with the kids, only for a weekend. Do you think that’s safe Toshi?”

For the first time since speaking, Shinsou glanced back. Ghost had remained impassive by the wall. Aloof. Red eyes stared at the door. He shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Himura-san, I don’t think it’s going to work out this time. Maybe next time.”

“Maybe,” she repeated. “Well,” she said, clearing her voice, “we’re almost out of time, aren’t we?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Tell him that we love him and that we miss him—that he’s a good hero.”

“Will do ma’am.”

“Thank-you Toshi.”

With it, the line went dead. Shinsou cleared the memory cache. When he looked back toward the window, the ghost was gone. 

Izuku wasn’t surprised to find his couch empty when he came into the living room the following day. Bakugou had spent the night, but they had lives to lead. People to save. Izuku’s morning routine was sipping the cold coffee Bakugou had left in his pot and taking an equally cold shower to finish waking himself up. While he had slept hours his body was drained, on the brink of collapse. He ignored the notification on his phone, reminding him of the day. He had other responsibilities to contend with. 

Before getting to the office, he stopped at the police station to go over his statement for a villain he helped take down about two months prior as well as finish signing the paperwork for another case he had completed two days ago. The people were nice. He got a free muffin from the secretary who always thanked him for a job well done. 

By the time he got to his office, it was the middle of the day. He was invited to lunch with some of the sidekicks and one other pro. They talked amicably amongst themselves about the Pro Hero Charity Gala, which was a couple of months away. Invitations were already sent out, and Izuku made a note to check and see if he got his to make a proper reservation. Even if he didn’t know where he would be at with his current case, these types of formals were not something ranked-pro heroes missed. 

Patrols were quiet, the reasoning plaster to every screen he passed. Tokyo was always quiet the few days surrounding the anniversary as heroes from across Japan came to the city for the vigil. The Night of a Million Lights had been created by Best Jeanist on the first anniversary of All for One’s defeat to honor those lost in the destruction—civilian or hero. 

Each person would light a candle for someone they knew they had lost, and another for one of the thousands of souls who went unidentified in the rubble in the following days. As best they could, most light pollution would be eradicated. Izuku suspected if he floated above the city it would seem like the stars came from Earth and not the other way around. 

However, Izuku would be at the center. His candle was the first one lit. His arms raised the highest, amongst a crowd who believed him to be their savior. 

Regardless, it was awkward to see his face, set in a stern expression looking wayward. Championed as the future beacon of hope. Bakugou’s face found its way into the mix as well as several other heroes, but Izuku’s was the most prominent. The one who defeated the ultimate evil being without any help. Without any— 

When Izuku got back to his office he hoped he was going to make it an early night. He planned on calling Uraraka and watching an old movie wrapped in blankets as he littered his coffee table with take-out. Tomorrow he was off from hero duty. It didn’t matter how much junk he ate.

Izuku was slow to walk through the door, peeling off his gloves and setting them on his desk. He went to stand before the window when the notebook he had thrown caught his eye, still crumpled on the ground. He sighed and retrieved it. The back cover was open, revealing a scratched note Izuku had forgotten he had made. 

What if he is alive? 

Izuku closed the notebook, standing and heading towards its home. If Shouto was alive, Izuku liked to think he would know by now. They were good friends. They trusted one another. People didn’t just vanish off the face of the Earth. Shouto was dead. The bookcase fell closed with a thud.

Izuku eyed the window again. It was early.

For most heroes, the eve of All for One’s passing was a night of celebration. They went to exclusive bars and got drunk, celebrating another year of peace. Izuku grabbed his phone and walked back through his agency. His thumb hovered over calling Bakugou, but with every step forward he hesitated. Bakugou had said he wanted to move on, practically forget, and Izuku couldn’t do it. Not tonight of all nights. He shoved his phone back into his pocket.

Izuku was about to continue on pass the gym when several people caught his eye, standing around the entrance. They were all in various states of awe. Assuming two heroes were in the middle of the ring, fighting, and since Izuku was keen on a distraction, he paused. 

“What’s going on?” 

Three of the sidekicks turned to him, each with wide eyes. No one spoke, but they did part for him to get closer. He walked until he was right at the entrance. Immediately, he looked to the arena but found it empty. His eyes darted around the rest of the room. No one at the running track or ellipticals. Not a single soul at the weights. It was a soft grunt that caused him to look in the furthest corner where several punching bags hung. In the middle of them: Ghost, wearing a loose long-sleeve t-shirt, jeggings, and socks, danced between them all. Izuku blinked, but the image didn’t dispel. 

“Are we supposed to ask him to leave,” a sidekick asked to his left. 

 “How did he even get in here?" 

A boy with a bug quirk quickly said, “he probably works for the agency since Dynamight-san abandoned us.” 

The sidekicks continued to rattle off plausible scenarios to reason why the best underground hero was currently practicing in their gym, while Izuku took a step forward. The gym smelled like old socks and disinfectant. Each hit Ghost made echoed throughout the space. Izuku didn’t get much further along, however, when Ghost stopped, holding the bag steady. 

“Midoriya,” Ghost greeted, which earned a few gasps from the spectators before they started talking again with more excitement. Izuku spun on his heel to face them. Their innocent curiosity was palpable. Izuku set his mouth and crossed his arms. 

“Okay, show’s over,” he said, “we have people to save.” 

It earned a few grumbling complaints, but one of the good things about working at Jeanists’ agency was that most people respected him. Soon enough the crowd was gone. Izuku shut the door and turned to his companion. Ghost, meanwhile, had gone back to working with the punching bags. 

“They weren’t bothering me,” Ghost said while Izuku approached. “I kind of wish one of them came to help me spar.”

“Is there a reason you’re practicing in our gym in the middle of the day?” 

Ghost slowed the bag, leaning against it. He took Izuku in before he spoke. “Best Jeanist gave me full access to the agency while working on the case. I didn’t think it would be a problem.” 

“It’s not.” 

“Okay,” Ghost said, standing up again, and straightening the bag. Closer, Izuku realized that he wasn’t wearing his gloves. Instead, his hands were wrapped in white like any other hero who would be training. “I was hoping to catch you before you left, actually.” 

Izuku frowned, telling the other hero what he had managed to accomplish the night prior was rather embarrassing. 

I sat with an old man, who I told that I’m still hung up about my dead best friend, or Kacchan had to drag me home last night because I had a panic attack over said dead best friend. 

Either didn’t paint Izuku in the best of light. They didn’t paint him as the Symbol he was supposed to be. A steadfast pillar.

“Are you doing anything tonight,” Ghost asked instead. “I know, generally, heroes go out tonight, so I don’t blame you if you are. A lot of people have reasons to celebrate this weekend, including you.”

“I’m not,” Izuku started, “celebrating, or going anywhere. Unless you count watching a movie in my pajamas and eating ice cream as big plans.”

“They could be. I’d kill anyone if they ruined my night off.” 

Izuku wished he shared the same sentiment. Any time he had off he spent chasing away lingering thoughts and well-contained emotions. If anything, being in the gym with its familiar mats and weights gave him a better distraction than going home and watching tv. 

“I think I can decide whether or not something will ruin my night,” Izuku said. “Why’d you ask?” 

Ghost stepped away from the punching bags. “How’d you like to shadow me tonight? Bakugou inadvertently revealed an arms deal occurring, and I figured I’d pay it a visit. It shouldn’t be too dangerous—” 

“I thought you said we weren’t following stray leads?” 

“Not obvious leads and this one isn’t related to the case. Besides, I also need to keep up appearances. I figured letting you follow me might let you see how I normally operate, so you can eventually trust me.”

That was how Izuku found himself trailing silver moon pathways over graveled rooftops, wearing an old stealth suit. Ghost had laughed when Izuku got to their rendezvous point after eating—well Izuku ate, he’s not sure what Ghost got up to. After laughing at Izuku’s darkened costume, Ghost had remarked that such an outfit wasn’t necessary for their job, but he appreciated the thought. 

Ghost didn’t say much as they went. Izuku had tried probing him for answers but was reprimanded. 

“The point of a shadow is to be silent,” Ghost had said. “And observe.”

“But—

Ghost had mimed zipping his lips, and Izuku had fallen quiet. He figured it was some pseudo-master and apprentice shtick. He pictured a younger clumsier Ghost as he stumbled after Aizawa, or perhaps Ghost trained under someone else entirely. Another underground hero so under the radar that only those who needed to know, knew. Someone who made friends with shadows and no one else. But Ghost was the anomaly, Izuku couldn’t imagine he’d find someone else with his origins. At least not in Japan. 

Ghost, currently, moved like he was meant to be suspended in the air. A tad unfair considering Izuku was the one with a flying quirk. He wasn’t sure how Ghost was doing it, between jumping and running, but at every lift off he seemed to float, momentarily, before deciding which way to land so that the gravel welcomed his soft padded boots instead of groaning under his weight like they did every time Izuku’s feet came down. 

They played the part of dancer and buffoon until Ghost slowed. They were in an industrial district. Based on the rows of cars, auto manufacturing. The lights cast orange shapes onto the ground. Ghost fell between them, landing on cracked sidewalk where weeds lived. Izuku tried his best to replicate the footwork, smashing a clover when he landed. 

Izuku anticipated climbing the walls to the warehouse. He could see opened windows to air out the building high above. Or maybe Ghost would find a dock door, and they would sneak in through a semi. Or get into one of the cars and wait for the villains to come and “ship” the car out full of weapons, and they’d pop out in the middle of the ocean on a boat with only their fists and brains to defeat a crew of villains and semiautomatic guns. 

Ghost walked through the nearest door. 

It wasn’t dark where they entered. It seemed only luck that no one happened to be in this portion of the warehouse. Nevertheless, Ghost didn’t hurry as he inspected the door they had entered, placing a small object near the latch of the handle. Straightening, he surveyed the rest of the space. They were on the ground floor of a massive room where robots and machinery assembled different stages of metal frames for cars. Metal shrieked against metal and somewhere there might have been music playing—something heavy with base. 

Ghost jumped and caught a passing door frame, grabbing the back of Izuku’s costume, and tugging it. Taking in the next frame, Izuku took the opportunity to follow. 

Unlike Ghost, who chose to cling to the frame, letting it take him where he wanted to go, Izuku chose to instead tuck himself behind the frame, using Float to follow it. It was a good test of practice. Especially, since Ghost wasn’t satisfied with only following car doors, jumping between half-assembled bodies and down through holes meant for engines. 

He bobbed, weaved, and swung himself through all of it until he was perched high above with Izuku beside him wondering how on Earth no one had seen all of that —not to mention what kind of training Ghost had gone through that let him move near silently because, unlike Izuku who didn’t have to push off or touch anything, Ghost did, had. Yet, he left no trace. Silent.

Down below, near a garage door, two men stood. Thirty seconds later the door opened, and a black SUV pulled in. 

“Eight in sight. Three north and two south,” Ghost said. “A shame, I was hoping to show off.” 

The lights went out. 

If it wasn’t for a hand grabbing his bicep the Number Three Hero of Japan would have fallen ten stories to splat on the concrete pavement with no fanfare. Ghost’s red eyes blinked to life. 

“Remember, Shadow, you only observe.” He pressed something into Izuku’s palms, “and answer this.”

Ghost’s grip disappeared. Izuku lifted the phone to his ear. 

“—your emergency?” 

Izuku made a strangled noise, which the emergency responder didn’t seem to appreciate. She repeated her question. Izuku wracked his brain for the necessary information to give her while watching what was happening below him. 

Blue lightning raced over the body of the car. A person yelled. The emergency lights flashed once—Ghost had one person in a headlock—twice—another was zapped before dropping—three times—Ghost spring-boarded off another, sending them to the ground as the warehouse settled on hazy red emergency lights. 

It let the enemies get their bearings. They raised their weapons and shot. Bullets rattled against metal bodies and blasted out windows. Ghost threw an object, which embedded itself into the furthest person from him. A knife. Izuku realized as Ghost tossed another one up between him and a villain before he clasped the nozzle of their gun with both hands and shoved against it, forcing his assailant down before grabbing the spinning object out of the sky to stab the person who was trying to sneak up behind him. 

Five people and it may have only been a minute.

“Sir, are you injured?”

“Umm no we’re handling it. Just need the police.”

“We?”

Ghost ducked when the next person decided to abandon his gun for a straight out brawl. He didn’t react when one of Ghost’s wraiths went off on his arm, laughing as he brushed it off. For Ghost’s part, he had no problems playing prey, backpedaling and sticking another thug as he passed, who collapsed easily. 

“Uh—yes—we. I’m speaking on behalf of an Underground Hero. He’s a little preoccupied, but we should have this wrapped up soon.” 

“Police ETA five minutes,” she said, “please stay on the line until either I, or a police officer tell you to hang up.” 

“Yeah—yes,” Izuku said, eyes widening, as Ghost fell. From Izuku’s position, it seemed like he tripped. The large man who had been following him with an easy gait took the opportunity to pounce, grabbing Ghost and lifting him only to stop. He roared, throwing the body, which caused Izuku to jump up, ready to go down and fight—shadows be damned—except a figure was now standing behind the man, holding a knife. Izuku watched transfixed as Ghost lashed out at the tender skin behind the man’s knees causing him to fall, before launching himself up and wrapping his legs around his head. 

A ricochet of bullets grabbed Izuku’s attention next as he watched three people run into the chaos, only to be zapped by what must have been well-placed traps.

“I’m hearing gunfire, are you sure the situation is being handled,” the operator said, “I have two heroes in the vicinity, and they can be dispatched—” 

The man Ghost had been wrapped around fell with a thud. 

“No,” Izuku said. He could care less what another hero would do entering the fray. Probably create a spectacle with their quirks and threaten the integrity of the building. Hell, Izuku figured if they were in a different position, he would’ve made ample use of the metal frisbees floating around, concussing quite a few of the villains while he jumped between smashing and tying them up. 

But Ghost, unless he had some type of mental quirk, was fighting quirkless. Fighting quirkless and well. Against a bunch of thugs who were mostly muscle but would’ve been irritating for Izuku to deal with alone.

“I can hear you muttering from here Shadow.” Ghost said, causing Izuku to jump, pulling the phone away from his ear. On the flat side of it was a circular speaker. “Do me a favor and go check where we entered. One should already be unconscious.”

Izuku nodded and then felt foolish because it wasn’t as if Ghost was expecting a confirmation; he gave him an order. With a lot less finesse Izuku made it back to where they entered. A glowing exit sign permeated into the red. Izuku dropped down as one of two men, both carrying large bags, threw open the door and bolted out. He hit something with a resounding smack, falling backward, unconscious. His buddy stumbled back, unfortunately right into Izuku, which caused him to stiffen before spinning around to fight, only to drop with a shock of electricity. Ghost’s red eyes appeared behind him. 

Ghost toed the body and kicked the heavy bag away. He went to the door and slid his hand down it, grabbing the device he left there. 

“Great work, Shadow,” Ghost said, plucking the phone from Izuku’s grasp. Before Izuku could stammer out how he had done nothing, Ghost continued with, “grab the two bodies. It’s easier for the police if everything is in one place.”

Ghost shouldered both bags and held the phone to his ear with the other hand.

“Fukumoto, I thought this was your weekend off. Ahh yes, I do know I’m supposed to make a visit to the precinct.” Izuku grabbed the two bodies before Ghost got too far away. “No, I am not to blame for the recent rise of vandalism. I don’t even know how to paint.” Ghost laughed. “Paint is in the name.” 

Ghost dropped the bags next to the car. He motioned to where he wanted Izuku to place the bodies, pulling the phone away from his ear, “tie them up. No need for quirk suppressant cuffs—they’re all mutants and the police will be here.” He paused, pulling back his sleeve to look at his arm. “Wow, Fukumoto, your guys are making great time. One minute and counting.” 

Izuku didn’t get her response. He wondered if she was as exasperated as Izuku felt. Ghost spent the next thirty seconds talking to her and dragging bodies to Izuku for him to tie up. When they heard the sirens in the distance Izuku stood, crossing his arms, realizing he’d have a night of paperwork to do. Ghost said goodbye to the operator, shoving the phone into his pocket.

“Shadow, do you think you can get us in the rafters,” he asked, turning to him as the police began calling out on the other side. Izuku pointed to where the cops would be entering in the next few moments. 

“Aren’t we—

“Shadows don’t ask questions,” Ghost interrupted before he offered Izuku his hand. “Can you?”

It was stupid. The first time he missed discussing operations with the police he was rewarded with a warning and a fine. Izuku ignored Ghost’s hand, wrapping his arm around his waist. 

“If we get caught.”

“We won’t.” Ghost said. His touch was light where he seemed to accept Izuku’s hold. “Can’t penalize the dead and the apparition that follows him.”

Izuku sighed, bending his knees, and launching them to the rafters. As he landed, the police broke through the door, calling out their presence and shining flashlights around to take in the scene. They all stopped on the pile of bodies and the black duffle bags beside them. They treated the unconscious men with caution before they were replacing Izuku’s quick tie-up with handcuffs and dragged the men out to the waiting police cars. 

When they were almost done, only one man left to bring out, Ghost stood and started walking along the beams. He didn’t ask Izuku to follow; he didn’t have to. They reached one of the open windows. Ghost pushed it open wider. They escaped outside to cooling night air and flashing police lights. 

For another ten minutes, they watched the police talk amongst themselves pointing at the bags and the building. Eventually, they began to drive off, leaving the place empty save for tire tracks, yellow tape, and shell casings.

“Come on Shadow,” Ghost said, starting back towards the rooftops, “we have more work to do.” 

How Izuku found himself sitting on the roof of an apartment building, eating fast food where the brightest stars made their light seen, sore but not unbearably sore. Beside him, Ghost kicked his heels against the edge of the building, reaching for the greasy bag he had all but ordered Izuku to go and get after the fourth ring of criminals was taken out. 

When Izuku cheekily said he thought shadows couldn’t do anything, Ghost had responded with, “last I checked you were a functioning hero.”

Ghost opened the bag, pulling out fries and an aluminum-wrapped burger and setting it beside him. He reached for his mask, hitting a button. It made a hissing noise as it slightly pulled away from his face. Nowhere near far enough to reveal the identity of the man underneath it. Izuku could pretend he wasn’t a tad disappointed in that development. It was an absurd image, but one Izuku wasn’t going to question. His mouthguard was next to him, completely abandoned once he knew he was going to eat, and his hood was down where it usually sat. 

True to his word, Izuku had done zero fighting, only tailing, and climbing building after building, while Ghost darted between danger like it was a game, taking people out with mutant quirks as if they were children and not trained guards. 

“Permission to speak,” Izuku said between fries. 

Ghost regarded him with his handful of fries. “I can’t stop you from talking, Midoriya.”

Izuku gave him a pointed look, which was ruined since he couldn’t see if the other hero reacted to it or not. All Ghost did was put more fries in his mouth, chewing them softly and waiting for Izuku to continue.  

“Is it odd you didn’t come across any emitter quirks tonight? I mean I fight all the time, and I swear nearly everyone can either shoot beams of light out of their fingers or suck water out of the atmosphere and send it flying my way as very dangerous spikes. All while I try to figure out the best way to beat them with minimal damage.”

“You’re fighting supervillains, they have an advantage.” Ghost swallowed his fries, taking in the street below. Shops lined either side of the road and, though it was night, it was rather peaceful, considering where they had come from. 

“Emitter quirks are always at an advantage. They’re flashy and people who are weaker are attracted to that kind of thing. May it be smiling heroes—” Across the street there was an Uravity and Red Riot promotion for some sports drink. They both wore their most charismatic smiles. A promise. “—or sinister villains.”

Ghost swallowed another mouthful of food. “Only the weakest emitter quirks are sent on missions where the only task is to transport cargo. But people think twice if they’re going to double-cross someone when they’re facing a person with a mutant quirk. In this career, they tend to be walking walls of muscle.” He paused, hand in the container, and shrugged. “It’s the way of life. People learn how to deal with it.” 

Izuku retook Ghost. His outfit was tight. A practical second skin. But maybe under the cowl and facemask, there was some type of transformation. Something that made it clear what Ghost’s quirk was, which would make sense if he was trying to hide it, to give himself the biggest advantage. It would also help explain how he moved. Perhaps he was like Froppy, who had the advantages of being like a frog, or Hawks, who could avoid close confrontations with ideal maneuverability.

“I’m not a mutant,” Ghost said, picking up his burger. “Didn’t I tell you I fight mostly quirkless?” 

Izuku warmed, turning back to his food. He swallowed around two bites before realizing what Ghost had said. 

“Mostly?” 

Ghost eyed him. They were back to blue. Izuku was grateful for that. They made him seem more human than the red did. 

“I’m honestly surprised you haven’t asked yet,” Ghost said, after finishing another bite of his burger. “You’re a bit disappointing to meet in person, Hero Deku, I thought you’d be all over me with your quirk analysis stuff by now.”

Izuku’s mouth fell open as Ghost finished his burger, eyeing him the whole time as if challenging him. 

“I—I thought I coul—I was being respectful. And it’s not like you’d give me clear answers to any of my questions anyway.” Izuku said, frowning.

“That’s your fault for making assumptions,” Ghost said, digging into the pack at his side. He pulled out a wraith and handed it over to Izuku. It was a disc, no bigger than a poker chip. Upon closer inspection, Izuku could see that there was a button on one side. He traced the outline of it with his thumb. “Designing those was a painful task of trial and error. There’s a reason my suit is built to resist electrocution.”

“Hatsume-kun said you used her agency. Why not just let the scientist make something first?”

“I made those before I got my license,” Ghost said, picking it back up, “well an amateur version of it.” He flipped the item between his fingers. “They had a knack for exploding then.”

Ghost pulled something else out. 

“This I did make with Hatsume’s help. It creates a small forcefield.” The object in his hand was small and rectangular. “Generally, I put these at the door where villains are most likely to exit and exit fast. Running full speed into a wall almost always results in someone falling unconscious.”

“And you anticipate the villains are going to use whichever door because you go over building schematics before you start a fight,” Izuku said, thinking back to how Ghost easily broke into Best Jeanist's Agency. 

Ghost nodded. “Tonight, three of the four warehouses had memos that their emergency generators were faulty. 63% of faulty generators fail to turn on all the exit signs. In an unfamiliar place and in the dark, people go to the beacons they can see. It also helps if I set it up where the person is pushed to take the exit I want them to take.”

Next, Ghost reached towards his calves. He pulled out one of the knives, twisting its handle, and hesitating a moment before handing it to Izuku. The metal caught the moonlight across the edge, highlighting its blade. The handle was smooth and wrapped in black. It was surprisingly light—not that Izuku had much experience with knives, save for those thrown at him by angered enemies.

“A tad cliché, but they get the job done,” Ghost said, easily answering Izuku’s question about metal and how he learned to use a knife so effortlessly. Ghost responded with a chuckle and said the person who trained him had a knife quirk, truly effortless. His was a gimmick, a cheap approximation. Izuku didn’t agree, but he didn’t think they’d reach a consensus if he rambled about how amazing it was to watch Ghost in action.  

It went on like that. Ghost, pointing out features in his costume, some Shinsou had mentioned during his introduction, some he had not. For instance, the joints of his hero costume weren’t made of the same fabric as the rest of his outfit. The fabric was too stiff in places to bend. Ghost had to adapt it to give him the most flexibility possible. 

“Luckily, most villains don’t think to shoot out my knees or my elbows,” he said, raising his arm to show Izuku where the fabric bunched up and gave way to something softer. “It’s the weakest part of my costume, but it keeps me vigilant. A good percentage of heroes leave the business due to joint damage and such.”

“And if someone manages to take out one of your joints?” 

Ghost bent his elbow. “Well, it’s a good thing I am temporarily employed to one of the best agencies in the nation. I heard they give their top heroes the best insurance packages for things like this.” 

“Yet, I’m told to keep my injuries low to not overwork our poor medical staff.” 

“I don’t think most people have a medical history that could wrap around street blocks.” 

Izuku scoffed in mock offense. “I get injured on average only two percent higher than regular heroes. However, I am involved in more than triple the casework. I think I’m allowed a couple injuries here and there.” 

“If you say so,” Ghost said, crumpling up his foil. “But I handled more cases than you last year and I had zero serious injuries to report.”

“Probably because no one keeps you accountable for your actions Mister, ‘I’ll talk to the police when I want to talk to them.’” 

Ghost tossed his wrapper into the bag. “I take it you’ve never been arrested before for doing your job, sitting in a jail cell to ‘learn my lesson’ was not a fun experience to say the least.”

“Wait,” Izuku leaned forward, tossing his own garbage in the bag. “What?”

“Some people take offense to small images spray painted onto buildings.” Ghost said, shrugging. “It’s not my fault they don’t appreciate good art.” 

Izuku’s next words caught in his throat as the comfortable purple darkness broke away to a hazy gray punctuated by a single ray of pure golden sunlight, which reflected across the storefront shops and lingering clouds. In the background, he could make out that Ghost was continuing to speak. Something about how the ghosts were signals, beacons. His muffled voice came in and out as if Izuku was repeatedly going up and down through choppy waves. It sounded a bit like death. A quick tug and Izuku would succumb to it entirely. 

“It’s Saturday,” he murmured. Technically, it had been Saturday for much of the night Izuku spent chasing Ghost and dealing with annoyed emergency dispatchers. A distraction to keep his anxieties to rest. Even sitting up here with a bag of twisted wrappers and half-empty cups had been enough of an interruption that Izuku hadn’t thought. He simply existed in a world where his only concern was getting to know the hero he was working with. 

It didn’t stop the pit from forming in his stomach. The repeated notion of I forgot, I forgot, I forgot, blasting him for being neglectful. Neglectful because every year prior, when other heroes went out to celebrate another year free from tyranny, Izuku spent it huddled in his room watching movies, which quickly turned to old video recordings of their class. It turned into him watching himself break every bone in both his hands while still feeling the phantom heat of fire as the world exploded. It was crying and wishing, missing Todoroki Shouto, but knowing he could do nothing about it. 

And yet this year, he had missed it. He had forgotten that he was supposed to spend the night in agony. The realization tasted pungent, deep regret lodged in the back of his throat. 

“Do you have a problem with Saturdays,” Ghost asked, matching their light banter from earlier. The gold band on the horizon expanded into a ray. Within the hour the sun would greet them, rising beside the buildings, a gifted messenger. 

Izuku swallowed and found his voice enough to be able to say, “No.” 

He felt Ghost, watching him. Those artificial blue eyes dissected his movement, studying his left hand as it fisted over his knee, while his right fingers danced along the concrete slab. He could feel Ghost take note of his stuttered breaths and shaky smile as Izuku turned to reassure him that nothing was wrong. 

Everything was wrong. 

Izuku used to be able to remember the sound of the small huff Shouto made whenever he found something amusing. It was never laughter, but it was the closest thing Izuku ever got, so it was priceless. Gone. Izuku, with only grainy pictures and a grainier memory, could no longer recall if he classified the blue in Shouto’s eye as cerulean, turquoise, or aqua. He could remember the itch of an argument in favor of one but could not say with any confidence which one had been right. Forgotten. It was Shouto saying, “promise,” but Izuku missing all the comments that accompanied it. A familiar song where he forgot the most important lyrics. 

“Midoriya?” A gloved hand was laid over the top of Izuku’s clenched fist. “Are you okay?”

yes. 

no.

The halfway point between two opposite spectrums, lost in the center.

“My best friend died today.” The effort it took to even whisper the words was close to sending him spiraling. Maybe if there was one less pressure grounding him to the rooftop where air conditioning units bellowed, and faint yellow light tried to find permanence between the gravel. Maybe he would have if a surprisingly warm hand wasn’t overlaying his own, a distracted thumb tracing circles to remind him that this was real. He was here.

“I’m sorry,” Ghost said, “I didn’t know. I thought everyone made it out of the fight.”

Izuku’s right hand continued to tap out non-transcribable messages. It made sense that Ghost would jump to that assumption. Hell, the whole week—month, year, Izuku’s life—was nothing but anticipation and celebration for one single fight. For the ultimate defeat of evil. He remembered children crying one day and cheering him in the streets the next with bright flags. Parades and banners. With this weekend’s confetti and posters, seven years later, it was easy to miss the things brushed away to mislabeled boxes in dark rooms.

Izuku took a deep breath. Somewhere below them a dog barked, insistent and chatty. 

“They didn’t die during the fight,” Izuku said after consideration. “They weren’t even at the fight, so people don’t know. They can forget something that didn’t happen to them.” Izuku’s brows furrowed, staring at the brick wall ahead of them. It was a ruddy orange, but the cement was stained black in the corner. He couldn’t tell what it was. “But I think I am. I think I’m forgetting.”

“Some things are meant to be forgotten,” Ghost said simply as if it was that easy. Tape up the box and leave it to storage. Only breach it every few years, each time deciding less and less needed to be kept from it.

“Not this,” Izuku said, “not him.” 

At that, Ghost was silent, contemplative, before saying, “You can tell me about it if you want.” Izuku didn’t risk a look to see if Ghost was watching him. “I think, sometimes, it helps to talk to someone. Someone who wasn’t there.” His thumb tapped twice, marking a freckle. “But you don’t have to. We can part ways and start another day. It’s up to you.” 

The eagerness to accept the latter got trapped behind Izuku’s teeth. At some point between staring at the police files and the funeral, Izuku had resigned himself to only being allowed to speak about Shouto during certain occasions. His name if breathed into a room, hung like a curse above his classmates who knew him, or worse, created confusion as people tried to associate a name with a face, coming to him later and asking “Endeavor-san?” As if Shouto had been nothing more than the youngest of four children in the Todoroki household. 

Ghost did not attend UA. He could not fear a name, and the person attached to it as his classmates did. And unlike the people in Izuku’s later life, Izuku could not see the sympathy in digital eyes, nor the quizzical quirk of a brow as someone tried to fit the pieces of a puzzle together. More so, Ghost was connected to everything. It was probable he already knew what happened to implode the Todoroki family. 

Ghost was almost perfect then. As if talking to a statue Izuku didn’t have to openly acknowledge he was speaking to.

“Do you remember the former hero Endeavor?”

“The flame hero? He had an impressive number of arrests. They rivaled All Might’s if I remember correctly.”

The practicality of the statement made Izuku’s breathing easier. Of course, Ghost would remember and care more about the numbers in relation to hero work than the grizzly newspaper splash, harsh with rainwater and damaged red feathers. 

“Yes.” Izuku’s eyes traced more of the cement. There was another black spot under a windowsill. “You probably know this, but he had a son. Well, he had several sons, and a daughter. But you probably know about his eldest, Touya, or, I guess, Dabi. He kind of helped destroy the foundation of hero society there for a bit, so it’s a little hard for society to forget about him. I think at one point he was out trending Pro Heroes in terms of how many people were talking about him. I,” Izuku swallowed, “I hated him. Endeavor wasn’t exactly stellar, but I knew he was trying to make amends with his family. Touya was upset, enraged with father, but his father wasn’t the one he targeted to enact his revenge.”

Izuku chewed his lip, giving enough of a pause for Ghost to ask,  “Did he succeed?”

Izuku started to shake his head, before stopping part way. There was always a note of uncertainty surrounding the topic. No one knew what made Shouto stand under that bridge of all bridges, holding a gun and watching the sunrise, letting orange flames crackle and snap until he was nearly no more, pulling the—It wasn’t something Izuku liked to dwell on, the path taken during the missing two years between bleeding asphalt and dripping ice.

“His name was Shouto. He was,” Izuku pursed his lips. Adjectives, fleeting and insufficient to describe who exactly Shouto was until out loud Izuku said plainly, “A pain in the ass, honestly.” 

Ghost made an abrupt noise. Almost like a laugh, though far too muffled under his mask. He pulled his hand away from Izuku’s to put it over his face as if forgetting the covering was even there. 

“I’m sorry—I wasn’t expecting.”

Unwarranted, Izuku smiled. Ghost had paused his useless gesture. His hand raised almost to his goal, but he stopped, in resolute terror, calculating every mistake that got him here on this rooftop with Izuku, to begin with.

“It’s okay,” Izuku said, turning back to the rising sun. “I bet he’d like you. He respected heroes that were no nonsense and just got the job done. Hell, in a different life he could’ve been breaking your hand in front of millions instead of mine.”

“He broke your hand?”

Izuku shook his head. “I broke my hand, but I only had to do it because he was being too stubborn.”—frosty air, the suffocation of coalescing oxygen, and an inferno brighter than any light Izuku had ever seen— “It was a defense mechanism, though. Like I said when I knew Endeavor, he was in the process of atoning. What I knew of him up until high school was that he wasn’t All Might, and he was a stick in the mud grouch who caused too much damage and tolerated no insolence. He was also a realist, who figured he’d never see becoming the Number One Hero himself, so he had children to do it for him. Shouto-kun was his prize, but he was so much more than his father’s attempt at a better skill-set clone.”

Ghost dropped his hand in his lap, but he said nothing else. Izuku continued, staring into the distance, instead of at his companion. 

“He was the type of person who would step off to the side and walk with someone if he noticed they were alone. He didn’t talk much, but he always listened—to everything. I swear one time— one time —I told him that my favorite popsicles were those frozen bananas dipped in chocolate and then two months later, we were at the beach, and they had an ice cream stand. It was the first thing he went to. I had thought it was because he had an insatiable sweet tooth—he wasn’t allowed sweets growing up; I think if no one tried to stop him he’d eat his body weight in candy and cookies—however, later when I noticed he was still sitting under an umbrella and not enjoying the water with the rest of us, I went to investigate. I was sort of worried something had upset him, and I wanted to cheer him up, but no, he wasn’t upset. He was sitting in the shade staring down at this chocolate popsicle as if daring it to melt on him—he had an ice quirk and a fire quirk by the way I don’t think I mentioned that. 

“Anyways it’s funny because when I sat down beside him, he turned his body to shield the treat from me, until he realized who I was. I asked him what he was doing, and he simply held out his arm to me and told me he wanted to make sure they didn’t sell out by the time I got done swimming. I offered to share it with him and he agreed, and Ashido-san—umm Pinky—said we were basically kissing. I couldn’t look at him the rest of the day because I was so flustered, but I remember catching him that night to thank him and noticing he got sunburned across his nose even though he spent so much of the day under that umbrella.”

“And then there was this other time,” Izuku started, no longer paying attention to how the first part of the sun had crested the furthest building or how the black gunk was probably mold, but hopefully it was just some type of dark plant stuck in shadows. 

He was only slightly aware of how Ghost had shifted from letting his feet carelessly dangle off the edge of the building to him pulling one leg underneath himself, so he could directly face Izuku. How he sat patiently and watched Izuku ramble as he waved his hands back and forth, talking about moving islands and stationary islands or how amazing Shouto was at fighting or negotiating and that time he convinced Kaminari that the moon was flat and that’s why they could only see one side of it. How Kaminari had short-circuited the apartment in his shock and Bakugou had fallen off his chair laughing. 

“It’s all very true.” Shouto had insisted. “Don’t you think it’s weird we stopped sending people to the moon. It’s because they might accidentally walk off the edge, and no one wants that.” 

The whole common room had erupted after that. 

Izuku couldn’t help giggling now, remembering how passionate Iida was fighting against Shouto. Only, Shouto had stoicism on his side whereas Iida did not. After thirty minutes Iida had fallen onto the couch with an exasperated sigh, which Shouto took as a win: the moon was flat. 

“But how did he explain the curved shadows,” Ghost asked, which had been the crux of Iida’s whole point. 

“He said that only proved that the Earth was round, not the moon.”

“And the sun?” 

“I’m sure if things had been different, he would have come to us with a presentation to show how that was flat too,” Izuku said, wiping his eye. “I don’t know if he believed what he was saying, or if he only did it because he wanted to make someone laugh. He was a good person.” 

“It sounds like you really liked him.” 

“Yeah, I loved him.” Izuku sighed. The sun was bright and golden, casting the clouds in tinted lavender and rose.

“Oh.” 

Izuku almost missed the response, how quiet it was. It took Izuku a moment to realize what he had said to earn it. 

“Crap. I’m sorry.” Izuku shook his head. “I’m making it sound like I was closer to him than I was. As if I was the most important person to him. I didn’t think I loved him at the time. Only after, way after, when I realized that whenever people describe the feeling of being in love with someone it usually fits the description of how I felt about him. And , in the few times I’ve tried dating, I always compare them to him, or I spend the night wondering what our first date would’ve been like as if I would have been bold enough to ask the Todoroki Shouto out on a date. I don’t know. It’s weird.” Izuku dropped his hands. “I mean, isn’t the past always more idyllic than the present? Of course, I’d idolize someone who’s trapped in a photograph.” 

“I think,” Ghost said, “that it’s probably not weird. People tend not to notice the most important thing, or people, in their life until that person is no longer there, leaving them with only lingering emotions—and guilt.”

“Yes,” Izuku said, turning so he was facing Ghost straight on. “When he first left, I couldn’t stand the unanswered questions and doubts. I had other things going on, but whenever I could, I’d search for him. I was going all over the nation and at every village or beach town I’d peer overtops of heads and try to spot a distinct shock of white or red. I don’t even know what I would’ve said if I had found him, only that—” Izuku took a deep breath. “I didn’t, and I’ve regretted it every day. I should have made it more apparent to him that he wasn’t alone, that someone cared for him, that someone still does. ”

It was Ghost's turn to spread his palm against his knee, squeezing it. The only sign that the other hero was certainly uncomfortable with the way this conversation had turned, and Izuku had been worried earlier about him finding out how Izuku had ended the previous mission.

However, when Ghost eventually did speak it wasn't to ridicule or a quick excuse to get away. Just a question as simple as that.

“And if you did see him today, would you tell him you loved him?”

“No,” Izuku said, “I couldn’t. I mean we’d be different people then we were in high school, and I wouldn’t want to scare him away by feeling too much.” Izuku rubbed his face, pressing down against his cheeks. “But beside that, what’s the use in pretending to have a conversation I know I’ll never have? It only serves to hurt me.” 

“I,” Ghost tapped his fingers along his thigh. He shook his head and restarted, “I’ve never tried to.” Ghost, tighten his counting fingers into a fist. “It’s not that bad if you write it. I did it as a letter once. It’s easier that way, maybe, not speaking per se, but letting the pencil do all the talking for you. There’s finality in being able to close off the feeling with a period instead of letting it linger in the air.” 

Izuku pictured his notebooks trapped in his office. The unfinished #73 where Izuku only blamed himself and apologized. He could apologize in a letter, but he could also say so much more. Everything he just told Ghost and a million other little things. He had already forgotten so much. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it sooner. A way to capture time in a quiet place.

“A letter?” 

“A letter,” Ghost confirmed. “It helped. My brother, he passed away when I was young. I never really got a chance to get to know him but writing it out made me feel like I was actually talking to someone, that it would get sent out, and there would be a person to read it on the other side.”  Ghost shook his head, “it’s silly, I’m sure you’ve already tried that.”

“I haven’t.” Izuku said, “no one, no one’s recommended me that before. They’re more concerned about me forgetting than me talking to a ghost.”

“There’s nothing wrong with remembering, from how you speak about him, I’m sure he never forgot you.”

“Would,” Izuku needlessly corrected, “he wouldn’t have forgotten me, which is a nice thought, but he did leave without saying anything. I don’t know how much I actually ever mattered to him at the end of the day.”

“Probably the world,” Ghost said with so much certainty it was like he knew. Like he had met Shouto once, at a bar maybe, and Shouto had told him every terrible secret there was to know. But the picture didn’t quite fit. The Shouto he had known, wouldn’t have been so blasé with his secrets, and Ghost, well, Ghost wouldn’t be so open with the idea that he had been one of the few people to talk to Shouto before his death.

The sun broke over the buildings beyond them. Ghost, maybe sensing Izuku’s questions, continued, “after all, it’s the same reason you ran away then too, right?”

Izuku blinked, suddenly self-conscious about a choice that seemed like the only correct one, years ago. The only way to keep his friends and family safe. “You know about that?”

Ghost chuckled, hitting the button on his mask so that it sat comfortably on his face. “Have you been ignoring the fact that at one point you were my favorite hero? Of course, I know about it, it inspired me.”

Izuku knew his actions had consequences. One choice to accept a quirk led to a class of scars and pain. No amount of placating about how it made them better heroes couldn’t change that. He knew he made people feel braver, knowing he had come from nothing—that anyone could be a hero. There was good and bad in every choice he made, something he couldn’t avoid. But to somehow be the cause for Ghost’s creation—

“You’re your own hero. You’re certainly better than whatever I was trying to achieve back then.”

“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit, Midoriya, but thank-you.”

Ghost let go of the side of the building. His tense shoulders relaxed. Izuku watched him for a moment. Ghost's resolve didn’t waver, but maybe that was the costume. A costume full of tricks and gadgets Izuku was enthralled to know more about but hid the man expertly underneath. 

He doesn’t need to be saved.

There was more to Ghost, Izuku was sure of that. There was a face underneath that mask and maybe he was glaring at the sun for producing another day, or maybe he was smiling fondly at it, thinking about a time when he was younger. 

Or maybe—Ghost caught Izuku’s gaze—maybe he wasn’t stuck in the past at all and Aizawa had been right. Perhaps Ghost was correct, and the first step to moving on was in saying goodbye—funny how Izuku had thought he had done that years ago.

“Hey, Ghost?” 

Ghost gently tilted his head. No quirked brow. No inquisitive hum. It was enough.

“Thank-you. For this,” Izuku said, gazing back towards the horizon, watching swaths of pink and orange clouds billow out away from the sun. “I think I needed it.” 

“Any time.”

Ghost probably didn’t mean the weight those words meant for Izuku. The open door they created, which Izuku didn’t ruin in the moment by asking if this meant they were friends now. If the underground hero would be okay with having two, or if this situation, this ease of conversation between them stopped the moment the mission was over. Izuku didn’t ask, but out of the corner of his eye, Ghost was looking to the horizon too.

Chapter Text

Between the sun and the moon, Ghost favored the moon. The sun, divine and hopeful, was an omnipresent weight on his shoulders. A panopticon, which searched for him in every valley and crevice. Brilliant distant flames to match colder, more concerning ones. 

The moon, on the other hand, was coyer with its light. Careful where it set down silver pathways, leading to forgotten white rose gardens and offered sanctuary in the form of shadows it helped to curate. Unlike the sun, the moon was indistinct and misshaped. A scarred presence to watch the night. 

Perhaps because the sun always wished to bless the hero far below, it had blasted the moon in its full light. A pale orb, which rose steadily unlike the stars around it that blinked into existence one by one as the moon became the only thing the sun had left to touch. In the morning the press would marvel at its beauty. How it was part of the proof that society was better. 

For now, it was only the moon. Large and quiet, unbothered when its light couldn’t pass the water tower Ghost stood next to, observing the people below him. 

The Night of a Million Lights was as crowded as it was every year. Its stage was set in the mouth of a park. When the hastily thrown-up curtain was pulled back, it was easy to see the plastic slides and swings. In front of it, blocks were closed off from traffic—not that anyone in this part of the city was disrespectful enough to drive through downtown. No, most of the residents were either standing in the crowd or watching at home via the news helicopters that circled overhead and the rows of roped-off reporters ready to sing praise the moment one of the heroes stepped off the stage. 

In the center of it all, Midoriya Izuku. 

Even at a distance, Ghost made out the way his hands were gesturing to the person he was talking to. By his height, Best Jeanist. Deku had been trending all day, along with a smattering of other notable heroes, but with the event minutes away from starting, their contributions to the event would dwindle. After all, one star did matter more amongst millions. 

Midoriya had arrived with a sunbeam smile and shook hands with people in the front of the crowd, joking, laughing, and celebrating the day. Completely different than what he had been like that morning.

In Ghost's ear precincts babbled, reporting safe streets underneath—another shooting somewhere east because while this area of the city could rest easy for the night, crime still lingered. Ghost was only hesitating on his inevitable return to form, to take the pause he took every year at this time to watch Midoriya take center stage to retell the story, myth, of what had happened seven years ago. 

Words didn’t make it to the water tower, but the animated movements by the orator down below sufficed. The story hadn’t changed. A regular day sent out to investigate a home with possible League sympathizers, coming across Shigaraki, who decimated three miles of the city before successfully being taken down by Dynamight and Midoriya’s combined strength. The quick check to see that they were winning. The resolve in being able to take the final step.

Midoriya never mentioned the screaming, the crying, or the urgency to move, move, move. But of course, he wouldn’t. The tale was already set. Victors didn’t hesitate. They didn't lose. 

Midoriya went ahead through hazy ash. He didn’t say that Bakugou fumed and cursed him out. He didn’t say how Uraraka had held back tears, gripping Iida’s arm so tightly it left a prominent bruise. He didn’t say how a dead man followed, no longer heeding authority—though why would he; he did not know. After all, the story was better that way. Only Midoriya in front of a monster, ready to win—ready to die. 

Down below Midoriya’s figure froze as it did every year. All for One was defeated. The city saved. A dead hero, lying in broken concrete, bleeding rivulets of thin red, staring, unseeing, at the sun held high above—because even in death, the sun still came to favor its warrior. He hated the sun that day. 

In countless interviews since Midoriya always stated he didn’t remember how he got from the epicenter of the blast to the paramedics. But he never was able to choke out the words here. Best Jeanist took over. He said what was accepted as truth. It added to Midoriya’s image. It made him powerful. To walk away from death, high on adrenaline—he was concussed—with a broken rib—which no villain would have caused as they begged for his heart to come back to him—to shout to the paramedics—help him, please, help, he’s dying— and to weakly smile up at them when they collapsed upon his wrecked figure. 

And absolutely never—  

“Where is he? Oh god—Bring him back. Bring him back to me!

“Shouto!”

Best Jeanist spoke of bravery and honor. 

The ceremony continued and Midoriya took center stage again. The candle he lit only a whisper of a promise. The second one, its mirror. One by one flames dotted the dark crowd, blinking into existence until there was a galaxy of stars, held on Earth. 

Ghost peeled back one of his gloves. His hands were near white under the moonlight, warming to a steady glow as a single blue flame erupted before cooling to a more manageable orange. It flickered before splitting into two. Ghost glanced back down below, seeking the hero in the center whose candle was held the highest .

For someone lost; for someone forgotten.

“How did you stop yourself from searching for them? Your brother,” Midoriya had asked, as they had climbed down the fire escape. “Because I do—all of the time. I can’t help but hope, or wish, that everyone was wrong. That Shouto's still out there.”

Ghost had answered with the truth; it wasn’t what Midoriya was looking for. 

“No, I guess you wouldn’t look for him,” Midoriya had said, “I think—I think I’m going to try.”

“Try what,” Ghost asked, landing on the cement after a short fall. Lying to himself in believing he wasn’t scared of the answer.

“To properly say goodbye,” Midoriya said following his movements. “To finally let Shouto-kun rest.”

If Ghost’s flame was the first to flicker out, there was no one but the shadows to see it. 

Katsuki wasn’t made for sneaking. He hated it. No self-respecting hero snuck around to get the job done. They went in fists up and blasted their way out. They left criminals in their wake, unconscious and defeated, and they most certainly did not ignore the crime they witnessed to be taken care of at a later date, no matter how insignificant that infraction might be. 

Yet, here Katsuki was.

Going to a bar nearly every night had proven inconsequential and almost one hundred percent useless. For being the leader of their team, Ghost’s strategy was proving to be null and void. How Deku hadn’t come to the same conclusion, he did not know. Surely, the stress of weeks on the job with nothing to show for it was getting to him. Katsuki knew, however, that Izuku would never confront the hero about this, and while Katsuki wanted to, each night after getting more and more not done, he knew he needed better evidence or else Izuku wouldn’t even entertain the idea of giving him audience to his worries. It was clear to Katsuki that all separating them prematurely had done, was give Ghost Deku’s ear and keep the two of them away from each other to collaborate on what they found. They were certainly too busy during the daylight hours to do so, and at night they were at different ends of the city.

It was frustrating. As much as Katsuki still agreed that he and Izuku needed to be apart and create healthy separation in their jobs, the turnaround as a result of it was too striking, unnatural even. He knew it wasn’t the mission's fault. They had been busy before, and Katsuki had always found time to check up on Deku and pick his brain whenever they came across a case too hard to deal with on their own. They were hero partners for a reason. The best duo in Japan for a reason.

“Get out of my way.” Katsuki was shoved forward as a man in a wooden mask lumbered past him. His palm warmed, but he didn’t march down the hall and push the man into the wall. Such action would defeat the purpose of getting him all the way here thus far. 

See, while Katsuki didn’t like sneaking, he was rather pretty good at it. While the men in the bars he had frequented didn’t offer anything of value in terms of the case and its constant blinking timer, they did offer other information that Katsuki could use.

Apparently, Ghost, ever-omnipresent and watchful, had gotten into people’s heads around here. There were whispers about him nearly everywhere, which wouldn’t have been so annoying if it didn’t seem as though those whispers were keeping some of the thugs in check. Katsuki didn’t particularly care for where Ghost came from—a topic of much debate—or how he had just taken down a group of twenty the other night down by the docks, or even why exactly these brutish men thought it plausible that Ghost could even take them down one day. All Katsuki cared about knowing was the man underneath the legend, which would tell him exactly why he had gone through the effort of stealing the virus in the first place but concealing it from being known by anyone else. Ghost had already proven he was a meticulous actor, Katsuki just had to out flank him before it came to his inevitable action.

It led him to talking with a rather boring group of streetfighters, who were quick to confirm that Ghost came from fight clubs, which got Katsuki thinking. While the so-called hero could have erased everything about himself once he took on the Ghost mantle, it was unlikely that the same precaution could have been succinctly erased from the fight clubs as well. Further, he was certain the clubs all kept records of wins and losses, and given the more illegal aspects of some of them, he could even begin to reason with himself that it was likely he would be able to find a paper trail somewhere.

So far, he hadn’t. But so far, he also hadn’t gone to the fight club that supposedly found Yokai before making him an internal star.

The gaudy mask he wore over his head kept every idiot he passed from giving him a second look. They thought him some new guy. Another one to beat to gain enough money for drugs or women or both. The whole operation was scummy. A place where people only cared about one thing: themselves. From personal experience, Katsuki found it unlikely that Ghost had grown out of the mentality. Too cocky, was he. Too obvious in his goading about how well he could keep a secret, how well he could pretend to be a hero. 

Distantly, the crowd roared, preparing for battle, and Katsuki tried not to smile when he saw a man dressed in a well-worn suit leave an office, talking to a smaller excitable man. Neither of them gave Katsuki a second glance, going down the hall and up the stairs to announce the evening's festivities. Katsuki grabbed the door before it fell closed.

The office wasn’t large. It couldn’t be. A desk, two chairs on either side of it, and an old monitor for a computer that had seen better days. Katsuki dropped the mask on the desk, walking around it to the filing cabinet shoved into the corner. He opened the first drawer and smirked. Of course, low-level villains and criminals couldn’t make things hard on the heroes that pursued them. Idiots who believed no one would ever come looking.

The files were sorted by years. The first drawer Katsuki opened, some fifty years back. He closed it and jumped three down. He couldn’t be for certain how old Ghost was, nor how young he was when he started. But thirty to forty years ago didn’t sit right with him either. There was no aged knowledge in Ghost’s actions, just instinct and hubris. The twenty years mark even seemed to push it, but he started combing through names, searching for Yokai. He found the folder in the just under the ten-year mark, which meant Katsuki was right, Ghost was younger. He pulled it out and opened it. 

Yokai

Wins: 486

Losses: 0

Name: Unknown

Age: Unknown

Gender: Unknown

Height: Unknown

Weight: Unknown

Quirk: Unknown

And in the square where there was supposed to be a picture, it was tactfully emptied. 

Katsuki could almost picture Ghost smiling with red eyes, leaning forward, and tempting Katsuki into punching him in the face with a, you didn’t think it’d be that easy, right?, No one knows who I am, least of all you. No one ever will. 

So, Ghost was clever. Katsuki already knew that. He had tricked all of the underground freaks into thinking he was one of them. He was wasting his and Izuku’s time on false leads and bar hopping so that his employers, whoever they were, could mass produce the virus and start a pandemic overnight. He had stolen that virus himself and had killed several people to do so. Katsuki had his suit to prove it.

His hands were getting dangerously hot. The folder was smoking near his thumb. He wanted to eradicate it outright. Erase Yokai from existence. He was stopped from doing that when the edge of another envelope caught his eye. It was smaller than Ghost’s but the name at the top was the same. Another Yokai. He shoved the original file on the top of the cabinet. Perhaps Ghost wasn’t as smart as he thought he was, and whoever he had conned into erasing his identity hadn’t been so honest with him as to do it outright.

Katsuki flipped it open, and immediately his quirk went quiet. A buzz rattled in his ears.

Yokai

Wins: 222

Losses: 0

Name: Todoroki Touya

Age: 27

Gender: Male

Height: 176 cm

Weight: 78 kg

Quirk: “Cremation”

“Fuck,” he whispered. Electric blue eyes tracked him from the picture, underneath greasy black hair. The smirk the man was wearing was unsettling cold as the metal stitches that held his face together. It begged Katsuki to remember a siren’s song to be back in the rain again and scream when he couldn’t reach Izuku before he fell, scarring his knees on the asphalt, breaking an already young agreement to make sure he kept Izuku safe. He closed his eyes and then reopened them, but the image below him didn’t dispel. 

Two Yokai’s and one of them happens to be Touya Todoroki? He closed the folder, shoving it back into its place along with the other. If Ghost had a connection to Dabi, he would find it. Hell, it wasn’t as if Dabi was a hard man to find. Izuku put him in jail years ago. Katsuki would just need clearance to go into Tartarus to talk with him. Given the villain's reputation to talk, if he did have a friend or an ally on the outside who had assumed his identity, Dabi would give it up willingly for a price. The catch, how big of a price that would be?

“Our next guest today is a UA alum, and current Number Three Hero, Deku!” Aki Destiny, the host of Hero One, yelled out to the cameras ahead of her. The studio audience cheered behind high-beam lights and a teleprompter, which paused as Izuku walked up on stage to the small couch beside Destiny’s desk. 

Unlike being accosted in the streets, live interviews had a sort of bubble around them. Something about the atmosphere, the live music, and the set of questions Izuku had already been asked, meaning he knew what to expect.

Destiny grabbed his hand, shaking it. As he sat, he didn’t miss how she “swooned,” falling back into her chair, which earned her a hearty chuckle from the audience. A show, nothing more. One smile at the correct camera and he’d be trending all afternoon. 

“It’s good to have you here Deku.” 

“It’s good to be here,” Izuku said, sliding up on the chair and angling himself so that it felt more natural talking to her. Even while Izuku preferred these cookie-cutter interviews and their performative nature, it was still awkward to hold a conversation with someone he couldn’t quite face head-on.

“Last time we had you here, you had just become one of the top five heroes.” As she said it, she showed a picture of a slightly younger him with a greener suit and possibly more charm. “How does it feel to be in the top three?”

“Surreal,” Izuku said honestly. “I never thought I’d make it this far before, and I thank my fans every day for putting me in a position that allows me to save the most people possible.” 

He and Ghost had stumbled upon a routine. Well, stumble seemed like an inadequate way to put things. Everything Ghost did was with a purpose, which included taking Izuku on long-winded jaunts around the city to watch him take down bad guys or, during one incredibly boring run, watch bad guys make plans to do worst things in the future. 

Izuku couldn’t complain, though, it was almost surreal how at ease he had taken to his new position as a silent observer. He couldn’t screw up while watching a hero do his job. He might not have been the one actively fighting, but there was a thrill in running through the night. In leaving cops behind to chase the next villain and shaking a can of spray paint for Ghost to tag a building, warning whoever saw it that Ghost watched these streets and would find whatever criminals would dare to stand against him.

“Well, we are certainly happy to bolster you into the spot,” Destiny said, “especially, after the incident that happened three days ago. At one point only thirty minutes from this very studio.” She said it as if she had been in direct danger herself as if she had been standing in the rubble. Regardless, Destiny lifted a card with a picture on it. At home, they’d probably cut to the photo entirely, but it was for the act of letting Izuku see himself in action.

“Tell me, what was going through your mind, when this walked into your patrol route.” 

Izuku laughed, rubbing the back of his head. 

“So,” Ghost had said, crackling to life in Izuku’s very private, and very secure, earpiece, while Izuku was finishing his lunch on a relatively boring afternoon patrol. “I may have a situation.” 

Izuku had calmly placed his sandwich back into his bag before asking, “What kind of situation?”

On the other side, Ghost swore and there might have been a roar. It was hard to tell.

“I was thinking about our arrangement. You give me tips to track, and eventually, topple the dark underbelly of our society, and I let you follow along so you can feel like you’re doing something.” Ghost paused, “Or rather so you can learn to trust the system—For fuck sakes.” 

This time it was definitely a roar. Izuku stood, searching the perimeter. People passed him on the street, smiling and waving. He returned the gesture, debating on getting a better vantage point. It was a clear day. Up high he’d be able to see for miles. However, turning to the north of the street he could just begin to make out what appeared to be smoke. Izuku jumped up. 

“Ghost?”

“As I was saying, we got ourselves a nice little arrangement going on. A, ‘I scratch my back and you scratch your back,’ type of thing.” 

“I don’t think that’s the saying.”

“And it’s been a rather slow week for you big-shot heroes, so why not gift wrap a giant monster and give him to my favorite Pro?” 

Izuku slowed, mouth falling open, struggling to comprehend what was ahead of him. It might have been a man with the head of a shark who had razor-sharp talons for fingers, and also happened to be seventy meters tall, waving around a tree that could have been a spoon in his tight grasp. 

“So,” Ghost said, appearing beside him from who knows where, “do you think you can help me out?”

Izuku nodded, debating how to tackle the situation. The pier wasn’t that far, but given the more aquatic elements of the villain, Izuku suspected that was where the man was hoping to go to disappear. It meant that Izuku couldn’t act like bait and lead him to a less densely populated area. It would put them at too much of a disadvantage. Hopefully, he just needed to contain the villain to the few city blocks he had destroyed and find a way to defeat him that way. 

“I'll need a police perimeter set ten blocks east and west, fifteen north, and to the pier, south,” Izuku headed for the monster, hesitating to ask. “You can do that, right?” 

Ghost was back in his ear. “Police have already been notified, but they put your perimeter a little wider. I don’t think they trust me.”

“Okay,” Izuku said, rushing back toward the villain, who had forgone the tree and was now waving around a car.

“They also are calling in every available hero. ETA 2 minutes for Earphone Jack, 3 minutes for Static and 5 minutes for Cellophane.”

The villain sucked in a deep breath before breathing out a plume of fire. Great. 

Ghost, unperturbed, “I’ll work on getting civilians. You handle him.” 

Izuku circled the giant, who had yet to notice him, thankfully. He looked for an opportunity to attack. “How did you even find this guy?”

The villain let out another plume of smoke, bellowing out what sounded like a threat to Ghost’s life. Izuku glanced over to where Ghost had disappeared around some buildings.

Ghost replied, “a special concoction of steroids and quirk enhancers.” Ghost said, “because trust me, when I found him, he was a guppy, barely came up to my knees. Kind of cute, actually, which may be why he’s upset with me.”

“You instigated the villain,” Izuku sighed, remembering all the lessons Aizawa had taught them, pointedly at Bakugou, about not irritating villains further. There was always something a hero wasn’t aware of, and if a villain was holding back, they wouldn’t once they made fun of them. 

“I instigated his boss. He just took it personally.” Ghost clarified, “there’s a difference.” 

Izuku shook his head, revving up Full Cowling, having Blackwhip at bay. He launched himself at the villain, landing a clean smash against the monster’s face, which snapped sideways. Izuku might not have had statistics for each of his takedowns, but he knew most people went down after that type of punch. 

The shark’s eyes rolled back, only for inky darkness to target him. He spat out a tooth about the size of a middle schooler and grinned. Izuku used Blackwhip to propel himself backward in the sky, just out of reach of the monster’s hands. He roared and charged. Izuku dodged sweeping arms while cursing that the giant was quick. 

Another fist came his way. Izuku caught it, though the monster was too heavy for him to flip, stagger, or move. The villain grinned, swatting his hand, which sent Izuku flying through a building and out the other side of it. He was seconds away from hitting the ground when a hand caught his arm. Ghost slid several meters down the fire escape he had attached himself to, still falling, until Izuku got his senses in order, and reapplied Float. 

“Not going so great?”

“Are you going to help me, or are there still civilians in the proximity?”

“Useless question then,” Ghost climbed up the fire escape, as Izuku continued to float up, ready to punch the villain again, hoping maybe the second time it would work. 

“Civilians?”

“Accounted for and away from danger,” Ghost said, stopping just short of the roof. “News helicopters flying at a fairly safe distance, though those idiots seem to forget death is an option when trying to get the best angle.”

“Not helping.” 

The villain was facing away from them and had taken the time to rip apart a building, sending cement and rebar, tumbling into the street, setting car alarms off, and deafening the air with sound. Izuku cringed, a second away from launching back towards the fray when Ghost stopped him. He held out his hand. 

“These might distract him.” 

Izuku accepted the wraiths. “They’re not going to work on him.” 

“Being bit by a mosquito is still annoying.” Ghost took a step away just as a news helicopter broke into view. “Fighting in the daylight isn’t really my thing, but I may have something to take him down. I just need to assemble it first.” 

Izuku clutched the wraiths, nodding. “How long?” 

“Thirty seconds.” 

The villain reached to topple another building. Even if civilian casualties were non-existent, people’s livelihoods were being destroyed. Izuku didn’t have the time to sit back and wait no matter how fast Ghost was. He catapulted back toward the villain, throwing three wraiths along his arm as it reached out to topple another building. They went off simultaneously, making the villain pause in his rampage to shake them off. Distracted, Izuku managed to punch him with enough force that it caused a gust of wind to tear through the streets, sending the debris of the previous broken building further away. 

The monster stumbled backward, shaking his head. Izuku didn’t give him the chance to reorient himself, going in for another hit, while throwing one more wraith at his thigh, hoping it would cause him to lose balance. It did, but not before the villain plucked Izuku out of the sky and shook him like a rag doll. His mouth opened again, and Izuku watched as his throat went from black to yellow to orange with sizzling heat. Izuku struggled against his hold, wincing, in his preparation for becoming a human barbecue. 

Only the villain howled, as something sharp stuck out of his arm. He dropped Izuku, who caught himself this time, watching as the monster swiped at his arm, ripping out a needle. He staggered and then turned, attention directly on where Izuku had left Ghost. Ghost, who was holding a small rifle, in the shadows, and was cursing again in his ear. 

The fire escaping from the villain’s mouth heated the air astronomically, while Izuku raced toward Ghost before the villain got close enough to attack the building he was standing on. Meanwhile, Ghost wasn’t paying attention to the lumbering beast, focused instead on ripping out whatever he had loaded the gun with. Izuku wasn’t yet close enough as the villain’s fist went through the building, causing him to shout. 

“You need to jump!” 

Ghost dropped the gun. He leaped as brick and mortar crumbled. The fire escape shrieked. Ghost grabbed, with far too much grace, a desperately thrown tendril of Blackwhip, swinging around to the backside of the villain. 

“Hey, Midoriya,” Ghost said, “do you think if I distract him enough you can get him to swallow this?”

Izuku grabbed the canister that was tossed up from him. 

“Distract him, how?” 

“You’ll also need to break it before he does,” Ghost said, ignoring him. “He needs to rapidly ingest it.” 

Izuku frowned, staring at the unmarked canister. Meanwhile, Ghost jumped, landing on the monster’s leg. The villain cried out, where Ghost had used his knife to secure himself to the monster’s skin. 

Izuku didn’t know if the next series of events were planned on Ghost’s part, or if the man was incredibly lucky. All he knew for certain was that the villain was stretching and reaching all over his body, trying to pluck Ghost off of him, who was jumping between limbs and stabbing where he went. Ghost escaping each time. Izuku knew it couldn’t last forever. He began to search for an opening between growling teeth and puffs of steam.

Ghost slowed, landing on the villain’s thigh. 

“Hope you’re ready with that thing,” he said. His sluggish movements gave the villain enough time to pluck Ghost off his leg. Raising him, he snarled and squeezed Ghost, before opening his mouth. Izuku’s vision tunneled as he launched himself forward. He couldn’t stop and think because surely if he did, he’d be telling himself this was absurd. A terrible plan meant to fail. 

The villain took a deep breath and Izuku passed through his opened mouth, shattering the cylinder against the monster’s teeth, and tossing it to the back of his throat. It popped open with a hiss before the gas exploded in a plume. Reflexively, the villain took a deep breath, swallowing most of it. Izuku turned, ready to jump out of his mouth once the villain started coughing. Only, it didn’t happen. Instead, the villain’s mouth closed, casting Izuku in near complete darkness, as the monster pitched forward, causing Izuku to slide towards razor-sharp teeth on an already rough tongue. 

Izuku went up, banging his head against the roof of the villain’s mouth, before sliding onto its moist cheek once it landed. The impact rattled its teeth, and Izuku had to sit there for a moment to collect his bearings before sighing and standing back up. He walked towards the wall of teeth trapping him in place. Bracing his hands on the top row, thankful for his gloves, he pushed up, slowly opening its mouth. 

This was the image Destiny was currently showing to her audience. Izuku in the mouth of a shark, holding it open, searching his surroundings, and finding no one. Jirou and the police would show up in a matter of seconds, well after Izuku had stepped back out into the sun, reeking of dead fish. 

“Seventy meters tall and you defeated him all by yourself,” Destiny praised. “When police arrived, they were easily able to give the villain a quirk suppressant that reverted the culprit back to his original size. Let’s take a look.” 

The following photo showed a man with a fish head and little else to compare him to his monstrous counterpart. Standing, he wouldn’t have come up to Izuku’s waist. 

“A little goldfish,” Destiny laughed. The crowd followed suit. “Now,” Destiny folded her hands. “On behalf the studio and myself, I want to thank you for your tremendous service in keeping us all safe; however,” Destiny winked to the camera, “what I’m sure my audience, and your fans, want to know is,” Destiny flashed another smile, “who was on the other side of this phone call, afterward?” 

Even though Izuku knew it was coming, he still blushed. The picture was of him, talking on the phone, partly covered by the shadows of the building he was next to. Rather boring, except for his expression. 

“I’m going to call that a successful test run. What do you say Sunshine,” Ghost said as soon as Izuku lifted his phone to his ear.

“I thought I was Shadow,” Izuku clarified.

Ghost made an inquisitive noise on the other end. Distantly, Izuku could make out the same sirens he was next to through the line. He started peering up at the skyline. “Shadow is what we call all rookies, but that term doesn’t really apply to you. You’re much too bright anyways.”

“Does this mean I get to do things in the future, or am I still regulated to manual labor.” 

“Depends on how much heat I get for accidentally setting a rampaging monster down the streets of Tokyo. It’s not exactly my finest work.” 

Ghost was standing three buildings to the left of the squadron of cop cars. He raised his hand when he caught Izuku staring. Izuku didn’t echo it, not really, only raised his left pinky out, before returning to properly holding his phone. 

“But,” Ghost continued, “it was fun, seeing you at your best. I’m sure the Commission is going to thank me for giving the rankings a shake up.”

“I don’t do this for my rank,” Izuku said, eyes falling back to the few police officers, walking around. The buildings that were destroyed were mostly empty office spaces. There’d still be damages, but the losses were zero. It was as close as Izuku ever got to a true win.

“I know, hero,” Ghost said. “I’ll be in touch. I may need to send another villain your way one of these days.”

“Maybe something smaller.” 

“Oh?” Ghost was no longer on the ledge. “I’m sorry my villain wasn’t to your exact specifics. You want something smaller?  The fire breathing wasn't an issue? Or the fact he was a giant wall of muscle who threw you through a building? Honestly, I’d be more relieved that he couldn’t fly. Could you imagine? A flying, fire-breathing, shark thing.” 

Izuku laughed. He couldn’t help it. Ghost was still talking in a mock serious tone about how he should have chosen a different guppy henchman to be today’s villain, and Izuku laughed harder. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to calm down. “You can send me as many villains as you want of all shapes and sizes. This was fun.”

“Okay, Midoriya,” he said softly, “I’ll see you around.”

It would be a while after he hung up before Izuku stopped grinning. 

“So,” Destiny said, “what we all want to know is? Who managed to snag Japan’s most eligible bachelor off the streets?” 

The audience cheered and hollered, anticipating his response. 

“I was only talking to a friend.” 

The unanimous boo rattled the sound stage. 

He gave a slight smile. “I’m a bit too married to my job for that kind of thing.” 

Destiny laughed, giving a not so concealed thumbs up to the camera. “You hear that ladies, Deku, is still available.” 

Izuku let his head fall back against the chair in mock exasperation. The crowd began to laugh again. Not too far out of his line of sight was the countdown, signaling that the interview was almost over. In accordance, Destiny began to thank him for his time on the show. 

“Hopefully the next time we’ll see you, you’ll be showing off your new ranking, Number One, perhaps?” 

Izuku chuckled, “perhaps. There’s still plenty of time between then and now. Anything could happen.” 

“Always so modest.” Destiny nodded. “Once again it was a pleasure to have you here Deku, thanks for stopping by.” 

Izuku nodded his agreement, while Destiny did a quick preview of her next segment. All at once the high beams went dim, and people flooded the sound stage. While Destiny was getting a touch-up, she thanked him again as he stood. In his pocket, his phone went off. 

Unknown Number: I apologize. I did not know the state of our relationship. I’ll bring flowers to our next meeting. Roses or Daffodils? I prefer Bellflowers, but I understand the difficulty in getting those in a bouquet. 

Izuku began typing out a response to Ghost, which stated quite clearly what their relationship was when someone called for him. 

“Midoriya!”

Izuku lifted his head, stopping right before Kirishima, who was wearing a toothy grin and a white headband, which held back his hair. He began to offer Izuku his hand when his eyes fell onto Izuku’s phone, retaking him.

“Ahh, man, I know we haven’t talked in a bit, but you hiding a partner from me? Come on now, I thought we were friends?”

Izuku pocketed the device, grabbing Kirishima’s hand. He went willingly as he was pulled forward into a hug. “I was being serious out there. There’s no one,” Izuku said, as Kirishima dropped his arms once again, studying him. 

“You sure about that? I mean I haven’t seen that expression on you since,” Kirishima cut himself off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean if you are single that’s cool, but if you ever get lonely, I have some buddies at my agency who probably wouldn’t say, ‘no,’ to your puppy dog eyes.”

“Or my ranking?” 

“Or your impressive muscles. Damn dude,” Kirishima said, seemingly distracting himself, squeezing Izuku’s bicep. “When did this happen?”

“Lots of lifting?” Aka, tossing Ghost into the air at a moment’s notice to get away from villains, cops, or both at the same time. On top of pulling himself through window ledges, and beams and then there was the nightly sparring, and his regular hero work, which was now blurring with his underground work, since Ghost liked to tread the line between urban legend and regular hero. 

Ghost, who had listened without judgment and hadn’t treated Izuku any differently after he knew.

Kirishima snapped in his face, brows furrowed. Izuku could hear his concern before the other even said it. Opting to ignore it, Izuku launched into his own question. 

“What are you doing here?”

Kirishima relaxed, putting his weight on the back of his heels. “Oh, I figured Kats would’ve mentioned something to you. I work here.” When Izuku didn’t respond, Kirishima continued. “It’s kind of a recent thing. I get paid to do interviews where I discuss how our friends take down villains. Like I pointed out how that Shark-man didn’t know how to properly walk at such a height, which caused a lot of stumbling when he was fighting you.”

“I thought they only gave those spots to heroes who were fifty or higher in the ranks?”

“Well, it’s not like I’ve been busy,” Kirishima shrugged, “Kaminari mentioned how fun it was to do regular interviews when he was stationed in Korea, and when my agency offered it to me,” he shrugged, “it’s not a bad gig. Honestly, I’m lucky you or Kats don’t have the time to do recurring segments then I’d really be out of a job.”

Izuku frowned. 

“Not that I’m complaining. If anything, it’s kind of nice not being stressed out all the time. It’s just not what I signed up for when I became a hero.”

“Yeah,” Izuku mumbled. Someone called Kirishima, gaining his attention. 

“I got to go dude,” he said, turning to the voice. “I’ll see you around. Okay? Maybe drinks soon?” 

Izuku nodded, watching his friend turn the corner and disappear. Izuku pulled out his phone, deleting the previous message about wholesome friendships. 

To Unknown Number: How fast can you get me the statistics on large-scale crime rates, the rates heroes are being paid, and the rate at which heroes are retiring?

Izuku had taken down the All Might mural to hang a whiteboard, which he was going to have to expand, giving its rapidly shrinking space. From his computer, a small projector was displaying figures along the far corner, which he was transcribing. 

“Is that all?” Izuku called over his shoulder. At his desk, Ghost was sitting between an empty cup of ramen and a water bottle. 

“You’re missing a zero after ‘white-collar crime,’ but otherwise I think you’re good.” 

Izuku added the zero, taking a step back to observe his work. “How is no one talking about this?” 

It was rhetorical. Ghost remained silent. In fact, the other hero had been rather quiet the whole evening, giving Izuku any and all information he requested, switching between hard facts and news articles. 

“Crime was supposed to be down.”

“This isn’t your fault,” Ghost said. “And it is down.”

“Not where you operate, or cases that are so mundane they are left to the police.”

Izuku didn’t need to turn to know that Ghost had shrugged. “In terms of crimes heroes stop, actual heroes, where villains damage the most property and pose the largest threat to society, it is down. It’s a great achievement.”

“But,” Izuku said, eyeing the chart and the graphs. The correlations. “How do we explain how in these sectors,” drug trafficking, weaponry sales, gang-related problems, “have gone up incrementally? It’s not a large factor, but still, it should be coming up on the Hero Commission’s radar. Because of that alone, there shouldn’t be a reason why heroes are retiring, quitting, or in some cases being fired. Obviously, there is work for them. The number of active-duty heroes hasn’t been this low since the rise of heroism as a profession. It’s.” He shook his head. “Absurd. Especially when there’s work that needs to be done.”

“I agree with that, but you wouldn’t have had me look up all this information for no reason,” Ghost said. He was tapping a pen at his desk. “Not if it didn’t involve the case in some way.

“You already know the answer to that.” 

“I have my suspicions,” Ghost agreed, “but I’m not exactly the hero who gets along with everyone. They would discredit me out of hand.”

It was crazy. Not all heroes were altruistic. Izuku knew that. He had been forced to contend with that fact when he was much younger, and the sanctity of the Number One Hero position had been put in peril. However, there had been reforms. Better management of heroes and agencies. This type of thing wasn’t supposed to exist. Working heroes had to be inherently good, had to work for a just cause, had to believe in the system they fought for. 

Izuku dropped the marker on the edge of the board and walked back over to Ghost. “Can you pull up the number of heroes who were considered demoted in last Fall’s rankings?”

Ghost didn’t question it, pulling up the correct file on the computer. It sputtered to life on the projector. The ranking system was flawed. Everyone knew this. It was originally nothing more than a publicity stunt for the Hero Commission, but it was turned into something people based their livelihoods on. Izuku had sat through countless meetings about how if he just saved a percentage more people he'd be the Number One Hero and the increased salary that went with it. They were never pleased with his answer to their suggestions on how to better himself. A fact of which meant he was probably due for a meeting with the President of the Hero Commission soon. While Izuku had done his part to maintain his public hero persona, he was sure according to them it was slipping. It didn't matter. Certainly not now. Not facing this. 

“Now, the number of heroes who had to take on a second job or changed careers after that.” 

“It’ll be a moment.” Ghost said, before clicking away at the computer. It almost cleared the top ten. Kirishima came up as the first error, followed by Kaminari somewhere in the twenties. Until where it had once seemed rare for demoted heroes to quit or find secondary employment, the lower someone was in the ranks the more likely it was to occur. Before Izuku asked, Ghost halved the list, clarifying, “the number of heroes who claim some type of secondary employment but do not report what that employment is. Should I expand into the top 150?”

Izuku studied the list with his hand under his chin. He walked over to his desk, waking his computer up to search for a notice, sent almost ten months ago.

“If you were a villain organization,” Izuku started, pulling up his email and typing. “And you needed a hero to infiltrate an organization for you. It would be easier to get it done if that hero already had some credentials, right?”

“Yes. In theory, a corrupt hero, who could walk into any building and simply ask for whatever the villains wanted, or at least give them access to an area where a hero could install a program or virus without raising suspicion would be preferred. An intern or sidekick wouldn’t be afforded that,” Ghost said. “However, most agencies have contingencies for that very thing. While I might have been able to break your security, any regular, untrained, hero would not, or at least not without several flags popping up, betraying them. They'd be caught and arrested before the villains could even think about moving onto the next stage of their plans.”

Izuku bit his lip and scanned the names one more time. “But what if they weren’t trying to hack or infiltrate an agency covertly?” The email in question popped up on his computer. “It’d be easier to get a hero inside once a place was threatened, and most places give heroes unlimited access when they’re scared of a threat. No one would look twice what a hero would ask for or look for.” 

Ghost stood up, walked toward Izuku, and then leaned over his shoulder, reading the memo quickly. 

“Shit.”

He glanced over at Ghost. “Why else would the Institute for Natural Diseases ask for heroes to come into their facility and safeguard what’s little more than a flu shot?”

Ghost was already typing on his gauntlet. “You’re not thinking a hero is the one who broke in once they figured out the floor plan?”

“No, but it would have been easier for them to swipe blueprints of the institute. The villain was prepared when he entered. They knew exactly where to go and who would be there, and there was no suggestion that the place was hacked beforehand for the villains to go over it ahead of time. Someone on the inside giving them access would have been the only way they knew.”

"It could have just as easily been a scientist, janitor, or some other worker already on the inside." 

"You would have already flagged an employee if you thought they were our lead." 

Ghost nodded. Izuku wondered if under mask Ghost was biting his lip, pulling at it with his teeth as he furrowed his brow. He hoped that he was. Hoped he wasn’t the only one standing in this room with an elevated heart rate and the sense that he didn’t want to know what Ghost had to say next. 

It didn’t take Ghost long to finish. 

“Okay, the institute capped those who could apply for the position for guard duty at rank 100. Of those chosen, there were eight,” he glanced back up to their list. “Six of them dropped rank last year.”

Izuku pulled out a notebook and a pencil. “Okay, and they are?”

Ghost sighed. “You’re not going to like some of these names.”

“If they’re assisting villains—a villain who wants to eradicate life—it shouldn’t matter what I want to see. If they lead us to our villain, it’s what we need to do.” 

“If you're sure about this,” Ghost said. “Kuroiro Shihai, Tauchi Rayuki, Haruki Suzaku,” Ghost took a deep breath. “Sato Rikido, Ojiro Mashirao, and," another pause, “Kirishima Eijirou.”

Izuku’s pen bled on the last line, but he shook his head, spelling out the final name. 

“Okay.” Izuku. took a deep breath. “Okay. Now how do we go about proving they are all innocent, and this hunch is inconsequential and I'm just being crazy?”

“You’re not insane, Midoriya.” 

“I’d rather be, then.” Izuku frowned, staring at the names below him. He knew almost every one of them. They had worked together. Izuku couldn’t call most of them his friends, but he had been amicable with them. To even begin to think that one of them was approached by a villain, and then agreed to the villain’s demands to make an extra buck, it twisted Izuku’s gut. He wanted to shut the notebook entirely and shove it deep in his desk and not think about it or pull it out again. It was ludicrous. 

Ghost stood and began to pace in front of Izuku’s desk. He didn’t comment on how Izuku was twisting his hand over his knee and fighting back terror. He spoke evenly with a goal in mind. 

“It’s going to be hard for me to get close to any of these heroes. The moment I talk to one of them, is the moment I’m outed. And there’s too many of them for me to be able to follow them and hope I stumble across the information we need.”

“Kacchan and I went to school with four of them, it wouldn’t be out of the norm if we talked to them.”

“Do you really think Dynamight is going to take it well if we imply we’re suspicious that his boyfriend is working with the enemy?”

“So, we don’t tell Kacchan about Kirishima-kun. I—” Izuku bit his lip. “I shouldn’t follow him, either. He knows me too well, and if he did do it, I’d give myself away immediately. If he's still communicating with them, he would out us to them, making them harder to find ourselves.”

“I understand.” Ghost said, “I’ll take care of Red Riot. But that still leaves the other five. We need to make sure any encounter you two have with them seems natural. It will help if it’s at an event already staged.”

Izuku bit his lip, pondering. It would help if it wasn’t somewhere super obvious. He didn't regularly see most of them and to all of a sudden coordinate his schedule with them, so he could happen to come across them during patrol seemed risky, especially given there was no guarantee he’d even come across them. Throwing an impromptu reunion also seemed suspicious, and as it stood it would only guarantee them interacting with four suspects. Actually, interacting with them at all as he was, was a potential risk. They might be served better in disguises. 

Therefore, they needed to talk to them at a place where the other heroes would feel unguarded. Somewhere they felt like they could get away with being lax. He snapped his fingers. 

“Another fight club? Ojiro-kun said he was a fighter once.”

Ghost pondered it, walking back toward Bakugou’s old desk, and clearing papers. “We risk Ojiro recognizing you if we approach him there. Regardless, it’s a good lead for where we may find the others. It’s decent money. Easy money if the fighter is well trained. Besides, if our villain is meeting at fight clubs instead of bars, we might be able to correlate the other parts of our investigation. It’ll take me time to set up a meeting. However,” Ghost lifted a piece of paper. An invitation. “All top sixty-five heroes are invited to the Summer Hero Gala. For lower ranking heroes, it’s all but certain they will attend for the press.”

“The Gala’s a little over a month away. Do we have time to wait that long?”

“It gives us time to scout out the fight clubs first. If our traitor is among those people, minus Ojiro and Kirishima, our case is closed. But if they aren’t—

“It’s the perfect cover for me to intercept.” Izuku said. “Plus Kuroiro-san and Rikido-kun will be there too if we don’t find information on them prior.”

“It would be foolish to ignore it.” Ghost agreed. He headed toward the whiteboard and started erasing it. 

“Wait.” 

Ghost paused, blue eyes, staring back at him. 

“What are we going to do about that,” Izuku asked, inclined his head toward the board. “If one hero is possibly a traitor for this case, who’s to say there’s not more elsewhere. Not to mention, this is something the Hero Commission needs to know about, so they can properly begin to allocate resources to try and fix the issue. Hero’s shouldn’t need to be taking on second jobs to make ends meet. There’s plenty of work right here.”

Ghost finished wiping off the board, despite Izuku’s protests. He didn’t face Izuku when he said, “they already know.”

Izuku thought he misheard him and forced himself to believe that he had. 

“What? They need heroes to work or else they don’t get paid. That makes no sense.”

Ghost sighed. “The Hero Commission created it—in part. I try my best to help slow it down, but," Ghost shrugged, "they are the powers at be."

Their society wasn’t perfect. Izuku knew that. He grew up facing that problem head-on. But it had gotten better. It was better. The Hero Commission was supposed to have changed. They weren’t supposed to ignore, or exacerbate, an issue for their own benefit. They were supposed to be heroes.

“Are you doing anything tomorrow,” Ghost asked, softly.

“You know my schedule.” Izuku said. “You knew that the Hero Commission have been aware of this problem and haven’t done anything to stop it?”

“It’s not that simple.” Ghost said, “I’m not impervious, and the Hero Commission is large, outside our jurisdiction for the case. Just, I need you to trust me.”

Izuku searched Ghost, made harder by everything about the hero. He was right. Their mission was a villain threatening to kill thousands, not whatever was wrong with the Hero Commission. Izuku couldn’t punch his way through both of them. It required patience. Always patience.

But he didn’t have to like it. 

He scowled, staring at his desk. “Where do you need me to meet you tomorrow?”

“Midoriya.” 

Izuku stood, “I’m going home, okay? Just text me where you want to meet up, and we’ll sort this out then, alright?” 

Ghost didn’t try to stop him. He nodded and finished cleaning up the room. Izuku almost wished he did, follow Izuku home so that he could explain in succinct detail what it was the Hero Commission was hoping to accomplish by reducing the number of heroes working the field while simultaneously letting villains and other criminals reforge alliances and gain power. The only outcome Izuku saw from it was death. Needless destruction. 

But if it was as dire as Izuku felt that it was, he had to trust Ghost would be acting on it more aggressively. He wasn’t stupid. He had no alliances, especially not with them, nor did he need them in order to get paid. Besides, the elevator dinged, granting him entry to the lower floors, if anyone was trying to stop the crime that was so clearly growing, it was as Ghost had already said, it was him. 

Chapter Text

Izuku anxiety-ate bag of chips on a street corner. He had his hero costume on underneath a sweater, but he didn’t quite know what Ghost had to show him. The chips were stale on his tongue, flavorless. If his sleep schedule had been messed up before, last night was abysmal. He already knew corporations were fallible. He had seen that with Power Orion, but the Hero Commission was supposed to be different. 

He asked Best Jeanist to hold a meeting with him for the next day. Even if the Hero Commission didn’t want to do anything, their agency at least could begin allocating sources to solve some of these issues. If he reached out to Hawks and Bakugou, they’d have the two biggest agencies redirecting their fronts, circumventing the Hero Commission for the time being. 

And then what? Izuku wasn’t foolish enough to believe his little exposé into the working of underground heroes, gave him enough insight to be able to topple the whole organization—not that he wanted to destroy it. It did serve its purpose. How many people had told Izuku just that in the wake of All for One? It had made him sleep easier then, knowing it wasn't all on him to change it. However, if the top heroes, started applying pressure now, they’d have to change. 

Right?

It was a mess. No solution with a permanent fix.

“You are lucky today’s my day off,” Ghost said from the shadows. “You’re in no position to start fighting.”

“Long night,” Izuku said, crushing the finished bag. “What exactly are we doing today?”

“Meeting some friends,” Ghost said, shouldering a bag. “If you’ll follow me.”

Ghost went deeper into the alley. Izuku followed, tossing the bag in a passing dumpster. Ghost didn’t offer any more clues about where they were going, leaving Izuku a few steps behind him, dodging trash and murky puddles. They kept to the side streets. Izuku wasn’t certain if it was because it was the fastest way to get where they were going or if Ghost naturally avoided direct sunlight. But then again, the cracked cement they walked over did have light, it was only distant, kept behind contemplative buildings. 

“Stay here,” Ghost said, stepping under a wire fence, keeping pedestrians away from the underpass. Izuku listened, crossing his arms, awaiting some sort of signal for what would occur next. A drop? A rendezvous with a vigilante? A villain? 

Ghost walked until he was in the middle of the small, graveled area, dropping his bag to the ground and digging into it. Izuku couldn’t make out what he pulled out, but he did hear the quiet bird call, which caused the shadows to move and approach. 

Ghost sat cross-legged on the ground, awaiting them, palms up as one by one children stepped out into the limited daylight, hesitantly approaching him. Six in total, varying in age but the youngest may have only been six. The older ones broke into grins as soon as they confirmed the man sitting in the center, greeting him. Ghost bowed his head to all of them, which made the children giggle. Two noisy ones went for his bag, which caused Ghost to laugh, pulling it into his lap. He gave the item he already pulled out to the two eager children, who grabbed it, shrieking and stepping away to play with their prize. 

With the other’s distracted Ghost, sat up on his knees and spoke quietly to the children ahead of him. They all nodded simultaneously. It was with their permission, it seemed, that Ghost turned back to where Izuku was hiding and called, “you can come out Sunshine.”

Izuku nodded to himself, before stepping under the fence, following the other hero’s steps. Ghost was talking to the kids, but one by one they stopped listening mouths slackening, as they realized who was approaching them.

“Ghost-san,” a girl with two horns said, “you didn’t say your friend was Deku-san.”

Ghost chuckled. “Rin, I told you I had powerful friends. It’s not my fault you didn’t believe me.” Izuku came to a stop just shy of the group, unsure. Ghost didn’t pick up on it continuing, “Midoriya, meet Hina, Reki, Akira, Rin and,” he pointed to the two little boys, “Nagi and Niko.”

Izuku shuffled, bowing his head, and greeting the kids, who sat quietly for two seconds before they were shouting, abandoning Ghost to crowd around Izuku, asking him more questions than he could keep up with. By the way Ghost regarded them, it was intentional as he set to work, pulling more equipment out of his bag.

“Reki and Akira,” Ghost said, interrupting the children after a moment, “Why don’t you show Deku the moves you were working on.” 

“Really,” the pair said in unison. Both with matching hair and eyes. Ghost nodded and the boys squealed, each grabbing Izuku’s hand to drag him a bit away from the others. Izuku let himself be led away by the twins, who abruptly stopped, bouncing on their heels.

“We’re going to be heroes,” Reki said. 

Akira nodded, “like Ghost-san. We’ve been practicing. Do you want to see our quirk?”

Izuku risked a glance back at Ghost who was talking with Rin who stood at rapt attention. Hina was behind her, patiently waiting. The two little boys, laughing just beyond them over their toy. He retook the twins. 

“I’d like that.” 

The boys’ quirks worked in tandem with each other. They could pass an object between them, demonstrated with a rock. One of them dropped it into their palm, for it to appear in the others. It was fascinating to watch, but the kids weren’t as interested as Izuku was in the dynamics and application of their quirk. 

What they wanted to do instead was show Izuku all the moves they had been working on. High kicks and low jabs. Concise footwork, for children, and mock spins to take out villains. All with furrowed brows and serious faces, which melted into laughing fits the moment one of them tripped or punched the air in the wrong spot.

Shortly thereafter Rin came, bounding to them holding a stick. She stuck it out and waved it in front of Izuku boldly declaring that it was a gift from Ghost. 

“Does Ghost-san make you gifts too?”

“I don’t think I’m cool enough for anything Ghost can make,” Izuku said. 

“Nonsense,” Rin said, waving around her stick. A purple substance came out the top of it. “He made Akira a toy once and he’s super lame.”

“Hey!” Akira shouted, going to attack her before she waved the wand. As soon as one of the bubbles hit him, he started to float. Based on his reaction Izuku assumed it was normal happenstance, but Izuku still grabbed him before he began to go too far.

“See!” Rin said, as Blackwhip deposited the boy back on the ground, “you’re super cool. Ghost-san would love to make you something.”

“He’s not that cool,” Akira said, his brother quietly agreeing. It sparked mischief in the little girl’s eyes, and suddenly three children were staring at him. Izuku tentatively raised his hands, resisting the urge to back away from them.

“I bet he can prove it to us,” Rin said.

“Yeah.” The duo agreed. 

“Prove it how?”

“A fight!” All three kids cheered. It got the smaller kids’ attention too, pausing with their toys to stare at the group before going back to what they were doing.

“I don’t know,” Izuku said, glancing back to Ghost, hoping that the other hero was paying attention and would intervene. He was not. He was on the ground with the contents of the bag splayed out next to him. Hina sat across from him, furrowing her brow, and staring at her hand. 

“Come on,” one of the kids whined, “just for a little?”

Izuku retook them. “We’re only going to play—okay? It’s not a fight.”

The clarification didn’t faze the kids and that was how he found himself on the ground after an eight-year-old kicked his knees in, which was how the twins let him know they could pass living objects between them too. Rin’s quirk let people float if they stepped on the bubbles, which she could grow with the wand. A distraction as Izuku spent much of their “fight,” trying to catch children as they jumped between them, missing often because they were kids, and kids had no reason to fear actual danger.

Izuku was ready to believe they would never stop giggling until Rin froze, eyes wide and mouth slacked. It spread to the others, causing Izuku to turn with a boy under his arm, his brother on his shoulder, and Rin between his leg. 

Ghost was on his knee palms raised, not holding Hina’s hands but ready just in case. She was gripping a white-hot lightning bolt, shaking, but grinning as her eyes darted between it and then back to Ghost. As if she needed to reaffirm what was in her gloved hands. If he didn’t the other kids, certainly did. 

“Hina, you did it,” Rin said, darting from under Izuku’s legs. “Your quirk works!”

The boys scrambled to get off Izuku, rushing to their friend, only cautioned by Ghost’s arm springing out to keep them a meter or so away. The kids listened, bouncing on their toes. Even the little kids had stopped playing their game, approaching the light show with awe. Izuku did too, quiet, waiting. 

Certain that the kids weren’t going to move, Ghost dropped his arm, retaking Hina’s hands, but not quite touching them. 

“Okay, let’s see if you can put it back now.”

Hina nodded. With a determined look, she grabbed the lightning bolt with one small hand and opened her other hand flat. Slowly she pushed the tip of it into her palm and, just like that, it disappeared into the black material.

“Does it hurt?”

Hina shook her head, her smile widening. “No!”

Ghost nodded. “That’s good, let me see your palms.” 

Hina did as she was told, and Ghost inspected her hands. Carefully checking the back and front for any damage. 

“They held up,” he said, retaking her face, “are you sure it didn’t hurt? Not even a little?”

“Nope,” Hina said. If Ghost was going to ask any more questions, she cut him off, throwing her arms around him and squeezing. It was the cue the rest of the children needed, and they were collapsing onto Ghost too. Hugging Hina, with a litany of questions about her quirk and the new gloves, and the other few goodies Ghost had finished giving to the children. Toys mostly, but the children were ecstatic. All frantically trying to get Ghost’s attention with what they had and could do. Ghost, ever patient, listened to each of them, correcting Akira’s form, or recommending Rin a different way to hold her wand. Hina sat beside him, silently creating small bolts of lighting, and then vanishing them.

Eventually, Izuku sat down too, once it was apparent the kids no longer cared about him. It wasn’t bad. In fact, besides fighting, it was the most relaxed Ghost ever appeared to be. He laughed, covered by the mask sure, but actual laughter, goading the twins into fighting each other instead of him, making them less reliant on their quirk.

“Deku-san?”

Caught up in the fight, Izuku hadn’t heard the youngest of the kids approach him, clutching a green-clad hero in his hands. The kid didn’t say anything else, nodding to himself before crawling into Izuku’s lap. Izuku froze as the kid curled up and closed his eyes. The Deku action figure held tightly under his chin.

“Niko, you can’t take a nap on Deku’s lap,” Ghost called. Niko grumbled, shaking his head into Izuku’s knee.

“It’s okay,” Izuku interrupted before Ghost reiterated his statement. He offered Ghost a smile, who, after a moment to study it, accepted it and turned away. 

The afternoon waned on like that, each child clamoring to fight against Ghost or to ask him something about their quirk. The twins wanted to try to teleport him, but Ghost was adamant that they couldn’t move that large of an object yet. He convinced Hina to throw a small bolt of lightning across the graveled parking lot, which struck the ground in a flurry of light, eliciting cheers from the rest of the kids. 

Izuku was disappointed when Ghost straightened completely, brushed his pants, and called it a day. The kids booed as Ghost promised he would be back soon. Niko pushed himself off of Izuku’s lap, waving a “bye, bye,” to Izuku before he was collected by the other children. All of whom waved, and then returned to the shadows.

Once the kids were gone, Ghost started picking up the remaining contents of his bag. Various gloves and other things Izuku couldn’t quite make out before it was zipped shut. He placed it on his shoulder, turning to Izuku and asking, “you ready to go?” Izuku nodded, raising from the gravel himself, and following the other out. 

Ghost didn’t keep to the ground this time, jumping and grabbing a fire escape a couple of blocks down. He hauled himself up the stairs, and Izuku jumped, following suit as they silently made their way up the side of the building. At the top Ghost didn’t stop walking until he was next to a small advert for perfume, tossing his bag down before leaning against it, taking in this part of the city. 

It wasn’t as glamorous as the center of Tokyo was, with its sparkling buildings and never-ending parades of neon flashing lights. It was quieter. People’s homes, not yet home.

“I’m sure you’re wondering what the point of all this was,” Ghost eventually said, voice unencumbered by the voice modulator in his mask. Izuku was once again struck by how soft-spoken the hero was, even if his words were muffled under the metal piece.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” Izuku said, sitting down opposite Ghost and crossing his legs. “Yesterday, I was out of line. I shouldn’t have charged you with being able to fix the problems of the Hero Commission. You’re just a hero, limited like the rest of us.”

Izuku shouldn’t have needed a night of steady research to prove that. Being mad at Ghost for being unable to fix every part of society was like being mad at All Might for not saving everyone with a smile. It was Izuku’s fault for putting a burden on them that no man could ever live up to. 

“But I could be doing more,” Ghost said, “if I truly was just like the rest of you.”

“I don’t know,” Izuku said, truthfully. If Ghost had gone to UA, he’d have excellent control of his quirk, and most likely be in the top fifty rank pros—top ten, given his skills. More heroes besides Izuku, and the few underground heroes who knew, would recognize him for being a hero. But if Ghost had gone to UA, then—Izuku shook his head—then he wouldn’t have been there for the children now.

“How did you come up with the idea of gloves for Hina-kun?”

Ghost’s shoulders rose and fell. It was his turn to move closer to Izuku. 

“Can I see your hand?”

Izuku gave him his left hand, not nearly as gnarled as his right. He didn’t dwell on the choice as Ghost took the glove off his own left hand, exposing long, unscarred fingers, warm to the touch when they grabbed Izuku’s offered palm. He put the glove on Izuku. Hesitant. One finger at a time, making sure to get it just right. It wasn’t a snug fit, but he recognized their dexterity when he moved his fingers.

“I need to show you something,” Ghost said, pulling back his hand from Izuku. Their knees touched, and Ghost cupped his palms, one bare one not. Izuku wasn’t sure what he was waiting for until Ghost’s left palm began to glow, began to warm. 

Ghost’s quirk.

“When I was younger, there was a time when I didn’t want to be a hero.” A golden flame erupted on his pointer finger. Delicate. It bent when he placed it onto his gloved hand. It caused them both to glow orange. 

“My older brother on the other hand, did. His quirk was stronger than mine. More potent. Abrasive. He wanted to save people with a fiery explosion. He probably would have.” 

Ghost made a loop with the fire and then another. A series of tampered ovals, overlapping one another in a circle. 

“Elemental quirks aren’t uncommon and as the generations pass, they compound on one another, growing stronger each time. It is theorized that people could control this progress, make a being with none of the weaknesses of the previous generations, but all of the benefits. A perfect quirk.”

Izuku's stomach clenched. But he did not move away. Did not betray his uneasiness. It was a common story after all. The fall of a Number One Hero, his villain son. The treasured one. 

Ghost started a second circle of ovals above the others. An intricate, bleeding, flower.

“What these people didn’t consider, was the damage such beliefs had on the psyche. How in their pursuit of the perfect hero, they’d create a villain tossed to the side without care.” The flame sputtered. Ghost continued. “My brother wanted to be a hero, but he was killed by the doctrine the Hero Commission celebrated, and the hero, Endeavor, exalted, by a villain I swore I’d defeat but never could.” Ghost’s hand wavered. A mistake in a petal before he moved on. “I should thank you Midoriya, without you I probably would have never become a hero.”

“What do you mean?” Barely asked above a whisper. Izuku couldn’t hear his own voice above the blood rushing in his ears. Above the way yelling sounded when it was broken. The way a man echoed it, standing on a bridge over a rushing river, begging to be taken out to sea.

Ghost sighed, twisting another petal of flame. 

“My brother was killed by the villain Dabi. He killed several people, including his father,” another petal, “potentially his brother.”

He was my baby brother.

“The other victims didn’t matter much to me, not really, insignificant tools I used to trace the villain's path. A young hero that didn’t care if he crossed into the path of villainy if it meant he got his final retribution. Because I hated him, I hated him so much for destroying my family, and I wanted revenge.  I didn’t want to save anyone. I wanted answers, which I would get, and end it all in a violent inferno once I encountered him. The only ending people like us deserve.” Ghost paused. The flower sat in full bloom, sparks coming off of the tips. “And then I saw you.”

Ghost tilted his gloved hand, and the flower slid from his hand to the glove Izuku wore. Izuku prepared for it to burn fast before it disappeared, no longer attached to the source. It didn’t come. Only gentle heat as the fire continued to burn unobstructed in his palm as if it came from Izuku, not given. Amazing. 

“You had gone back to high school. There were rumors that you wouldn’t, that you would begin your hero career urgently fighting to find all the villains that had escaped. I had this half form belief that I would lessen your load by defeating Dabi first. Altruistic, I know,” Ghost said, his face a warm orange by the flames, flickering in front of his eyes.  “But you didn’t. You didn’t claim the Number One position that was your right. Instead, you asked the world to trust you, helping champion the next stage of heroism. One that would champion unity and teamwork.”

Izuku remembered the speech, coming out of the hospital choked on grief and some half-form belief that the world could be different if he just tried hard enough. If he believed enough. 

“And I realized that I could be doing more. I was going down a path that would see my own destruction. I couldn’t be the one to defeat Dabi because if I did—if I let myself—I’d destroy the very essence of who I once was. What I was. I don’t know how I let myself forget it again.  So, I sent in a unanimous tip. I knew where Dabi had been, where he was going and waited for heroes to follow through with it. And they did,” Ghost whispered, “you did.”

Izuku swallowed, focusing on the flower in his palms, then voicing any type of agreement. For if he had, he would have said the truth, and if Ghost knew? Knew the actual type of hero sitting across from him, he wouldn’t think so highly of him if he knew what actually happened to Touya.

“But you continued to be a hero,” Izuku said instead. “If Dabi was your goal, why didn’t you stop?”

“Because you said together, and I thought, maybe I could still help, even if it was only from the shadows. My quirk,” Ghost said retaking the flower into his left hand. He twisted it from the base of the stem until it burst. A ball of fire. “Isn’t something people tend to have fond memories of. It was easier to let it go then to emerge onto the scene as yet another fire user and convince people I wasn’t bad. Besides,” the flame dwindled in size, “There was nothing I could go back to. My family and friends were all gone. All I had left, have left, is this.” He extinguished the fire. “Those children need a hero they can rely on, someone who is there for them when no one else is. It might not be as glamorous as the rest of you and there is a chance that if I became a pro outright I could have done more. But I made my peace with that long ago, even if I can't be a full hero, at least I'm doing something to help others at the end of they day.”

Ghost shook his head, leaning back against his bag. His gaze couldn't exactly be distant, but it was beyond Izuku as if he expected Izuku to agree with him and say that he was right. Ghost could have been doing more. It was what Izuku had said the previous night. Why hadn't he done anything to stop this? It was a cruel thing to say. One to levy at any hero that worked within the tight frame of their society. Unfair.

Izuku grabbed Ghost's bare hand back, holding it with both of his own. He said, "you are a hero," leaning forward as thought that would somehow make Ghost see it himself.  “You don’t need to use your quirk in a flashy way to prove that. But even if you did, if you decided to use your quirk to, your power is your own. It doesn’t matter what a villain did with a similar power, or what a misguided hero did in his pursuit of becoming number one.” 

Izuku shook his head. 

“Quirks don’t even matter. What matters is the fact that you stopped yourself from seeking revenge. I know countless heroes who wouldn’t have been able to do that, who would have fallen into despair the moment they got their revenge. But you didn’t, instead—instead, you help show children they can be heroes too. You help other heroes get the job done, giving them all the credit without any of the reward. You reassure people that you’ll be there when no one else, no other hero, will be. You’re a good person.” Izuku took a deep breath, “we can't let the mistakes of our past don’t keep us from our future. If we did, we'd never be able to ever move on.”

Izuku was breathless when he finished. It had been years since he last got winded over the topic of heroism. Not that there were less heroes to praise, it was just a lot harder to get excited about something that was his profession. Ghost made a short noise, sort of strangled, and Izuku realized his proximity to the other hero. How close he had got in his little impromptu speech. So close, he could see the intricacies within the lenses of Ghost's colored eyes. The ring that caused the blue to glow. Ghost didn’t pull away. He squeezed Izuku’s hand back. 

“You continue to surprise me, Midoriya.”

Izuku blushed, shaking his head and dropping Ghost’s hands. It shouldn’t have meant that much to Ghost. An unimportant statement made by another hero. Words to fill space. But it was the way he said them. In part with mild awe, in part complete acceptance. That no matter what, Ghost believed in what Izuku had to say.

“I’m sure others have told you that before.” Izuku said, scratching behind his ear, “because it's true. You do a lot. Even if we’ve never crossed paths until this case. I know that.” Izuku pulled off the glove and handed it back to Ghost. “And I won’t tell anyone about your quirk if you want to keep it a secret. I don’t think less of you for choosing to use it or not. You’re a hero, regardless.”

Ghost took the glove, pulling it on. He flexed his fingers before placing them on his lap. 

“And,” Izuku continued, biting his lip, “you’re not alone. Not anymore. You have me, okay? We’ll be heroes together. Secrets and all.”

Izuku couldn’t see Ghost’s face, but he like to think, when the hero turned back to him, he was smiling. Blue eyes, sparkling. Izuku smiled back.

Izuku dreamed about Shouto that night. 

Shouto sat on the edge of Heights Alliance, dangling his feet off the edge. He responded to Izuku by saying, “you’d catch me if I fell.”

“But what if I wasn’t paying attention?”

“Well, I’d have to catch myself then,” Shouto said. He smiled like a secret. “It’s a good thing I’m a hero.”

Izuku shoved his shoulder. There might have been a sunset in the distance, or it might have been the middle of the day with nothing but bright blue skies above them, and cherry blossom petals, floating in the wind. Shouto was permanent beside him, sticking his tongue out between his lips, while he studied what he was working on in his lap. A lump of ice, but when he turned it over, Izuku could see that he was adding pieces to it, sculpting.

“Wouldn’t it be easier if you melted it with your flames, as opposed to trying to stick it altogether?”

Shouto hesitated before glaring up at Izuku. No heat. “Are you trying to tell me to use my power? Should I be concerned that you’re going to break your hand again if I refuse?”

Izuku laughed, fully with his head tilted back, and hands splayed behind to support him. It took him some time to recover.

“Why don’t we do this more often? I miss spending time with you.”

Shouto paused, having resumed his work with his ice. “I miss you too, Izuku.”

“Yeah.”

Izuku squinted, the world becoming less distinct. Shouto’s figure fuzzy. He placed an object in Izuku’s lap. An All Might, holding a small rose. 

He said, “you were right, it was easier with my fire.” Then he turned to look behind Izuku. He didn’t like who he saw. His expression darkened. Anger. Fear. He asked, “Who are you?”

Izuku turned too, the ice melting into a puddle in his lap. A figure stood at the other end. Izuku felt a tug in his chest like he should know them. A dark silhouette. The wind picked up, carrying shadows instead of petals. The person started toward them. Shouto stood. He looked back. He whispered—drowned out by the sound of rushing fire, as the rooftop was engulfed in flames. Izuku was left to fall over the edge, watching a melting rose to chase his descent...

Izuku’s home wasn’t quiet when he woke. Noise from outside was near constant, no matter the hour. He checked the time and sighed, rolling back over onto his stomach. He had made too many promises that he’d get better at his sleep habits. So far, it hadn’t been working. But he stayed in bed, solely because Ghost had stated he’d have only one friend with insomnia. Izuku considered it a win.

Izuku stared at his ceiling. He hadn’t dared to write anything Ghost had told him. While he once thought his notebooks were infallible, it had been proven they were not. Even if they were, Izuku wouldn’t have. Ghost had revealed a part of himself Izuku wasn’t sure Aizawa or Shinsou even knew. 

His quirk. 

His fire quirk. 

Ghost had trusted Izuku enough to share it. Izuku wouldn’t throw that trust away just to analyze it with pen and paper.

However, that couldn’t stop him from thinking about it—Ghost had to suspect it would happen; Izuku’s hobby was a rather mainstream fact. There was no harm in thinking if it didn’t leave any evidence. As long as no one else knew.

Maybe if it had been a different quirk, Izuku would find it easier to lay it to rest. But fire? Again? It was as if the universe had a personal grudge to settle with him, tempting him with beauty he could never touch.

Ghost had been right, elemental quirks were common. Most emitter quirks were elemental in nature and tons of people had fire quirks—Izuku’s dad included. A more gruesome commonality was the fact that all of Dabi’s victims had various fire quirks, something Izuku had learned years ago when Ghost had given them the information they needed to find the villain. 

And they had. 

They did. 

Ghost believed Izuku altruistic. That he wasn’t motivated by anything besides wanting to better society. What Ghost didn’t know was how awfully similar they were. A shared period of time when they both were chasing the same man. The only difference was that Ghost stopped before falling, and Izuku knew what it felt like to have mutual destruction in his grasp. To stand right on the edge while someone begged for salvation, to give it, and—

Izuku shook his head, reaching for his phone. It didn’t matter. For better or for worse, Touya was in the past. Dealt with and gone. 

Fire quirks came in all types. Endeavor’s quirk was the most obvious: to emit flames and to some extent control those flames. Some people needed an outside source that they could then control. Other people might be able to make shapes, or items out of flames limited to only that.

Ghost had traced a flower out of fire and handed it to Izuku without a problem. In theory, his quirk might not be any stronger, but someone as levelheaded as Ghost wouldn’t have been so scared, so set against using it, if that was the case. He certainly wouldn’t have needed reassurances from Izuku that it wasn’t bad. 

It wasn’t pandering when Izuku said it was Ghost’s choice to use it or not. The man could go the rest of his career without needing his quirk, and he’d probably be fine. He had developed a whole persona around not using it, perfecting a hero that was quirkless. Had Izuku been a child, hopelessly looking to a hero like him, Ghost would’ve been a miracle. A being to point out and tell Bakugou, “look I can be a hero too! Just like him.” 

And maybe that was the real enigma of Ghost. By ignoring his quirk, the very thing Izuku had longed for his whole life, he had become a hero anyone could put their faith in. There were no tricks to it. No last-minute surge of power. All Ghost had were his wits and his accessories. 

He really was amazing.

On his phone, a new text message reminded him he should be sleeping. 

The next one told him the date of a rendezvous at a different fight club in four nights.

A third told him to go back to bed.

And Izuku did, after teasing the other hero for not being his mom. 

He had no dreams the second time he fell asleep.

“Deku-kun you made it,” Uraraka called, waving from her booth. Iida and Asui sat on either side of her. Yaoyorozu and Jirou waved to him from the bar, and he caught sight of Kaminari and Ashido dancing. Even Shinsou was there, sitting across from the trio of heroes. Izuku looped his way between the other patrons of the club, all heroes too. 

Unlike the place Ghost had brought him, this place was as advertised. A place for busy heroes to relax without the anxieties of the public seeing them. It was why Yaoyorozu and Jirou easily hung off one another, and Iida was drinking, pointing to the spot next to Shinsou where abandoned blazers and jackets had taken residence. After a moment of moving them, Izuku sat down, greeting his friends.

Izuku could not in recent memory remember the last time he went out like this. He knew the taste of beer well given how many nights he had been working the case, though it was hard to ease into strange leather seat and not be anxious about anyone else in the room with him. This was a welcome reprise. One Izuku didn’t even know he’d come to miss. 

“Ochako-kun was just telling us about how she and her fiancée are planning to go to the Caribbean for their honey—

“Enough of that,” Uraraka waved him off. “How have you been Deku-kun? You’ve been all over the place, sparing nothing for the rest of us.”

Izuku folded the corner of the black napkin ahead of him, and a waiter interrupted their conversation to ask for drinks. His friends ordered greasy food, not befitting their jobs. When it was done, Uraraka began where she had left off.

“You know people are going to start calling you All Might again if you don’t pick up a partner or anything.”

“I’m searching,” he settled on. How to properly say he was working with someone, only they were so averse to any spotlight they didn’t appear on film. What like some sort of ghost? They’d tease. The irony wasn’t lost on him. It also wasn’t lost on Shinsou, who drank to keep his expression neutral, staring at Izuku like he knew, which he probably did. While Izuku couldn’t tell his friends about Ghost, Ghost obviously could talk to Shinsou about him. He hoped it wasn’t all bad. 

“I worked with Best Jeanist earlier this week. There’s no need to start comparing me to All Might.” 

Uraraka studied him, leaning back in the booth, and pulling at her straw, swirling her drink. She kept eye contact with him as she took a long sip. Izuku broke it, folding another piece of the napkin. He had an itch to grab his phone, to pull it out and see that he had a case. A mission. Something, from Ghost. A quick game where they ran through the night as if they were the only people around. As much as Izuku missed this, he had come to easily yearn and wish for dark night.

A shout went out across the crowd, followed by insistent cheering. He made out Ashido in the center of it. Kaminari was talking to someone in the shadows. Jirou and Yaoyorozu were swaying against one another, even though the song was heavy, harsh, with a beat. Iida and Asui had fallen into their own conversation, quiet and contemplative. Uraraka’s eyes didn’t leave him. He was about to ask her if he had more freckles or something when the door to the club opened again, revealing Bakugou and Kirishima. The hollers for their arrival, deafening, only covered by a waiter giving him his drink, followed shortly thereafter with food.

“Can’t believe you ordered without me,” Kirishima said, reaching the table, and dropping into the seat beside Izuku. He grabbed a wing off the nearest plate, calling over his shoulder at Bakugou, who was approaching, albeit slower, already watching Izuku, who ducked his head, squeezing his phone in his pocket. 

The part of him who wanted to be helpful wished to pull it out and text the other that Kirishima was there. Perhaps Ghost would thank him, looking for something to do on a slow night. It would be a while before they left, maybe, if Ghost were to stick to the shadows, and Kirishima didn’t notice—likely dancing in the center with Kaminari and Ashido after eating—Ghost could enjoy the place too. Relax on the edge, sipping a drink while Izuku somehow got more talkative as the night waned on. Alcohol always an easy excuse.

Izuku would probably make a fool of himself. He’d say something sappy. Like he was glad they were friends. Or, how even in a room with all his closest friends, he felt like an outsider. Out of place amongst heroes. Ghost would tell him that didn’t make any sense, and Izuku would agree, amending his statement to say somehow, he didn’t feel out of place when they were together. 

Izuku sucked down his drink. If he wanted his new friend to bolt, that would be the way to do it. Too easily attached Izuku. And besides, Izuku, though busy, still viewed his friends as friends. He’d want Ghost to interact with them too, eventually, once Kirishima was cleared.

If he could picture it.

Ghost didn’t fit in with the rest of his friends. They were loud—Iida, reprimanding Kaminari who appeared to grab his own wing, dripping sauce over the table, while Uraraka talked over the chaos to Bakugou about some sports apparel they were modeling for in the winter—where Ghost was contemplative. A quiet specter, watching life pass him by without interacting with it.

It was hard imagining he’d fit—or maybe it was the easiest thing to do. 

Between Izuku and Shinsou since he knew him. It’d be a squeeze with Kirishima now, but they’d make it work. Ghost would make a cocky statement about how he didn’t eat trash food because he was a hero, and heroes didn’t do that. However, Izuku thought, if he pushed, Ghost probably would open his mask if only to try a french-fry, dripping in sauce. Quietly talk to Izuku about the random thing he discovered, a new gadget perhaps, while the world beyond them became nothing but a distant fog. Blue eyes focused solely on him.

Shinsou nudged his shoulder, asking in a whisper, “are you okay, Midoriya? You seem out of it.”

Izuku smiled, reaching for a fry from the middle of the table. “Of course I’m fine, why wouldn’t I be?”

“You just seem like you want to be anywhere else, that’s all,” Shinsou said. A statement that he had heard before when it came to being at parties or celebrations. The Izuku of then had a much different reason for being uninvolved in the group than he did now, though fidgety and quick to daydream. A new change that surely Shinsou picked up on as he narrowed his eyes, about to clarify further when Kirishima jostled his shoulder, gaining his, and the rest of the table's, attention.

“Oh! Hitoshi, you don’t have to worry about him. It’s probably just the new boyfriend he’s pouting about leaving home all alone tonight.” Kirishima knew exactly what he did as he smiled, toothy before taking a bite out of another piece of chicken. 

“Boyfriend?” Uraraka said, perking up across the table. “Why am I just hearing about this? Is that why you’ve been so weird and smiley lately.”

“Or girlfriend,” Kirishima amended, “I don’t think we clarified last time.” 

“I’m not being weird.” He grabbed another fry. “And I smile all the time.” He chewed it calmly and swallowed, stating, “I don’t have a boyfriend, or girlfriend for that matter.”

Kirishima turned back to Uraraka. “Did you see the interview he had the other week?”

She shook her head. “I’ve been doing nothing but planning a wedding. What did I miss?”

“Well, Izu-bro was caught texting a mystery ‘friend’ after a fight, and he had that little smile. You know the one.”

“The one with the eyes?”

“Yes!”

Uraraka gasped, playing into it—closing in on too many drinks. “That’s exactly what I was talking about. Iida-kun didn’t believe me when we saw him on patrol the other day, and he didn’t say, hi. He was too distracted by someone else.” 

Kirishima nodded, ready to add to the conspiracy, “the interviewer asked him about it.” 

“Which I denied then and will deny now.” Izuku interrupted, grabbing another chip. “It was a work thing.” 

“Yes, but then afterward,” Kirishima leaned across the table and whispered into Uraraka’s ear. She started laughing, shaking her head. 

“Deku-kun, give me up your phone. Let’s see it.” Uraraka said, reaching across the table. 

“Ochako-kun, you can’t simply demand your friend’s device like that,” Iida interjected, paying attention now.

“No,” she said, “if Deku-kun isn’t hiding a partner from us, then he’s been avoiding us.”

“I’ve been busy,” he said, pulling the device out of his pocket and handing it to her. She was going to be disappointed. 

Not wanting to sit around while his friends went through it, he pushed against Kirishima, getting let out. “I’m going to get a refill. You guys want anything?”

A varied chorus went around the table. Izuku pushed his way to the bar. He didn’t miss that he was followed there. 

“It’s not what it sounds like,” he told Shinsou. “Ghost and I are work acquaintances, nothing more.” 

“I didn’t say that you were.”

Izuku wasn’t sure why he didn’t want to reveal that possibly Ghost would agree to their budding relationship. They weren’t simple work acquaintances anymore. It was easy to think of Ghost as a friend. Hell, Shinsou could give him tips on how a friendship with Ghost realistically worked. Actually, Shinsou could even join them on one of their outings. Izuku liked the hero quite a bit. They could become a whole new team. There were always parts of the spotlight Izuku didn’t enjoy, maybe a shake-up like that was what his career needed.

“I just don’t want him to find out what they’re all saying back there,” Izuku nodded backward to the table. “I don’t want to scare him off like that.”

Shinsou’s expression was unreadable. He said, as if reading Izuku’s mind or having already seen the outcome of putting up with Izuku’s own scheme to make sure he was well integrated into the class, “Ghost doesn’t make friends, Midoriya, you should remember that.” 

“Yeah, but what if,” Izuku paused. If Ghost truly didn’t want to be Izuku’s friend, he wouldn’t have revealed so much about himself to him. He would have kept Izuku at a distance like it originally seemed. Even if at first he did it to gain Izuku’s trust, once it was clear Izuku had trusted him, he wouldn’t take it further. He wouldn’t so easily be falling into step with him.

“He doesn’t,” Shinsou reiterated, then paused as if considering his words, “at least not anyone or anything that has made him change his mind in all the years I’ve known him, I don’t know if anything will.”

Izuku smiled, tight-lipped, “well, you told me once you weren’t going to make and friends either, and here you are with all of us. People change, Shinsou-kun. I think Ghost might too.”

“For your sake, I hope he does,” Shinsou said, grabbing two drinks off the bar and then walking toward the dance floor to Ashido and Kaminari. Izuku started two steps towards him, needing to ask what it was that caused purple to fester in indigo fear, when a hand grabbed his bicep, taking him backward. 

“We need to talk,” Bakugou said.

The rest of the drinks began getting slid out toward Izuku. Izuku tried not to linger on the tone in the other’s voice. 

“About?”

Bakugou dropped his voice, “I found something. It’s important.”

“Can we talk after? This isn’t exactly the place to do this, and I really was in the middle of a conversation with Shinsou-kun.” 

Bakugou’s face told him that he knew the other had walked away from him and had probably heard a good chunk of their conversation too. Izuku knew Bakugou didn’t like Ghost. He didn’t make it a secret whenever they went over new plans or strategies to attempt.

“Besides, if it’s important, Ghost will need to hear about it too.” 

“Deku,” Bakugou said, intercepting the next drink. “We need to talk.”

Bakugou’s eyes bore into him. Mouth firm. No give. The final drink emerged between them, and Izuku grabbed it, spinning and walking back to the table. Bakugou’s presence was a steady heat at his back.

“Deku-kun?” Uraraka asked as he approached the table, waving his phone. “Why don’t you have any contacts on your phone? Or anything really?”

Izuku was lucky he didn’t drop the number of drinks in his hands. 

“Umm,” he said, rushing to put the drinks down and come up with an excuse while trying to figure out where he must have left his actual phone, clearly not in his pocket, nor in Uraraka’s hand. The other people at the table, equally curious about this development all stared at him.

Iida said, “while you might fear that your phone may come into enemy contact, it is much more likely that you’ll forget one of our numbers if you ever need us in case of an emergency.”

“I know that,” Izuku said, floundering for the rest of an excuse.

At the pause, Kirishima said, “Yeah. I have Kats’ phone number memorized, but I wouldn’t trust myself to remember it while fighting three—no, five—villains.”

Bakugou set down another cup. 

“Everyone relax,” he said, digging in his pockets. He dropped two phones on the table. “Jeanist had us testing these burner phones for some support company. Deku’s just an idiot and gave you the wrong one.”

Izuku let himself breathe, holding himself back from jumping across the table to rip the phone out of Uraraka’s grasp. Iida asked Bakugou why he was still using the item since he wasn’t employed with Best Jeanist anymore to which Bakugou easily lied and said it was part of a contract he signed—it would be more of a hassle to terminate it than to finish it out. Uraraka was listening to him too, lowering the device. 

It was nearly in within Izuku’s grasp as Bakugou was saying, “its primary function is some tracking chip. Otherwise, everything else is shit. We have to give it up in several months. There’s no need to add everyone’s contact.”

Unfortunately, that was just when his phone lit up. Face up on the table between crumbed napkins, sweating drinks, and empty platters. A text from an unknown number. It went back into Uraraka’s face as Kirishima yelled, “I knew it! What does it say?”

“Uraraka-kun, give me back my phone.”

“Company phone, Deku-kun,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows above it, “you’re not supposed to be using it to text your secret boyfriend.”

“I don’t—” he shook his head, “It’s just a coworker.”

She cleared her voice. “I know you are busy tonight, but I was hoping we could meet up. The usual place. Maybe I can entice you with some new tricks if you’re up for it? I know you’ve been practicing, and you have gotten more flexible since we started.”

A chorus of ooh’s flooded the table, save for Bakugou, who was simmering beside him. Izuku didn’t know how he’d explain this to Ghost either. Only vaguely grateful Shinsou had gone to Kaminari instead of back here to hear this part out loud too. Hopefully, with Bakugou’s save, this infraction wouldn’t cause him to get kicked off the case. But more importantly, Izuku was well aware of the blush, fighting to make itself visible across his cheeks.

“Uraraka-kun,” he heard himself whine, extending his hand toward her.

She looked at the phone and him, before rolling her eyes and dropping it in his awaiting hands. 

“You know,” she said, “even if they’re only someone you’re using to blow off steam and not an actual ‘partner,’” she quoted, “we could help you convince them you want something more, or we could start brainstorming ways to set you up on a date. Hell, half the bar is single and—

“That’s enough Cheeks,” Bakugou said, grabbing Izuku’s bicep. “We all know the nerds too busy to settle down, besides,” he tugged Izuku away from the table, “he already agreed to have a conversation with me.” Then to Izuku. “Come on.”

They left to the annoyance of their friends.

It wasn’t cool outside, but the air wasn’t as stuffy as it was in the bar. Bakugou dropped his arm, making his way to the dark street corner. Izuku followed, stepping beside him so that they were both facing the building ahead of them.

“Thank you,” Izuku started, “I know I should’ve been more—”

“Save your apology,” Bakugou said, “I don’t forgive sloppiness, and neither do you. What if that was a fan? A stranger?”

“The point of them is to be decoys. If a fan saw me using it and asked for a photo,” Izuku shook his head. “I don’t want to fight you on this. I’ll tell Ghost next time I see him, and he can decide what needs to be done.”

“ tch , your boyfriend has more important things to figure out.”

Izuku didn’t react to the bait, squeezing his hands, his nails digging into his palm. He was tired of fighting with Bakugou. He figured they were beyond this now. This night was supposed to be an opportunity for them to hang out with their friends and relax. It wasn’t supposed to be about work, and despite Izuku wishing Ghost was here to experience all of his friends, he had wanted to relax while he could.

“I don’t want to do this tonight,” Izuku said, stepping back from the wall. “Whatever you found with the case, just, save it for tomorrow, okay? I’m going home.”

“Wait, Deku,” he grabbed his forearm. “This is important; it’s not about the case.”

Izuku searched his face and found no fault there. Just earnestness, burning red.

“How much do you trust Ghost?”

“With my life.”

The bottom of Bakugou’s right eye twitched. Izuku expected him to antagonize the point. To place blame on their situation on a person who didn’t need to carry that burden. Ghost had only ever done his job. Ahead of him, Izuku watched as Bakugou fought with himself, eyes darting all around Izuku’s face as his mouth opened and closed, trying to catch up with his brain, until finally. 

“And how much do you trust me?”

Izuku stumbled out of Bakugou’s grasp. Bakugou’s face was unchanging, hinging on what Izuku had to say. “I trust you. Of course, I trust you. You don’t need to ask.”

The line between Bakugou’s brows lessened, and he straightened. “Look, I need you to keep this between us. You can’t tell Cheeks, or Glasses, or the Mind-fucker, and not Ghost. I swear it’s not about my ego or this case.” Izuku wondered if Bakugou knew his left hand spasmed when he was lying. Izuku would be the judge of what he chose to keep and not to keep from Ghost. “I need you to go to the Hero Commission and ask them to give you clearance to see a villain stationed in Tartarus. They denied me.”

The Hero Commission didn’t deny heroes visiting Tartarus, especially ranked top five heroes. 

“What villain?”

Bakugou hesitated before saying, “someone needs to talk to Dabi.”

“Dabi?”

Bakugou focused his attention on the sidewalk, studying a crack. A car passed them over, then another. Across the street, people stumbled out of a restaurant laughing. A third car’s lights painted their shadows on concrete.

“I found something, and I want him to confirm it.” 

“Found what?”

Both of their phones went off. Izuku’s vibrated, still clutched in his hand. The screen illuminated them with the new notification. Bakugou scowled, and Izuku read his latest message. Instead of going to the club on Monday, they’d be going at least a week later. Ghost asked if that was okay. Izuku couldn’t help but smile to himself at the gesture. How much more considerate Ghost had gotten in the short time that they had known him.

“You’re seeing him tonight, right?”

“I haven’t confirmed it, but probably. I’m sure you’re welcome to tag along. He’s a pretty decent teacher when it comes to this sort of thing.”

A shadow fell over Bakugou’s face after another car passed them. He pocketed his phone. “Ei will kill me if I don’t do drinks. I’ll cover you if you want to head out early.”

Izuku nodded. He swallowed his lip and then tentatively asked, “but what about Dabi?”

Bakugou expression tightened, glancing back to the bar and then back to Izuku. He dropped his voice, “I don’t think Dabi’s in prison, I need you to confirm it before we do anything else.”

Izuku hoped Bakugou didn’t hear the highness in his voice as he said, “that’s absurd I brought—

“I know,” he raised his hands, placating him, “I know. It could mean nothing. But something isn’t right, and he’s the best bet in confirming it.”

Izuku agreed, hoping it didn’t come across as too eager. He shoved his hands, overly clammy, into his pockets, gripping his phone, wanting to ask Bakugou more, but knowing they were in no place to do so. Bakugou was already jumpy enough as it was. He’d get more suspicious if Izuku insisted on it. Forced him to spill everything he thought he knew about the villain that for all the world knew was safely locked behind bars and had been for years.

I just want to mourn my baby brother. Is that too much to ask,

hero?

Izuku let him go.

Ghost crossed his legs. The attic he was in was empty as was the house below him. A “For Sale” sign sat outside on the lawn. Ghost wouldn’t consider himself particularly lucky on most nights, but it was advantageous to find a place such as this for his stakeouts of the home across the street. A two-story condo, unassuming as the next. He had looped himself into the security feed the property owners had installed to make sure no one broke into this house, disabled the sensors that said that someone had, and kept himself to the place that would least likely draw eyes if someone did arrive to the house, suspicious or not. However, neighborhoods like these usual biggest concerns were the fact that people drove a bit over the speed limit during school hours. They did not think about lingering crime. It made sense that a hero would be lured to a place such as this. It was similar, in some ways, to a distant home and neighborhood, though not ostentatious. The heroes had moved in here to escape and escape they did. 

Red Riot and Dynamight had arrived home via cab under an hour ago. Red Riot seemed to be drunk, which arguably meant this whole thing was a bust, and Ghost could’ve stayed in the city center with Midoriya. As it was, Midoriya’s face had faltered a bit when he realized they wouldn’t be out all too late tonight. Ghost knew better than to untangle feelings surrounding that disappointment. He could have just as easily left Midoriya off of tonight's adventures as well. 

One of the cameras caught movement. A quick check saw that it was unimportant. 

There was still much to discern about the case. While Ghost hadn’t been as surprised by the growing crime rate—hard to ignore it while he was in the thick of it—it spoke of the broader problem he would never have enough time to focus on his own. He could rally other underground heroes, they always did trust each other more than anyone else, but creating a society on the basis of secrecy put them all at a disadvantage. He would have to play this next part smart if he didn’t want darkness to befall him, becoming a wrapped body to dispose of in the middle of the Pacific. However, that risk was always the same. The characters too. Those with much held extreme power over those with little. The question of their little game, who exactly was holding the reigns to this plan. Ghost feared they were missing too much of the board already. The quality of their traitor would say.

Shadows pulled the curtains of the upstairs window. Ghost leaned forward curious of what he would see. The shadows betrayed nothing to whether it was Dynamight or Red Riot.

“I hardly expected you to be someone who spied on their friends.” 

“I don’t have friends,” Ghost said. He pulled back from the window. The hidden person on the other side of the street was searching their neighbors. Awfully late to be so concerned about those who were asleep.

Shinsou stayed standing beside him, observing through the slates the same as he. “You know what they would call you if they found out you were spying on rank pros.” 

“Bad at my job,” Ghost said. “You know better than to try to dig for classified information. Why are you here, Tosh?”

“Couldn’t just be in the area?”

“Your apartment is on the Far East side and you’re off. Have something on your mind?”

A car, nondescript, with no license and a missing headlight, pulled down the street. Ghost cocked his head. The windows were tinted, which made making out the driver near impossible. He did his best to capture a photo. It stayed running while it parked on the street, easily discernible as not matching the rest of the place.

“What are your intentions with Midoriya?”

Ghost’s attention fell from the car to his friend, “excuse me?”

“Come on, you don’t need to be pretend to daft. You’re not treating Midoriya like a regular informant or another underground hero.”

“My relationship with Midoriya is strictly professional. It doesn’t concern you.”

Ghost checked the shadow to see if they were concerned about the car too. They stayed in the same place just as well, possibly gripping the curtain while the car continued to idle. A message? He didn’t have the equipment on him to check if anything was being sent from the car. He should have. A blue light aided in discerning the shadow. It seemed too short to be Red Riot now. He leaned closer, debating how he could get a bug over there to figure it out for sure.

Meanwhile, Shinsou did not seem to care about what was unfolding in front of them, saying, “doesn’t it? I remember my role plenty. To protect you. To protect them. I fail to see how what you’re doing now doesn’t ultimately blow up in all of our faces in a few weeks, months at most.”

“I have it handled,” Ghost said distracted. He had no reason to suspect Dynamight of anything. Unless he was working with his boyfriend. But that didn’t make any sense. Bakugou was as much a true hero as Midoriya, which meant this was something different. Equally intriguing, but enough to focus his energy on if Shinsou wasn’t next to him, pushing for thoughts and opinions he knew better to stay out of. 

“You don’t.” 

The car pulled away from the curb, meandering down the block. The light in the house went out. Whatever message Dynamight was after had been sent. The curtain closed. Therefore, Ghost could afford to stand and see Shinsou the hell out.

“I don’t see why you’re so concerned all of a sudden. I’m taking care of it how I see fit. Midoriya understands this relationship plenty.” 

Shinsou backed away from the window, “does he?”

Midoriya was good with people. He attracted them to him in flocks. Every single year since he started as a pro, he had gained more fans. Eery one. There were always people who were eager to work with him, more eager to impress. Underground heroes were no different than any other civilians. Midoriya was in a league of his own. Anyone would jump at the chance to possibly be known to him, tenfold to become someone he was comfortable enough to have as a friend. 

Where was Ghost in all that?

There was a strict reason he didn’t search out pro heroes. Why, if he had to work with anyone else, it was under strict guidelines. He did not need to be personable. He did not want to. A job was a job, and he would deal with it accordingly, and if the other heroes did not care for him, trust him, that did not matter as long as the case was solved and people were saved. It had worked for him for years. He never failed it. However, he wasn’t about to tell Shinsou he was right; he was treating Midoriya differently than everyone else. It was inherent. A fact he could not help. And why not? This case was temporary. Let him enjoy the momentary attention the pro hero gave, and then move on, go back to the shadowed fog where he belonged.

“If that’s all you needed to say,” Ghost said, “go. I have more important things to focus on rather than your opinion of mine and Midoriya’s working relationship.”

“But what if it didn’t have to be?”

Ghost made sure everything in the attic was in working order before walking toward the door. This conversation had gone on long enough and just because Shinsou thought it needed to be said, didn’t mean Ghost had to listen to it.

“You know better than to fantasize about what ifs,” he said with his hand on the knob. “Its been done and over with for years now. We can’t change a thing, besides,” he twisted the handle, “I don’t want to.” 

So what if he found he was enjoying his time spent with Midoriya? It’s not like they were spending time together outside of their jobs. Maybe they ate after a mission, and he got to listen to all the things that Midoriya was too afraid to talk about around others people. If he had a face, he didn’t know if Midoriya would feel the same. More importantly, their relationship was easy right now. Ghost had no want or reason to fracture the foundations, idly wondering what it might have been like if he didn’t kill the Todoroki he had. Because, despite it all, things were still the same. Midoriya’s Shouto might have been missed, but he was loved. He could not say the same thing would be true if intentions came to light. 

“I know how you sound like when you lie,” Shinsou called through the doorway. “You think it’ll be easy walking away the second time? You think he’ll let you?”

Ghost gripped the railing, he did not slow on the stairs. Shinsou was slower in his pace. At the mouth of the door when he finished, “if you don’t want a friend, that’s fine but don’t pretend what you’re doing is nothing less than cruel, bringing Midoriya into a world he doesn’t belong in, just to leave him whenever this mission is over.” 

There would be no reason for Ghost and Midoriya to interact once the virus was found. It wasn’t as if they could. It was hard enough as it was to make sure Midoriya maintained a public appearance while making sure he himself wasn’t spotted too. Pro heroes and underground heroes were antitheses of each other. It was a large reason Ghost believed he could have been a hero still in Japan without becoming a vigilante outright.

“Don’t you trust me?”

“When it comes to this, no.” Ghost stopped where he was. Shinsou stepped down two stairs. “Something about this isn’t sitting right, and the longer it goes on the more I see it. Our mission has stalled. We were on a breakthrough before all this, and then they come in and decide that you need to work with the pros? Think. Why would they do that?”

“I wanted to walk away.” He had told Aizawa and Shinsou both that this mission was risky, too big of a risk, and it would have been better for one of them to take it. They told him it would be okay. Ghost was handling it okay.

“I know.” Shinsou said, “I’m not saying you should have, just, I’m not convinced there’s not a larger scheme that we are missing, you are missing, that we can circumvent if you just come clean to Midoriya outright.”

Ghost chuckled. Of course, ultimately, this was what this was only about, even if it took Shinsou far too long to get to this point. He finished the narrow staircase, opening the small door that led into the main house. Carpet to swallow up the sounds of this.

“I fail to see how you came to that conclusion nor do I trust your judgement on the matter. You have always regretted this.” 

“Ghost.” 

“No.” Ghost made his way down to the hall, away from him.

“Don’t be like this.” 

“What you’re asking for is impossible. Todoroki is dead. He’s been dead for years.” 

He cut the corner, aiming for the sliding door to the backyard. He’d find a new day to spy at Red Riot to put together a case that the man had betrayed the heroes—if he betrayed the heroes, he reminded himself. Just because the former class was on his list of suspects, didn’t mean any of them had done anything wrong. They were loyal. They wouldn’t risk unnecessary heartbreak. 

“It’s only impossible because you’re still running away from it. Come on, Ghost, stop.” 

He went through the kitchen, through the family room. There were scuffs on the floor in places from the last family who lived there. The family who came next would paint the walls. They would tally the sizes of their children through the years, watching them grow, watching them laugh. They got to be protected because of sacrifices made by heroes day by day. Ghost wasn’t naive. He knew the downfall of society didn’t rest solely on his shoulders, that there were other heroes to replace him if he disappeared as suddenly as he arrived. But he did know other things did rest on him maintaining this front. He was Ghost, through and through. The moment he slipped up, was the moment the curse saw itself renewed, and Ghost couldn’t have that.

The backyard was dark and inviting. The moon was well covered under a layer of clouds, waning with each passing day. The timetable of the case never bothered Ghost much. Six months was a rather long time compared to some of the other cases he had worked on in the past. It required delicacy that his other cases didn’t all dictate, though. Patience first and foremost. But as with all things, it would end. Ghost would walk back into the night as silent as he come. 

Could he walk away from Midoriya then?

Yes. 

Yes. 

Only, “they think he’s moving on,” Shinsou called, “did you know that? He’s been happier, right? He smiles at you more, and it’s almost like before, only it can’t be like before. Not the way things are right now. What will happen to him if you disappear again? What will happen to any of them?”

“No one knows.” 

“For how long?”

“Forever.” 

Shinsou’s brows pinched. He said, “you said  you would reconsider things once we got older. It’s been seven years, ten since you’ve left. Be done with it.”

“Nothings changed.”

Shinsou looked to say that he disagreed. Ghost didn’t care to listen to him. He gripped the door. Ghost always had a level head. He did not act out in anger or duress. He stayed distant. Whatever empathy he had exuded was carefully controlled. If he was upset—he made it so he wasn’t. He made it so he wouldn’t react to such easy bait. Bait was what Shinsou’s next words were. 

“Shouto.” Only, it wasn’t Shinsou’s voice that was speaking. Midoriya's.“Talk to me, please. Let me help. I can help. I can always help you.”

Ghost didn’t get the door open, searching his reflection, and the one behind him. All the signs that showed when Shinsou’s quirk was activated were not there. It was only his mouthpiece. The trickery that had caught them plenty of villains in the past. Ghost gritted his teeth. 

“Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? To emerge from the ashes of your past brighter than what could have been our future. You can do that now. If you just reach back, take my hand Shouto-kun.” 

“Shut up.” He didn’t give Shinsou the satisfaction of turning around and marching toward him, demanding that he drop that voice and never dare to try it again. There was no longevity in fantasy, in hoping in what ifs and what could have been. 

As a child, Ghost wasn’t made for the shadows. He was made for spotlights and arenas that boasted he would become the best. He accepted it as it was. Let it spoil his heart. It made him susceptible to brave words and a promise that couldn’t come true. But Ghost was made to remember, remember it well, all he could be. All he was. A hero built upon misery, blood, and pain. 

“Tell me what you’re so afraid of and maybe I will.” 

Ghost couldn’t roll his eyes, so he didn’t. They flashed red just as well.

“And what exactly do you expect me to do?” He was purposeful when he turned back toward the hero. Distinct with each step, open—not that Ghost was naive enough to leave himself so exposed without plan or thought. “I go to Midoriya’s apartment tonight, shake him from his sleep, and when he asks what’s so important, I just take off this mask, and what? He sees what he wants to see?”

Shinsou did not respond. He looked mad, though. While his mouth was covered, his eyes betrayed him where Ghost’s could not. Not today. Not yesterday. Not tomorrow.

“Well? If you know this better than I do, tell me how this is supposed to be done because despite what you think, it’s not possible.” He left the door behind him walking back toward Shinsou, maintaining his slow gait. “Or did you just come here to criticize my choices and clear your own conscience? Do you think their ire won’t extend to you?, too busy thanking you for doing the impossible, bringing a broken doll back? Your as complicit as me or have you forgotten that?”

Shinsou swallowed. “Whatever consequences I have to face for doing the right thing now, so be it. But you know just as well as I do that you’re not scared of them being angry. You’re worried that they will forgive you, would have forgiven you then, but if you think about that too long this whole thing falls around us and you admit that it was a mistake. 

“You know nothing.”

“If that was true, you wouldn’t be trembling.” 

Ghost gripped his hand, tightening the fists gripped at either side. He was Ghost. Ghost did not get angry. He did not act out brutishly. He did not.

“Get out.” 

Shinsou leaned back against a wall. He crossed his arms. 

“Not until you agree, or we both get arrested for trespassing in the morning.” He glanced down at his wrist. “We have a several hours to wait, and I doubt the landlord of this place will actually be stopping by anytime soon, you made sure of that.” 

“And what makes you think you can keep me here?”

“You’re not so removed from the rest of us that you’re not unbeatable.”

A fight then. Shinsou wasn’t a fool enough to make such a bluff, and Ghost was not timid enough to see if the words held any merit. Ultimately, there was only one way for this type of fight to end. It would do them both good to remember it and play into it. People might have believed that Ghost didn’t have a quirk, yet it wasn’t natural when the temperature of the room fluctuated. Shinsou didn’t remove himself from the wall, only mildly interested in the stickiness of the air. Ghost moved further away from the door. Any chance this fight escaping the house meant a chance at neighborhood eyes and police. It would no doubt raise Dynamight’s suspicions, if not Red Riots too. While Shinsou didn’t have to conform to the same limitations as Ghost since Ghost was his target, it would be unwise to let him out of his sight—or so that was how Ghost would play this arena. After all, he knew every doorway and shadow before he came here. Shinsou did not. Therefore, the first order of business—the temperature of the house plummeted, not to freezing, never freezing, shocking the air, coalescing into a thick fog—was to take away Shinsou’s ability to see. 

It was only seconds before, Shinsou’s costume adapted, and he pulled the goggles on that allowed him to detect heat, but Ghost used that time to get away from the family room with its large windows. It was dark outside, true, but he would not leave anything to chance. With the remainder of his time, he slid out a wraith, tucking it into his glove, and squeezing it to make sure it was ready on standby. 

Shinsou’s capture weapon sliced through the fog, centimeters away from him. It sprang back to him when it capture nothing. Shinsou called, “you should have attacked while you had the opening.” 

Ghost tugged a knife out of his calf. He flipped it, pinching the blade, before it flew, embedding itself in the wall next to Shinsou’s head, who didn’t flinch away as it went through the air, rearranging his capture weapon to catch Ghost’s arm after his throw. He spun it once, twice, and then tugged, pulling Ghost toward him, until the other hero braced his heels into the ground, slowing his progress. 

“Do you even see yourself right now? You’re fighting me when you don’t have to. None of this has to happen.”

Long ago a boy thought he could be a hero like All Might. The boy was wrong. The only lesson from the former he retained, was the choice to act on his own. This dance was inevitable. Shinsou couldn’t out Ghost without proof, and Ghost wouldn’t have gone through the lengths he had to destroy all known knowledge of a past if he didn’t think this was possible. He couldn’t work on his own back then. It was a truth he had to contend with and adapt to. But now, now Ghost was his own entity. He knew what exactly he needed to do to cut Shinsou and Aizawa both from his life without either of them being able to follow. It wasn’t as it was before, if Ghost wanted to fade away, he could, 100 percent, with no fallout. No nothing. Not a single person to mourn the soul of the body he had come to inhabit. 

Ghost brought his second knife down on the captured weapon. It sliced through it, freeing his wrist. He didn’t let it go far, bunching up the weapon in his hand and throwing Shinsou out of balance. He didn't go in for the attack that was his to do so. He raised his knife ahead of him. 

“If you think that’d change my mind, you didn’t think this part through.” 

Shinsou righted himself. “Of course not, you’re a brat, you know that right? Nothing can ever be easy.” 

It was Shinsou’s turn to unleash a small knife, sliding past his wrist with insane accuracy. Only the fabric of Ghost's uniform kept it from embedding in his thigh. The second one glanced close to his knee, missing narrowly. It forced Ghost to back up. Shinsou had several more of those knives and while they wouldn’t be fatal. He wasn’t keen on surgery this evening. But retreating was no strategy either. Despite their similar skills, Shinsou always managed to have more stamina than him. If he let this game continue into its full cat-and-mouse chase, the other would win without fail. 

So, wherein Shinsou expected him to be in the far corners of the room, searching out exit strategies, or even at the window, ready to go, Ghost was at the entrance of the room with a cheap shot to the other's neck. It cracked the harness of the mask Shinsou wore. He didn’t let him reorient himself, using the butt of his knife to shatter the piece of the mask that clipped at the jaw, fracturing the connection to the goggle he had put on to see in the fog. A fog that was not as present as it had been in the rest of the house, not that Ghost cared, jumping out of reach when Shinsou lashed out for his midsection, coming behind him and kicking his knees in, sending Shinsou tumbling forward onto the carpet.

Shinsou gripped the ground, pushing himself and sending another knife toward Ghost’s way, who parried it, which caused it to embed itself into the plaster before he was back on Shinsou. Shinsou and Ghost were tactfully different in a place that mattered. Shinsou came to learn how to fight from a hero. While a fist-to-fist brawl was never pretty. There was a certain pretense for heroes holding themselves back, tacking shots in safe places that while painful would not be life-threatening. Even the ghost’s living body had known how to fight dirty. A hero like Endeavor, an outlier among his peers, fought to maim and destroy. Knowledge that had served a boy good in the streets and underground fight clubs he had been sent to, looking for scrapes. Places that had come to know Ghost’s name and what that preluded. 

Therefore, while Shinsou attacked and searched for weaknesses in the limited places he could, he did not survey the whole totality of the creature ahead of him. Even a cheap shot at Ghost’s face, which had been reinforced not to break apart as Shinsou’s mask had from Ghost’s prior two attacks, hurt Shinsou more, swearing and shaking out his wrists, then it did Ghost. Shinsou, though he could, was not calling upon any more of his knives, blocking every time Ghost swung out his knife to momentarily put distance between them before choosing a different angle to attack from altogether. Just because Shinsou recognized the strategy, and had helped create it, fighting him was no different than fighting anyone else holding themselves back. Because, that was what this was, Ghost fighting for his life, and Shinsou fighting to simply fight. It was why the winner of this duel was predetermined at the start. 

Shinsou fell for a feint, and the knife slice through the fabric on his shoulder, drawing blood at the same time, Ghost brought his foot down on Shinsous’, dropping the hero. When Shinsou lifted his head back up to stare at him, he was met with a blade at the juncture of his neck, now exposed with the ruined capture weapon and broken mask, which didn’t bother Shinsou as he ripped the rest of his mask off, dropping pieces of it to the ground. 

He said, “and here I thought we’d be pulling our punches.” He glanced down at his shoulder where red bled into black, nearly indiscernible.

“Stay out of my life.” 

Shinsou smiled, and spit a mixture of blood and saliva toward Ghost’s boot before he frowned, staring at nothing. “You know you always did remind me of my sister. Both headstrong and resilient. I thought I could help you where I failed her, but,” Shinsou shrugged, “I guessed I’ve failed you both then.”

“I have you beat,” Ghost said, “don’t force my hand.”

Shinsou chuckled, shaking his head, continuing, “I didn’t think much on why Aizawa put us together when he had. It was just to help you. It took me far too long to realize he was trying to help me too, give me back the family that was taken from me that I couldn’t save, that we were more alike then I cared to admit. You know I’m right Ghost, don’t wait until the decision is taken from you. Don’t let someone else tell your story because you cannot. It’ll only make this whole thing worse in the end.” 

“If that is what is to happen, then so be it, but that’s not for you decide.” He pressed the knife down further. It didn’t bleed, but it would leave a line. 

“I’m not scared of you.” 

“Leave.” 

Ghost tightened his grip on his knife. It wouldn’t take Ghost a lot to knock Shinsou out. A quick punch and then he would throw him over his shoulder and take him home. He would probably even still have enough time to clean this place up in case anyone did come in the morning. Shinsou must have expected it, dropping his head back to meet his eyes, blood dripped down his chin from where it was bleeding from his nose. A byproduct of splinter the mask that Ghost had not intended. 

“So, I guess I have my answer then,” Shinsou said, “Shouto truly is dead.”

“He’s been de—

Shinsou’s eyes sparked with something akin to sadness. A shot of electricity went down’s Ghost’s spine. 

“Drop the knife.” 

It fell loosely from Ghost’s grip. 

“On your knees.” 

Ghost fell. 

Shinsou stood, rubbing his jaw. He kicked the knife, which skidded down the floor and out of either of their grasps. “Always ahead of me, huh? Take away a flashy quirk and who are you? A phantom. A forgotten memory no one wanted to forget.” He shook his head. He grabbed Ghost’s chin. “You’ll thank me for this. One day.”

Ghost didn’t bother struggling. He could not. He let red eyes and a metal frown speak for him. 

Shinsou took a deep breath. The purple of his eyes heated until they were glowing. In total darkness, it was sometimes all a villain could see before their brain was wiped, unsettling as a warning to prey already caught. 

“After I leave, you will go to Midoriya. You will tell him the truth.” 

Ghost didn’t nod. He didn’t verbalize in any way that he agreed. Of course, Shinsou didn’t expect him to, only his most weak-minded villains verbalized their capture. However, once controlled, Ghost had only ever watched one person be able to break the mind control.

Shinsou frowned, dropping his hand from Ghost’s jaw. He whispered, for himself, for Ghost, for the phantoms that always listened in the shadows. “It’s going to be alright. I know, I know, you don’t think it will be, but I can’t let you kill both of my friends. Not again.”

Shinsou took a step back. He grabbed his broken mask off the ground. He parted one last look at Ghost. “When it’s done, don’t contact me. I don’t want to see you.” 

Shinsou walked away. 

Shinsou was a good opponent. An easy man to admire. They had been forced to train together when they were both seventeen with bruised egos, promising secrets for secrets. Perhaps, if Ghost had a face, it would be wet, recognized the weight, left pressing on his heart. 

But whereas Shinsou worked alone out of convenience and the traditions that dictated him to, those were not Ghosts’ reasoning, which the hero knew. When Shinsou took off his mask, no one died. 

A small buzzer went off. Ghost felt his fingertips one at a time. Carefully, he uncurled his fingers as his arm and legs began to scream from the shock to his system, paralyzing oneself was not without cost. The top half of his body tipped forward, while his breathing came out in short puffs, contained and invisible. It was easier to stay in this bowed position with his head resting on the carpet. How easy it was to fall into it after all these years to keep back rising panic, only scared because it recognized a wronged occurrence, fearful the hurt would come again. 

When he could, he brought his hands to his chest. He tugged off the glove of his right hand. The wraith he had slid into his palm before, fell to the ground. Simple. He brought his naked hand to his chest, pressing into it. It was near impossible to feel a heartbeat through the layers, but it was there. He counted to it. It was fine. He was fine. Ghost would not die tonight. 

Ghost could solve this case. He had worked harder in the past. He could have, he could have, this temporary life as long as no one got hurt. As long as he remembered who he was. What he was. A hero. A ghost.

He raised a shaky hand to the juncture of his jaw and neck. He pressed down and repeated the process on his other ear. The mask fell off below him. So far removed from the smile it used to at one point emulate.

Earlier that night Midoriya had brought him a snack. A crinkled-up wrapper for a popsicle he got at a convenience store before meeting him on a rooftop. Chocolate and banana. Though they shared no kiss, Midoriya had smiled widely around it when Ghost had recalled it was one of Midoriya’s favorites.

There was a time, in a past life, that Ghost was very different than he was now. A time when he was almost taken out by schoolyard crushes, and the urge, need, to make someone smile because if they laughed, only a little, then suddenly the world was an easier place to live in. That it would be okay if only he could grin. But that was a short period, between a wronged summer vacation and a too-short winter break. Ghost didn’t hide behind pleasantries anymore. If he smiled, it was for no one to see.

Ghost was an idiot for wanting to exist in this momentary warmth longer, extending the inevitable for as long as he could. Shinsou didn’t say it, but easily could have. If Ghost found the missing piece tomorrow that led them to the virus, would he go there directly and save the day or would he keep it to himself, maintain this charade just to have something as innocent as a friend in Midoriya Izuku a little bit longer? The very same corruption that fueled their society, so easily susceptible to him? Even the moon, from time to time, abandoned the night to enjoy the sun’s warmth during the day. Could it be so wrong?

No. 

No. 

He hadn’t been so far corrupted. If Ghost solved the case tomorrow, the case would be solved. A few more days, a few more handshakes, and then he would say goodbye and farewell to this respite he had found here in the pro heroes of Tokyo. But where it was easier to leave Aizawa and Shinsou, who must have always prepared for his abandonment on some level, leaving Midoriya again would not be so easy. 

Not because Ghost didn’t think he could deal with it all again, he could. It wasn’t nearly as bad as last time—their time together was a fraction of what had been nearly a full year. The real issue lay in everything Ghost had already given away freely without preamble or prejudice. All the small pieces that made up Ghost, that made up the boy Midoriya missed all the same. Unorganized now but with time and fervor the picture would come into focus. Midoriya would see what he had been missing thus far.

Shinsou was right. It was only dumb luck that Midoriya hadn’t decided to focus more on the pieces of himself Ghost had freely given away. How interlocking they really were once placed altogether. There was a chance that Midoriya would never figure it out, but if Ghost ran, leaving all these pieces, Midoriya would put it together then. He’d chase him just as he had before with twice as many clues. He’d stay up night after night in his Tokyo office where he’d find out. 

Alone. 

Ghost couldn't accept that. Therefore, 

Todoroki Shouto had to live.

He had to be someone else entirely. 

Only then would Ghost survive.

Chapter Text

It was a moonless night. The stars were kept at bay by charcoal clouds tinted by orange streetlights. A slight reprieve from the rain, though humidity hung in the air, making skin-tight costumes even tighter and metal faceguards almost impossible to keep correctly in place. 

Izuku faltered on a rooftop, awaiting orders, and scanning sidewalks and alleyways. In his ear others were giving their position, clearing streets west and north of him. 

Bakugou said, “get a move on nerd.” 

Bakugou said, “clear again, I swear if this fucker.”

Bakugou said, “He’s not getting away—

                                                                       “Nerd.” 

                                                                                                                      “…catch him…” 

“I’m on my way.”

“Deku.” 

“I’ve got him in sight,” Izuku said, springing over the ledge, catching the next rooftop and the next. “Intercepting now.” 

“Don’t!” 

“…backup coming.”

“…vigilant…”

“—ll on sight.”

It was a moonless night; the air was stale. Not a drop of moisture to be felt. It made skin-tight costumes tighter and a metal faceguard almost impossible to keep on his face, especially while running when the only relief was the artificial breeze it created. 

Ahead Izuku’s target turned, catching sight of him. No wind to catch the strands of red. 

“I’m intercepting.” 

Shouto darted away from the buildings. Izuku landed on the first tuft of grass he saw. It squelched when he landed, swollen by the latest rainfall—it crunched under his feet, dry from August heat. Izuku took off sprinting. They were in a park. He rattled off the name of it in his intercom. The responses were fragmented calls to stop. To heed. To not go in alone. 

Bakugou said, “we’re doing this together.”

He passed a plastic playground. The yellow slide was covered in graffiti. A white ghost glowed amongst the black words calling for change. The swings creaked on rusty hinges, and a sandbox lay rotting. Red and white continued through to the trees. To the dirt bike trail, passing the rows of purple flowers with dark black centers. 

“Come in Deku. I repeat come in Deku. Are orders are to—”

Kill on sight ?

                                                                                               Kill?

Kill?

Izuku crushed the simple device and dropped the remains at the entrance of the trail. Ahead at the first bend, blue eyes surveyed him but did not stop. Izuku took off running again, but no matter how fast he went, Shouto stayed out of grasp. He didn’t use his quirk. He didn’t need to. Born better. Born to be a hero. 

The trees broke away, casting moonlight in steady concentrated beams, making his target glow. 

It was a moonless night. Snow hung in the air, sparkling like stars. It was sticky with humidity. There was a footbridge ahead. Across from it was a jungle of skyscrapers and places to hide. A place to get lost. 

Izuku pushed himself to go faster. To be better. Shouto stopped at the apex of the bridge. He turned. There was no light. He glowed.

He said,  “Don’t I have a right to mourn?” 

He tipped over the—

“Don’t I have a right to mourn,” Touya asked, dripping wet. White and red. Blue and angry. “He was someone to me, after all. My baby brother.” 

Izuku stumbled back. Touya leaned forward on the railing. When he turned back, it was Shouto, contemplating Izuku.  

“Izuku?” 

Shouto’s brows furrowed. He raised his arm as if to reach out to him. Izuku raised his to match it. If only he was closer. If only he could—

“It’s on your hands.” Touya leaned too far over the railing, teetering for a desperate moment to give Izuku enough time to hope that when he reached out he could grab him. 

“Hero,” Touya spat the words, letting gravity take him over the side.

Shouto was silent as he descended. They both—

Izuku sat up. Blackwhip snapped back to his palm. His office was bright and alien. Across from him, the mural hit the ground, falling forward with a slap. A cursory glance at the rest of the place showed that the damage stopped at that. Izuku rubbed his sore hand along the ridges and bumps that had long since ruined it.

On his desk, the case file had been pushed to the side. Despite going to school with more than half of the targets, Izuku knew embarrassingly little about any of them nowadays. He needed to catch up in case things turned sour in the upcoming investigation, not that Ghost would let it get that far. It was a reconnaissance mission. There would be no fight. Still, it was good information to have, and Izuku could never be criticized for not being too prepared. 

If only that was what he was focusing on before he fell asleep. 

Ahead of him, no longer acting as his nighttime pillow, was an unfinished notebook and a tauntingly blank page. Izuku shut it. He woke his computer back up. He focused on the mission at hand. He did not think or wonder about a Todoroki.

Their first night at a new fight club had been near pointless. A fact that Bakugou grumbled about as soon as they were out of earshot. He then asked Izuku if he had contacted the Hero Commission yet. He didn’t like Izuku’s answer. A curt, “be sure to get on with it,” in response. Izuku didn’t know how much longer the excuse of being busy would last. Bakugou knew his schedule just as well as Ghost did. He knew that if Izuku was as invested in this problem with Touya as much as he was, Izuku would have gone looking for it. Whatever Bakugou wanted from Touya was still a secret only he knew. Izuku didn’t think that patience would last indefinitely. He would end up dragging Izuku into the Hero Commission’s headquarters and force him to ask. 

And when they denied Izuku entrance?

Bakugou would have his answers then.

It gave Izuku hives. Even though he didn’t know what Bakugou was looking for, nothing good came from returning to the Touya situation. All it would do was expose more demons. The eldest Todoroki was like that. A cruel snake, clever with words. It benefitted no one to seek him out, least of all Izuku.

A brush came under his nose, tickling it and causing him to sneeze. He narrowed his eyes at Ghost, but the other hero's focus was on the makeup spread across the second desk in the office. He patted a pink pan with a different brush than the one that had just assaulted his nose. 

He said, “I don’t think I’ve ever been around you this long without you talking.” He swept the brush along his cheekbones. “Something on your mind?” He brought it to his other cheek. 

Tonight Izuku was tasked with trailing Sato and Haruki. Bakugou would handle the other two if they were there—currently, getting ready in his own office; they wouldn't be arriving together so as to not raise any unnecessary suspicion. The only people guaranteed to be in attendance tonight were Haruki and Kuroiro, based on a gambling list of fighters. Further, it did not mean that they would come out onto the floor to talk to anyone, just that they would, at some point, be in the arena, hoping to make the paycheck that their day jobs couldn’t give them.

“Midoriya?”

Ghost tilted his head. Between the makeup brush, the cosmetics that were piled up beside him, and how Izuku could make out a bit of color on the side of his facemask from where he must have tried to scratch his face, he looked ridiculous. 

“I’m good.” Izuku said easily. “Just tired.”

“I see,” Ghost said, setting down the brush and picking another one, slimmer this time with a fanned head. He dusted it back over his cheeks. “If you need to take the night off, it is probable that Bakugou and I can handle the mission on our own.”

“No,” Izuku said, too fast, shaking his head. He was lucky that whatever was on Ghost’s brush didn’t smear across his face. “No. I’m good. I’m ready for the mission.” 

“Okay.”

Ghost set down the fan brush. He picked a couple of smaller ones before deciding on the one he liked the best before picking up another product. He brought it to Izuku’s eyes, working the black coloring into Izuku’s brows to hide the green there.

“You could apply your own disguises too if that would make you feel more comfortable. There are plenty of good videos to follow, and it does get easier with practice.”

“If you don’t want to,” Izuku trailed, chewing his lip. Ghost probably had better use of his time before the mission than helping Izuku get ready. It would benefit everyone if they streamlined the process. 

“That’s not what I said,” Ghost said. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I’m not the easiest person to be around.”

There was shame in his voice if Izuku was listening for it. A quiet shred of fear. Ghost was human. Izuku didn’t know why every time it showcased itself he found himself surprised by it.

Shinsou said that Ghost didn’t make friends and that Izuku would do well to keep that in mind going forward, and he wanted to. Izuku had long since gotten used to keeping people at a distance to not get so attached. But it was hard to put up those same barriers that had kept Izuku well-isolated from newcomers over the years. Ghost wasn’t tenacious or outgoing like Uraraka, and Bakugou to some degree. He wasn’t pushing Izuku or asking him to be someone he wasn’t for the sake of a healthy working relationship.

But, he was a kindred spirit. One that Izuku couldn’t help but gravitate to. 

They were both alone. A fact that Izuku was growing more and more aware of. They didn’t have to be. It was scary, unimaginable, but Izuku had enjoyed his time with Ghost thus far. He could only hope that Ghost was too. That he wanted to be around Izuku too. 

“I’m not either.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” 

“I’m not,” Izuku insisted. “I know it might look like I have it all, and that the life at the top is effortless to maintain, but I scare away more people than I befriend, either by accident or,” he pressed his lips together, searching over Ghost’s knees to the floor, “or on purpose. It’s easier that way.”

Ghost dropped the products back to the table. He didn’t grab anything else. 

“You haven’t pushed me away.”

“I haven’t,” Izuku agreed. They could leave it at that. He almost let the empty air between them compound and change, signaling that they were moving on from the topic. Based on the tightness in his chest, and the way his fingers had begun to tap against his thigh, he wanted to put this small interlude behind them. But Izuku swallowed his discomfort and ignored Shinsou’s warning. If Ghost didn’t want to be Izuku’s friend, so be it. They could still work together, and Izuku would be mindful to put the distance between them that he had done with several others until now.

But if Ghost wanted a friend, needed someone new, without judgment or preamble, then the least Izuku could do was offer it—as if it didn’t benefit him too.

“I wanted to talk to you about that, actually,” Izuku tried. Ghost hadn’t moved. A practiced immobility that had kept him safe. Izuku couldn’t mimic it, clenching and releasing his fist, releasing a breath, and then turning away from the floor to face Ghost head-on. Ghost was already there to meet his gaze. Izuku hoped that he was expecting this. He hoped that he wasn’t, that he hadn’t already come prepared to say that this was all an act, and that he didn’t think any differently about his relationship with Izuku than without. “It’s about something Shinsou said to me—well less about what he said to me and more about how I want to hear it from you first before I cast any judgements.”

Ghost remained stoic. Slightly, he leaned back. Only slightly. His voice was tight, gruff, mechanical. It had been a while since Izuku heard it like that. 

“What did Shinsou tell you?”

The tone was enough to make Izuku want to take it back and change topics. Ghost had secrets. A closet full. Shinsou was right in that sense. No one could get close to Ghost without risking unveiling them. But Izuku had not gotten this far in life by cowering and retreating when things got hard, usually at the detriment to himself. However, he rather know now then keep wondering about days in the future.

“That you don’t make friends,” he said, “that you don’t have the capacity to want to.” He chewed his lip, losing his nerve to maintain eye contact with the underground hero. “But I was thinking, hoping really—it’s silly—that maybe we were friends?” He frowned at how the question formed. Swallowed. Hardened his disposition. “I want to be your friend.”

A moment of silence, and then a question.

“That’s all?”

Izuku was thankful he had a layered face, to cover up the springtime blush, blossoming on his face, though there was nothing to say of his unprotected neck. Ghost’s tone was less confrontational now. It may have even skewed a little teasing. He had stopped leaning away from Izuku, waiting now for Izuku’s response to that. The head tilt was back too. Though, Izuku couldn’t tell if that was because he was trying to catch Izuku’s eye again. 

“Don’t make me sound ridiculous,” Izuku said.

“It is ridiculous,” Ghost said, reaching back toward the desk. He picked up a pan of glitter. “It’s been years since anyone ever told me they were going to be my friend.”

“You and Shinsou-kun are friends.”

Ghost took a moment to drop the pan before taking the glove off his left hand. “We’re more so convenient work acquaintances. I don’t think he would still choose to be saddled with me if he had a different option in life.”

Izuku could not speak for Shinsou, but he doubted that was true. While their relationship was unconventional, it would be difficult for anyone to walk away from someone they had known for years. But that wasn’t for Izuku to decide and while he wanted to dig deeper and assure Ghost that that wasn’t true, he didn’t. The only person Izuku could speak to was himself and what he wanted to do and would do. 

“I would,” Izuku said. He kept eye contact with Ghost this time. “I want to be your friend as long as you want to be mine.” 

Izuku wasn’t exactly sure if he had ever declared the sentiment so outright. Maybe to Bakugou when they were younger to get it through his thick skull that Izuku wasn’t going anywhere. However, with Ghost, he thought it best that they both needed this, needed the assurance that it was okay to relax around one another, that this wasn’t just a working relationship, and that it could be more if Ghost wanted it. Again, Izuku had no qualms with the fact that when Ghost sighed, wiping his fingers in the glitter, and telling Izuku to close his eyes, if the next words out of his mouth were going to be a parroting of what Shinsou had told him in the bar. If he said, no.

But, instead.

“I’m not against it,” Ghost said. His finger was cool against Izuku’s eyelid. “But I need to show you something first before you decide that you want something like me as a friend.”

He moved on to Izuku’s other eye. Delicate with each movement. 

Izuku said, “you’re not a thing. You’re a person. You deserve to have good things too.” Izuku reopened his eyes. 

“Maybe,” Ghost settled on, taking his hand back. “But my point still stands. You need to understand something first before you agree to anything with the likes of me.”

Izuku nodded. It wasn’t a no. Izuku would take it as the positive it was. He believed his sentiment earlier. Save for a drastic reveal, there was very little Izuku could see as being a large enough hurdle to not want to be considered Ghost's friend. Murder, maybe, but Izuku trusted Ghost enough to know that if it had come to that, Ghost would have had a good reason to kill. Izuku squeezed his lips together. Likely, whatever Ghost needed to show him was a small part of why he was the way he was. Not the full picture. Not yet. But a glimpse as to why he thought he needed to be the type of hero he was. Izuku was grateful that he thought Izuku was worthy enough to know. 

“Well,” Izuku said, “I’m free later tonight. If it’s not too much, you could always come over to my apartment and talk about it there. It might be nice to get a change of scenery.”

Ghost flipped the lid on the glitter closed. It clicked shut. 

“Okay, Midoriya,” he whispered, “Let's plan on that.”

Katsuki pushed the bodies that pushed into him as he was led to the “secret” basement of the club. It was dark. It stank. Somehow more people were plastered body to body, crawling up and down the narrow staircase, hanging off one another, breathing down each other's necks. A few came for him too, but he shouldered onwards. Degenerates. 

There was some leeway in the masses when he finally hit the ground floor but not much. It seemed like this place was the smallest one they had come to yet. They weren’t even trying to feign at having a center arena. In its place was a cage. Two occupants were inside, taking turns shoving each other into the chainlink. The current unlucky chump, getting their cheek sliced open, having got too close to the table that observed him with jeers. The other fighter pulled him away and tossed him to the ground. There was a smattering of cheers but for the most part, the other guests of this place were not engaged with the actual purpose of the establishment.

Shadowed booths took up much of the periphery, covering the men who scoped this place out. Though he’d be loath to admit it to them, Izuku and Ghost’s assumption that they would find their mole here was sound. Unlike dark alleyways and criminal hideouts, there was neutrality about the place that made for brokering deals ideal. What would a hero do if a villain approached them here? Arrest them? As if? It wasn’t as if they wanted people that they where chummy with the local trash either. It was an easy place to turn a blind eye to and foster some more unsavory relationships.

Take Kuroiro Shihai, for example. He was at a table near the cage, though not close enough to touch. There were cups stacked upon cups as the people around him all drank themselves into a stupor. They laughed and cheered and touched one another everywhere, paying no mind to what was happening around them. So lost in their own world, Kuroiro didn’t register the behemoth of a man, cutting through the crowd, stomping his way right toward him. The giant had the courtesy to acknowledge Kuroiro first, earning glazed eyes and a hiccuped smile, and beer down the man’s pants as Kuroiro tried to right himself. In response, the other man reared his arm back, punching Kuroiro in the jaw, and sending him and his chair toppling to the ground. The other people with him all laughed as the brawler continued his impromptu match. All, until, security manifested from the walls, pulling them apart, leaving Kuroiro bloody, bruised, and laughing on the floor.

Katsuki shook his head. If Ghost’s plan was to have them believe that this was a secret double agent, he had another thing coming. All Kuroiro was now, was a drunk, who couldn’t even defend himself from a fight outside of the cage. Katsuki doubted he was making enough inside it either. He wouldn’t be the only one who saw it too. Those shadow people who observed everyone, looking for meat, would see him as the liability that he was. They wouldn’t risk their tight-knit plan on someone like him. 

If Katsuki didn't before, he sure did now. He doubted Ghost’s efficacy to get things done. The whole reason they had to work with him was that he would hasten the process, but so far, from where Katsuki was standing, he hadn’t added anything to expedite it further along. Everything they had done thus far, he and Izuku could have figured out on their own. They were no closer to finding the virus now than they were weeks ago.

Katsuki suspected a reason for this. A reason that was tangential to what Izuku found out when he went to speak with the Hero Commission about Dabi, or rather when they denied Izuku too. Izuku might have been the one who arrested the eldest Todoroki, but Katsuki knew that he didn’t see all the booking process through, that some Hero Commission schmuck would have taken over, and that Hero Commission lackeys were dutifully shit at their job.

But he was rushing on ahead, and he didn’t need Izuku to find out Dabi’s status within Tartarus. Katsuki could get things done himself. Only, he wanted to verify Dabi had been to another place such as this once more. He wanted to see if he could verify Yokai’s total identity here and now before he had to waste time and energy down other avenues, though Katsuki seriously doubted that there were ever two of them. 

Katsuki took another pass around the room as security dragged the man away who had attacked Kuroiro, still giggling on the floor. They led him to a nondescript door that had the closest access to the cage. In the last fight club, it had been rather simple to sneak back there. People weren’t as observant as they liked to think. Only last time, Ghost wasn’t in this room with him. He didn’t know which booth the reaper had decided to make his own among all this, but he was watching. Katsuki could feel it.

Reasonably, Katsuki could also just as well come back another day and get in. But he had never made the habit of avoiding tactics because they were risky. He eyed the rest of the room. In theory, he could just start a brawl with the nearest person right then and there. But with proven success, he would do better to attack another hero here for the night. While the owners could ignore petty criminals and vigilantes, bruising each other's egos, a place like this earned its living on broken heroes. Heroes that could be beaten to shit, but heroes nonetheless. They would need to be kept happy and unprovoked, waiting for their turn to make their cash tonight. 

Katsuki found their second target, Haruki Suzaku, at the bar. Unlike his counterpart, he held himself with a sort of dignity that was beyond what any other fighter here could possess. It was ridiculous. As far as Katsuki was concerned, they were all the same. If a hero had to falter on their morals just because they didn’t believe they were getting a large enough paycheck, then they weren’t deserving of the paycheck. He knew it was an unpopular opinion to have, but the best heroes would still be heroes if they weren’t compensated for their time.

Katsuki placed Deku near him. Unlike Katsuki’s own disguise to heighten his gruffness, Deku’s veered into the territory of being too innocent. His eyes were wider, his face altogether brighter, and his clothes were loose to hide any of his strength. Given the way men and women alike were regarding him that was on purpose. For all these careful tactics as a spy, Ghost sure didn’t seem to mind that Deku was standing out. Only Haruki didn’t care or notice what people commented on about his nearby companion. Further, Deku was too far away from him to intervene once he made out Katsuki’s approach. They each had a target tonight. Katsuki's had a bruised lip. If things went as planned, Deku’s would too. 

He settled himself nice and tight against the bar. Close to Haruki to be annoying, but not so close that he was impeding the other man’s space. The hero didn’t look up from his drink. Katsuki ordered his own. He knew that Ghost and Izuku would caution him to see reason, and would say that he shouldn’t make a scene in case this was their target, but Katsuki didn’t think that path of intention would ever lead them anywhere viable, and if he was correct, then what he discovered in the back room was much more important. The quicker he could confirm Yokai was solely Dabi, the quicker he could circle back on Izuku, and the quicker they could deal with the fallout of it. Everything else would fall into place afterward of which Katsuki was certain.

Katsuki pressed closer toward Haruki, earning a scoff from the other man. 

“You got a problem, buddy?”

Haruki’s eye’s drifted toward him. “Get lost, newbie.” 

“I would have thought heroes would have better attitudes.” 

Haruki’s expression narrowed. Had Katsuki been a common snake, runt, he might have been moved by it. But Katsuki had faced far greater opponents than the likes of the man beside him. 

“What if I wanted an autograph?”

“I’d suggest you go,” Haruki said. 

“Or what?” Katsuki said, “You think you can arrest me? You think you can?”

Haruki released his glass right when a new voice entered the fray. Not from anyone around them, but through the small speaker, hidden in the earring he was wearing on his left ear, only loud enough for him. 

“Disengage. Midoriya will take it from here.” 

Katsuki didn’t spare a glance to search out the ghost. It was as he thought before, he was being watched by the man.

“You ain’t nothing special,” Katsuki continued. “Anyone can win a fight that’s rigged.”

“You better be ready to back that shit,” Haruki said, standing. He was taller than Katsuki. Katsuki didn’t ease from the bar, surveying him with mild interest, and while he was wearing layers of makeup and was otherwise disguised, Katsuki let his mouth stretch open into its most comfortable sneer. The one that got slighted people to instantly react. 

“You wanna make a bet?”

“Back off now,” Ghost said. 

“Because you type of heroes are the ones that disgust me the most. A bunch of hypocrites.”

There was a reason Haruki was ranked so poorly. He telegraphed his punch so obviously that Katsuki had time to steal a sip of a drink that had appeared before him, set it down, stretch out his hands, and then raise his arm to block the hit aimed for his face. His grin was reflected in the glare of the other.

Ghost swore. 

Katsuki dropped Haruki’s failed punch, causing him to stumble out of stance. While he was falling back, Katsuki took the opportunity to punch him in the gut. Haruki didn’t get a chance to counter as Katsuki reared back his other arm, getting him in the shoulder this time. The group of nobodies around them began to take noice, losing interest in the fight they were actually here for to gawk at a man bold enough to attack a hero unprovoked.

Katsuki was ready to aim his next punch to Haruki’s face, who was doing a bad job at raising his arms to even protect it when a large hand grabbed his shoulder, yanking him back. Another man stepped between him and Haruki, ending the fight for good. Katsuki pulled away from the guard.

“They letting any scum into this place now?” Haruki said behind him. “This wasn’t part of my contract.” 

“The boss will compensate you.” 

“Compensate me? He nearly broke my rib.” 

“Get over here, and I’ll try harder this time,” Katsuki said, causing both men to press against him. 

Haruki ignored him, spiraling. “No, no, no. I was doing you all a favor. Get another hero to pick on.”

And just like that, they had their answers as to whether or not Haruki was working with the enemy. He started to push his way through the crowd toward the exit. No villain would just as easily let him go unless they wanted to risk information out, and, despite this attack, Haruki would’ve been more scared of them, than having to deal with a little bit of opposition.

“So now what, guys,” Katsuki drawled, “you going to let me finish my drink?”

“You have a lot of nerve,” one man said. “You’re so itching for a fight, a fight you’ll have. Haruki-san was the closing act. You’ll make do.”

“Lead the way,” Katsuki said. Both men pressed close to either side of him, pushing him toward where they had brought the last person idiotic enough to fight a hero. He pointedly ignored where Deku was, knowing he was attempting to push past the crowd to intercept, but it was too dense for him to do so.

Meanwhile, Ghost was in his ear, making promises. Katsuki didn’t need them and didn’t bother trying to attempt to tell him to fuck off either. This was working all exceptionally well. One of the guards grabbed his arm. The other one left to go back to his post, playing watchdog. Once Katsuki got through the door, he would find the answers he needed and be done with this place. If Deku and Ghost knew what was good for them, they wouldn’t stick around to see this sham of a plan continue either.

The guard opened the door. He shoved Katsuki on ahead, following him in. The door fell loudly behind them. To the right of them was a wall. To the left was a long hallway. A long empty hallway.

“Get going. You don’t make what you’re owed tonight, you’ll be seeing a lot of this place.” 

Katsuki spun. He didn’t give the man time to react to him, pressing his full hand to his chest to muffle the sound of the explosion, though the following punch to the man’s unguarded head was what really dropped him. Katsuki was running before the body hit the floor. He wouldn’t have long before someone figured out that their buddy was down for the count. He had minutes to find an office or storage closest that would have the viable information. Only when he reached the option to go right or left, left proved a new viable option that he couldn’t ignore. 

There were a photos here. A rows of them. Akin to the hall of portraits of the Number One Heroes that the Hero Commission had up in their agency, though less grand and with more suitable information for him now. It was a wall of victors, of their stats and triumphs. A trophy wall. 

Katsuki kept his pace, searching for Dabi, Yokai, or Touya. For a nameplate with no face, picking up his gait as he neared the right year, the right name.

There was a shout somewhere behind him. They had found the body. He wouldn’t have a lot of time. A quick look. A quick picture. Another fight. Then escape. 

That was the plan. 

Easy for a hero. 

Easy for a pro. 

He could prove just as well that they could get this done without the underground hero, without his secrets and hidden identities that suggested too much, suggested something terribly wrong.

A shock of white hair caused him to slow. Up high and hard to see outright. Easy to miss. Katsuki slowed, taking out his phone and craning his neck up, ready to see Dabi. Ready to see his moniker.

Dabi’s photo was not on the wall.

We’re friends, right Katsuki-kun?   Asked with a voice of a person who knew he had irritated him on the cadence of it alone. Katsuki had reared back on him, told him to stop walking so close, and demanded to have him try to say that shit again. The other wouldn't smile. He didn’t smile. But there was humor in his eyes. Mirth. He'd say, what’s wrong with Katsuki? Or do you actually prefer that your friends call you Kacchan? 

And Katsuki wouldn’t know what to say to that because people did not willingly become friends with him. They cowered in fear ahead of him and stayed near because they figured it was a safer place to be. There were other anomalies in UA. Other people who had stubbornly become his friend, but somehow he was the most surprised by this one.

And yet, we’re not friends. I don’t even like you.

“Ah, I see,” Shouto had said with that same light voice, betrayed by the slight dip in his lip. But Katsuki was too stubborn to take it back then. He didn’t have friends. He had begrudging acquaintances. Companions he could trust once they became real heroes, and he became the Number One. Not whatever they were then. Especially not two dumbasses who couldn’t even pass their hero licensing exam.

“Fuck,” Katsuki said, staring at the picture of Shouto. It was faded gray. Shouto didn’t smile. He had a bruised lip and a cut about his eye. Underneath him was a tally beside his name that Katsuki couldn’t read because his age said 16. 16 and gone. Never to come back. “Fuck.”

And Katsuki was 16 and irritated because Midoriya was out, and he was stuck at UA, waiting for the surveillance to be done, waiting for the go-ahead that they could move with the least amount of casualties—they were wrong. It was a lie. It was a stupid con. 

“Midoriya wants to save Shigaraki, you know.”

“Of course, he does,” Katsuki said. They were on the back porch of the mock UA dorms. In minutes Glasses would be coming over to ridicule them and demand they go back indoors. Midoriya would be back soon. He had Cheeks and a few other of their classmates. He would be fine. “Deku’s always seen the best in people.”

“Would you save him?”

Katsuki’s attention snapped from the horizon to the boy next to him. Perhaps because Katsuki would grow beyond this night, Shouto’s youthfulness was always harder to remember. Rounder. With fewer lines to convey years. Not unscarred or unburdened, just a kid. 

“What are you on about? You don’t think I know Deku’s better than me?”

“I didn’t say that.” 

“Then what?”

“Would you,” Shouto pressed. He hadn’t taken his gaze from beyond UA, and the wall that stood there, keeping villainy out, keeping them in. So, Katsuki did too, and, and, he thought. With everything he knew about Shigaraki, could he forgive him? The man had kidnapped him, but that seemed a minor thing compared to the destruction the world was facing right now. He had attacked his friends. He had tried to kill them. He wanted Izuku dead, even if Izuku wanted to save him.

But Shigaraki was a victim too, and while that couldn’t dismiss all of his actions under All for One, it did muddy the waters. Was victory the same thing, if it cost the life of their opponent? Ultimately, it wouldn’t be Katsuki’s to decide. It might have been cowardice, but he would refer the answer to the obligation to Izuku. He would support Izuku’s choice. 

But Shouto wasn’t looking for what Izuku would decide when faced with his villain, he already knew that answer, he was looking for Katsuki’s. 

“It’s not that simple,” Katsuki said because it wasn’t. There would always be variables. “But, yeah, if I could and if I knew it was possible, I would want to save him too.”

It wasn’t the easier option. It involved forgiveness and believing people could be changed or wanted to.

Shouto backed away from the railing on the porch. He turned away from the horizon, stepping into the shadows that clipped the building.

“You don’t have to,” Katsuki said to his turning back. “No one’s telling you that you need to be the one to save your brother.” 

“Yeah, but,” Shouto frowned. He was a lot like Deku in a way, able to see the good in others when most other people would cast them aside. His brother had tried to kill him and would have too if their dad hadn’t collapsed when he did. No one would blame Shouto for not trying. Only, Shouto finished, “Touya’s never been my villain to defeat.”

Katsuki didn’t take it as Shouto was willing to let Dabi go. The man was too dangerous to just let walk free. But Dabi had survived his fight with Endeavor and Shouto. He had killed his dad and threatened Shouto, scared him so badly that Shouto walked away completely and somehow ended up here. A face on a wall. A nameless number. Used and be used. To end up dead regardless of life. No questions on whether he was worthy of being saved too. 

Katsuki wondered if Dabi knew this. If he had tracked his brother down and found him attacking other heroes now and teased him for it. The number by Shouto’s name was small. There was no alias where there could have been one. Perhaps it had only been a brief stint. A way to pass time before moving on to the other thing, surviving the only way he knew how. 

Maybe Shouto found out Dabi had been a fighter here as well, knew of his legacy, and ran even farther away from a possible connection. Whatever the case, Katsuki was glad it seemed Shouto didn’t stare here too long, he wasn’t meant for cheap arenas and dirty tactics. He was supposed to be with them at UA. He was meant to be a proper hero.

“Hey! You!”

Katsuki whipped his head to the side, but a man was already too close. Another coming in from the other side. Another was already at his back, tugging him. Belatedly he recognized the tattoo on the closest person’s neck. A snake. They snarled and hissed with many others coming to their aid, filling the space. Utterly surrounded with only one way out. 

He ignited. 

Izuku was ready to follow Bakugou as he was dragged out of the room, walking and deciding on an excuse, that wasn’t as terrible as his mistaking the room for the bathroom. His target, meanwhile, had already escaped. No brave men in the face obstruction. No other heroes in sight. Their strenuous plan would be broken as soon as Bakugou got made. If he got made. Izuku didn’t know what Bakugou’s punishment was going to be, but he knew they were supposed to keep a low profile with or without Bakugou’s identity coming to light. 

“Shit,” he said, under his breath, though a nearby man eyed him with a raised brow. These people around them were not petty crooks. They were not just morally gray vigilantes. Izuku recognized hardened villains in the faces between them. People who would pay real money to kill a hero for the fun of it. The heroes that were here for work must have been promised some sort of protection. Protection that Bakugou violated the moment he attacked one of them. 

And now? 

Izuku did not know. He did not know whether security planned to throw him out, make him pay, or bring him to the owner of the establishment. He did not trust Bakugou to maintain his low profile on the other side of that door, not after all this. Still, they were partners. Maybe not official ones anymore. But Izuku would not turn his back on him. He would not abandon him here and now.  

A person stepped in front of him. When Izuku went around him, they mirrored it. 

“Follow me.” 

Izuku didn’t. They went right. He went left. The door was still his ultimate target. It earned him a heavy hand on his arm. A deep voice in his ear and a demand. “Follow me, hero. Unless you want your cover made too.” 

Other bodies pushed against him. The crowd celebrated a woman in the cage. Her opponent was near unmoving under her feet, bleeding profusely. The dark figures, sitting behind curtains, regarded them all. The few that held power, held the leash to the yakuza, to the lead that was their target. Hero Deku and Hero Dynamight could survive this lion’s den. They could emerge from this place victorious. But he could not say that their identities would remain unknown to it. They’d lose their real goal in the aftermath.

The man dropped his arm. He turned away from him before Izuku could make out a face. Enemy or friend. A person who knew Izuku and that was all that mattered. They did not push away the men and women who whispered against their arm. Others eyed them warily, stepping out of the way. It wasn’t recognition, only the presence of someone lethal. Izuku kept that in mind. Ducked between a closing wall of skin as the other kept their path forward. No spare glance as they decided on a side door and disappeared through it. 

Izuku reached it, pausing at the handle. To his left a group of men clad in black all straightened, heads bent to whisper amongst themselves. Izuku glanced behind him to see other security guards in similar positions. The ones who hesitated by the door Bakugou had disappeared into.

“It’ll be okay, Midoriya.” Ghost said, quiet in his ear. “Trust me.”  

Izuku had to believe in that, which left him only with the person who threatened his identity. He opened the door. A dark hallway met him. Empty as the door on the far side of it closed. He started to jog. He didn’t pause, ripping it open to reveal damp, plastic bags and a dumpster. Not far down the alley, the man leaned against a wall, talking on the phone. When the door fell shut behind Izuku, he dropped his arm, pushed off the wall, and started to walk again. Away from the club.

“Hey, wait up,” Izuku called.

The man didn’t. He pulled something off his head, from under a hood, dropping it into a puddle. Izuku hurried to catch him, hesitating at the muddy white wig. On the way, the man ahead of him pulled another object down his face. He hurried after. The man kept his distance. Kept up the charade. Kept walking straight. Izuku bit his lip, squeezed his fist, and then launched himself forward. He grabbed the man’s arm and pulled, just as the man dropped his hood.

It caused Izuku to stumble, falling to the ground. 

“Ghost?”

Red eyes met him, fixing the mouthguard to his face.

“We need to go.”

An explosion rocked the streets. Izuku turned. Hands splayed against wet concrete. Fire shot from the roof in an inferno cylinder, quickly followed by smoke.

“ Kacchan .” Izuku’s heart met his throat. It clogged it. He barely felt two arms wrapped around his chest, pulling him up. He was only mildly aware that he struggled against Ghost once they were both upright. “We need to go back. He needs our help.”

“Dynamight made his choice,” Ghost said, far colder than Izuku had heard him sound in weeks. “We can’t afford exposing you both.”

Izuku pushed against his arms. He didn’t need to apply his quirk to escape. To run right back into danger. To save the day. To be a hero.

“I’m not leaving him behind.”

Ghost sighed, adjusting his hold on Izuku, and bringing his left arm up. Izuku saw names, coordinates, and messages.

“Hawks is en route. He’ll have backup in less than ninety seconds,” he hissed, “we cannot be here when the police arrive. If it’s documented that Hero Deku and Ghost were both on the scene, we don’t get another chance at this.” Another burst of flames leaped from the building. “This is what we planned for,” he continued, “contingencies.”

Izuku watched the fire rise. Heard the sirens in the distance, and the swell of a crowd, panicked and scared. Every instinct in him burned to go forward. Sweltered by the unnatural coolness from where his back pressed into Ghost.

“He will be okay.”

Izuku knew that. Bakugou could fight his way out of anything. But there was the morality of it. To sacrifice another in order to live to see tomorrow (to save tomorrow). Ghost tugged him back. Followed by another step. A broken piece of Izuku’s heart’s disposition broke further. Accepted what he was not.

It was late when Ghost dropped him back off at his apartment, disappearing out the window as quickly as he came, asking before he broke the threshold, for Izuku to rest. Izuku didn’t bother responding with a lie, finding a clean spot on his couch, and turning on the tv. For a dreadful hour, the news hadn’t caught wind of what was happening, deep in the inner city. But once they did, it was Hawks smiling to the cameras while a building sat smoldering behind him, placating the viewers. He caught Bakugou’s arm when he was about to cut across the street.

“I couldn’t have done it without the newest member of my agency,” Hawks said. Bakugou’s wig had disappeared, but his contacts remained golden and unnatural. Scraps and blossoming bruises littered the bit of skin exposed. “As you know, Shimmer continues to be a problem; however, with the raid tonight, it’ll take some time for the yakuza to recover.”

Izuku searched Bakugou, who kept his eyes down, scowling. He said nothing to rebuttal it. A simple cover-up. Izuku wondered who was more upset by this development, him or Bakugou. It wasn’t in Bakugou’s nature to pretend he was less great than he was. 

However, when Bakugou did glance up, catching sight of someone beyond the camera, it wasn’t blatant anger on the other’s face for being caught mid-mission, but something more striking. Almost fear. Like he had seen something far worse in those halls than drugs and tattooed snakes.

Izuku itched to ask what it was. He wasn’t about to just sit here and let the night carry on like this now that the deed was done, and Izuku was protected by the lie Ghost forced them to create. There were shadows in Bakugou’s eyes, ones that Izuku shouldn’t readily ignore. He didn’t know if it was his place anymore to interfere, but Bakugou knew something. Izuku didn’t know if it correlated with what he wanted to know about Touya or not. It didn't matter. He could attempt to help.

He stood up from the couch, ready to make his way to his door and find Bakugou when the glass panel of his window slid up. A manilla envelope hit the floor. It was followed by a pair of black boots. Ghost didn’t comment on Izuku’s inability to listen to orders, taking in the tv before taking him back in, clearly having abandoned it. Between them, the reporter discussed what transpired. A fairytale. 

“I didn’t think I’d see you anymore tonight,” Izuku said, not bothering to hide the sneer, “keeping up appearances and all that.”

Ghost bent to retrieve the envelope he came with, dusting it off before walking behind the couch toward the kitchen.

“You want something to drink?” 

Ghost didn’t seem uncomfortable with the fact that he had never been here before, that this was Izuku’s house, and his choice whether or not he wanted to play host. 

“I could have just as easily fit into that lie,” Izuku continued, following him into the opening of the room. Ghost set the envelope down. He didn’t regard Izuku. “Best Jeanist and Hawks' agencies work together all the time. Given the scale, it would have made sense for me to be there. I should have been there.”

Ghost opened a cupboard, getting plates; he closed it and tried another. Izuku didn’t bother telling him where the cups were, not until he explained himself. Only on the fourth try did Ghost find green tea, relaxing against the counter as the kettle brewed.

“Dynamight was compromised the minute he was brought to the back,” Ghost said, “there was nothing I could do.”

“Bullshit,” Izuku said. “You left him behind. Why?”

“The mission takes priority. As soon as he decided that it wasn’t his priority, I contacted Hawks. He and Best Jeanist knew the protocol and enacted it as soon as the signal was sent. I didn’t abandon anyone.”

“We still could’ve stayed! Helped. The whole building is gone. Not to mention the number of civilians who were hurt because it takes time for first responders to save people. People we could have helped if we stayed.”

The tea kettle whistled. Ghost made no move to retrieve it.

“You’re right we could’ve stayed,” he said, “and the press would’ve eaten up the ‘Dynamic Duo’ saving the day together. By morning you’d both be taken off of patrols to do talk show segments, and the last couple bumpy months would’ve been a thing of the past. One doesn’t go without the other, that is what they would say. What Kurono would think, tell his lackies, and his masked partner. Bakugou’s recklessness set us back—I was only trying to salvage a bad choice from a worse outcome.”

He grabbed the kettle off the burner, seeping the tea. “I can’t do this alone. I need your help in order to catch the culprit. If you and Bakugou both were caught tonight, there’s a strong chance in a couple months we’d have a pandemic on our hands. Try as I might, I’m not infallible—I am not afraid of asking for help.”

Izuku fell silent. While Ghost had two cups, and filled them both, he only took one, retrieving the envelope and stepping past Izuku to go back to the living room. He sat in the chair beside the couch, tucked his legs into his chest, to rest his head on his knees. A million other accusations danced on Izuku’s tongue, none strong enough to ask. He stared at the steaming cup left for him. 

“I’ll debrief Dynamight in two days. Maybe he found a lead before he started fighting. Maybe all he did was slow down the yakuza’s supply chain, but after tonight, he’s off the case. It’s just you and me,” he paused, eyes drifting to the tv where they replayed a hero, fighting a gang member. “I’m sorry.”

Ghost’s dejection was new. Preemptively protecting himself from getting hurt. It dawned on Izuku that Ghost wasn’t satisfied with tonight’s events either. A realization too late. While Ghost and Bakugou never seemed all that close that didn’t mean that Ghost wanted it that way. His and Izuku’s relationship was a testament to that. Izuku should’ve known better, and should’ve recognized the same fear of being abandoned, reflected in the other’s stance. No one truly wanted to be alone, not even an underground hero with a penchant for shadows.

Izuku picked up his tea and walked back to the living room. On the couch, he took a sip of it, careful not to burn his tongue. When he was done, Izuku kept it in his palms, warming them.

“I should be apologizing to you,” he said. “You haven’t led us astray so far, and I know it must have been hard not to go back to help him. We’ll solve this case. Even with this setback,” Izuku tried to smile. He could sense Ghost was going to rebuttal, but Izuku was ready to put it behind him, swiftly indicating the manilla envelope Ghost had abandoned to the table. “What’s that?”

Ghost unfurled one of his legs, slow to pull it closer to him, before getting up altogether and sitting next to Izuku on the couch. He didn’t open it. His fingers danced along the top of it. Focusing on it now, Izuku noted that it was thicker than he originally thought. Stuff full of papers he could not see. He set down the empty teacup, waiting for Ghost.

“This isn’t about the case,” he started softly, “I’m not sure how you’re going to react to it, though.”

That was certainly ominous. Izuku searched the hero. Unusually stiff. Awkward in the warm lighting of Izuku’s living room lamps, and the shapes that were periodically thrown off the tv. Izuku took the opportunity to shut it off, casting them in sharper silence. The last time someone had wanted to talk to him about a secret outside of the case, it was about Touya. Perhaps Izuku was wrong to think Ghost was naive to the true extent of Izuku’s mission back then and was only now ready to confront him about it. 

“It needs to remain confidential,” Ghost stressed, turning to him. Izuku didn’t know how much digital eyes could plead. A mouthless face could beg. Or how a statue of a man could remain totally concealed in shadows, yet completely earnest. “You can’t tell a soul—not even your friends—I’m not.” He took a deep breath. “I wasn’t supposed to find this.”

Izuku swallowed, “then why show me?” 

“Because you deserve to know,” Ghost said. With no more preamble, his finger dug under the folder, opening it. Izuku might have been expecting white hair. He was not expecting red. It escaped his mouth in a contained gasp. His hands moved before his brain could catch up, tugging it closer so he could see what was there. Ghost said nothing, abandoning his hold. 

The top page was a police report. Familiar. Shouto’s school photo sat where it always had. His description, critical and cold. Police work of simple facts, nothing that betrayed actual breathing life. Ironic. It was his missing person’s poster. 

Izuku flipped the page, expecting the one that always came next. The second police report that Detective Naomasa read to him five days in a row as he begged him to understand that there was nothing to be done. That it wasn’t his fault Shouto couldn’t be saved.

What he got instead was a memo and a stamp. But the words were hard to make out. Confusing and wrong, so, so, so wrong. Shaky fingers flipped it, but the next part wasn’t any better. Ghost cleared his throat. 

“You told me once that you can’t help but search for him, no matter how long it’s been,” he started. His hand came to lay overtop Izuku’s, slowing him. “That you couldn’t let him go no matter how many times people told you he was dead.”

The current piece of paper was from the day All for One was defeated. A note of an ardent footprint. The confusion over a broken rib. The way they were brushed aside to maintain the message. A fanciful story meant to raise Izuku up to the highest means.

“I,” Izuku frowned, “I don’t understand.”

Ghost pressed closer to him. Tugged the folder so it was in between them. He flipped over the page, revealing a photo. It was grainy. Taken from a distance. In it, there was a house, a silhouette of a cat behind curtains, perched in front of a large bay window. To the left of it, those same curtains were being drawn. Shadows cut across it, fighting between the streetlights, and the lamps within. But Izuku would recognize red hair and the slight downturn lip anywhere.

He picked up the photo, searching it closer. 

“When was this taken?”

“Four days ago.”

Izuku dropped it. Ghost stared at another photo. Far crisper. Sunglasses and a hat that allowed small wisps of hair to fall on either side of his head. He held an orange.

“No.” A whisper as Izuku slid off the couch, pushing through the next one. Red hair, not white—easy to dye—kept short. Another. Shouto bending to get the mail off a doorstep. A picture. Shouto pulling a coat closer to his neck in the middle of summer. Greeting a cat at the door. 

It was as if Izuku was looking through a portal to a mundane universe. A world in which Shouto lived.

“This isn’t—These can’t be.” A deep breath. “He’s dead . It’s just—just a con. A quirk. We, I, faced them before. People who thought it would be a funny joke,” he shook his head. Ghost remained silent. Ghost, who was diligent in his research. Who knew more about a scenario than anyone. Who wouldn’t have just— “It can’t be.”

“Hey, hey.” Ghost slid to the ground too. He grabbed Izuku’s wrists and pulled them away from the photo he was gripping tight enough to tear. “Midoriya, please. Hey, look at me.”

Against everything, Izuku did. He focused on Ghost’s eyes, The mouthguard that sat part-way up his covered nose. He didn’t know what possessed him, but soon enough Izuku was pushing back the cowl Ghost often wore. It didn’t reveal anything, save for the roundness of his head, the shape of his ears, and the impressions that suggested they were pierced, but it was something.

“I’m sorry,” Ghost said, “I should have done this a different night.”

Izuku was shaking his head before he finished. 

Shouto was alive. Alive . 

Somewhere close enough for Ghost to take a handful of day trips and return to Izuku each night. He wouldn’t have come to Izuku with this unless he was sure, and Ghost had been, earlier that night when they were getting ready when he had told him he had something to show him. What he possessed that he thought would cause Izuku to rescind his wish to be his friend. That he found out about this, and waited, and did not come to Izuku right away with only bits and pieces. He came with everything he knew, Izuku was sure. He had done this for him. Izuku was foolish to be scared of where their relationship stood. 

Izuku found his breathing, refused to look back at the pile of paperwork, and focused on the body he knew. On the person, he did know. Ghost’s eyes flickered around him a moment before he started again. 

“You said you were unsatisfied with the investigation, and I, I don’t know, I thought I could find you some closure on a bad case. Maybe find out why he was under the bridge. If families request it, they can make suicide notes confidential, and well I’ve broken enough confidentiality laws that this one would have been—it doesn’t matter. 

“Todoroki, your Shouto, ran away from school when he was sixteen. He was homeless for a while until something happened. I’m not sure what, but it put him in contact with an underground hero. A good one, erased nearly all their steps. So what I found was only the shadows of something missing, nothing concrete. Whatever the case, the hero helped him disappear.”

“Die,” Izuku said, finding himself clutching both Ghost’s wrists. “He helped him fake his own death.”

Ghost nodded, searching to the side as he continued. “There are easier ways to protect people, but he must have had a good excuse to go through with it. He changed his name, birthday, everything, and moved to a sleepy town two hours south by train. He works from home as a tech specialist and has a cat. They live at the end of a rather secluded dirt road in the hills, overlooking the ocean. It’s pretty. Calm. He goes to town to get groceries and stops for a drink at a small café. The people smile at him. He’s not unknown, but”

“He’s not known either,” Izuku finished, “he’s been hiding for years, alone and afraid.”

“Midoriya.”

“You don’t just run away because you’re not scared of someone finding you. You don’t change your identity. Your livelihood because you think it’s fun. Someone was chasing him. Someone wanted him dead, so he did it before they could get to him.” 

Izuku jumped up. “We have to go! We have to go and see him. Tell him that he doesn’t need to be afraid and that, and that, I’ll protect him. I’ll be his hero.”

“Midoriya,” Ghost raised his hand to grab him again, but held back, hovering. He asked, “did he really seem like someone who would run away because he was scared for his own safety?

“You don’t know that.”

Ghost seemed to consider the answer. “You’re the one who knew him. Maybe you’re right.”

He didn’t sound convinced, and Izuku realized why that was. For all intents and purposes, Ghost was Shouto. Not literally, of course, they led very different lives. Ghost’s experiences as a hero were vastly different from anything Shouto had ever done at UA. But Ghost had also left his family and friends behind in his effort to protect them. He wasn’t scared for himself; he was scared for them. Scared because of villains. Real Ones. The ones who killed with a smile, finding them, and murdering them without pause. Izuku knew of only one villain that Shouto would have believed to hold that power.

“He ran away because of Touya,” Izuku said.

“There’s no evidence that they talked before the incident. Dabi was preparing for war.”

“No,” Izuku said, “when Endeavor died, Touya talked to Shouto then. That's why Shouto left that night.” It was why he was gone now.

“Dabi’s been in jail for years,” Ghost reasoned, “he’s not in danger anymore. There’d be no reason to keep up the charade.”

Izuku bit his tongue. Debated. Then spoke. “He would have if he thought returning meant facing the reactions of his friends. I think he’s scared of that, of disappointing us,” Izuku fell back to the couch, “which is silly. Plenty of us already quit being a hero—the war was too much—I think, I won’t, but you know sometimes it’s nice to pretend. Wonder how much quieter my life would be if I wasn’t a hero.”

“You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if you weren’t a one,” Ghost said, “trust me.”

“Maybe. It is nice, barring being the last line of defense to keep the world from annihilation.” 

He tried to smile for Ghost. Ghost responded by cupping Izuku’s jaw, and rubbing padded fingers under his eyes. Izuku’s vision blurred. It caused more warm tears to roll down his cheek. Ghost removed his hands, and Izuku closed his eyes, silently begging to be alright. Only to open them again when arms wrapped around him, his head brought to the other's chest.

Ghost hugged as if he didn’t quite know what to do. Awkwardly loose but scared to tighten his arms. It was enough. He could feel the other’s heartbeat. It was almost surreal. He kept his focus on that, but it didn’t quell the tears from falling down his face. 

Shouto was alive.

Shouto wanted nothing to do with him.

“When the case is done,” Ghost said, “we can go and see him, or you can go by yourself. His address is in the last bit of paperwork.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. He probably doesn’t want to see me.”

“He probably misses his friends,” Ghost said after a moment. “The people he loves.”

Izuku buried his face deeper into the fabric of Ghost’s uniform. Too gone to worry about ruining it. Ghost’s hold on him tightened. Had it been anyone else, Izuku would have yelped the moment he left the couch. With Ghost, he only strengthened his grip on the back of his shirt, and let Ghost carry him through his apartment to his room. He was gentle when he placed him in bed, slowly taking his arms away. Almost fully removed when Izuku called out, “Wait. Don’t go.” 

Ghost stilled. Izuku pulled himself to the edge of the bed and held out his hand. 

“I can’t. I can’t sleep if I’m alone.” He closed his eyes. “Can you just stay until I fall asleep? Please.” 

Cold fingertips met his own. When Izuku opened his eyes, he watched the second glove fall to the floor. Ghost held his hand with both of his, kneeling on the ground, and eventually leaning against the bed. It was ludicrous. Izuku fought the urge to invite him to bed properly, knowing that the other would most likely refuse.

“I’ll stay,” Ghost said. “I won’t go,” and then, “I promise.”

Chapter Text

Before Ghost was Ghost, he was Shouto.

When he was a kid, Shouto would not admit to having any favorite pastimes. If he suggested to his father that he had enough downtime to curate a hobby, his father would fill it with another training regime. He’d pull Shouto into the dojo, not bothered if he dislocated his son’s shoulder, and turn inferno before Shouto got his feet underneath him.

Therefore, Shouto did not catalog the things he enjoyed. He found he couldn’t name what he liked as his classmates overshared at game nights but that was okay. Shouto was learning to like things again. 

He liked the sunset. No two were the same. Some, violent gripping orange, with white inferno centers, blazing as all fires do. Others played with the clouds, turning blue skies pink and lavender. Not over-encompassing. They shared the nighttime sky with bursts of starlight as they woke.

It was the sunset on the eve of capturing Touya. Shouto allowed himself to believe that it was an ode to something better. A new age of heroism. A new chance for the Todoroki family.

Izuku sat beside him. He hadn’t asked if he could. He simply followed Shouto out when he left. That was okay. Shouto liked Izuku. Izuku shared the same qualities as the sun, breathtaking. A bright place to look when they were unsure. But Shouto hadn’t felt unsure around Izuku in months. A comfortable warmth that unfurled one petal at a time. 

He loved Izuku.

Loved.

Before UA, Shouto hadn’t thought he’d ever be allowed something so trivial. Something unnecessary to being a hero. But now Shouto didn’t think he’d survive if they’d ever have to part, which was scary. Terrifying. 

Overdramatic. He smiled to himself.

Izuku caught it. He caught everything Shouto did. There was liberty in being seen. In being known.

“You should smile more,” Izuku said. “I like knowing when you’re happy.”

Shouto almost admitted that Izuku’s presence made him happy. Izuku made him happy. Made him love. But they were sixteen on the eve of war. He told himself to wait. 

Told Izuku, “When we’re done with this, I have something I want to tell you.”

Izuku looked at him like he already knew, but he didn’t say. Patient for Shouto. In love too, if Shouto believed it—he did.

“Okay, Shouto-kun.” Izuku said, grabbing his hand, “I’ll wait.”

The sun set. 

Shouto’s shoes slapped against wet concrete. He slipped when he turned. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop to catch his breath. Every thundering heartbeat in his ears, brought ringing taunts, the sound of a body falling and not getting back up again. His father was a large man. Unstoppable. The Number One hero. Dead. Abandoned in the night because the son he saw as strong was weak; the weak one, strong. Shouto didn’t stop, kept going until he reached a river, daring to look behind him. Thunder clapped. Lightning flashed. 

He was alone.

“Get a move on kid,” a gruff voice said behind him, “you’re not the only one hungry in this place.”

Shouto didn’t respond, deciding on an apple from the assortment ahead of him. 

Food banks were not neutral ground, especially in the aftermath of war. They were the most logical place people would go if they weren’t in one of the designated safe areas. For villains who were becoming antsy, they were getting targeted pretty frequently. Shouto had no fear for himself, really. But it did just as well to get his meal and go before things turned to shit. 

Shouto moved through the small room, finding a chair and table in the corner. There were a lot more children at this one than the one he was at a few days ago. They sat in front of an electric outlet, taking turns sharing a video game, and eating cookies that were freshly made just for today. Their families looked on with terse expressions. 

There were rumors—misplaced hope perhaps—that All for One was returning to the shadows. He would await the heroes instead of striking now, most likely to amass more strength, and the heroes would wait to strike because they already failed twice in moving first. Because of this, funds were being allocated to rebuild damaged parts of society. However, herodem would not heal so fast. In a place like this, people would just as likely spit on All Might’s shoes than offer him any type of thanks. But it was changing. Shouto could attest to that. There were more people outside. More shops open to customers. Less blatant crime in the daylight.

But just because things were on the precipice of going back to normal, did not mean society was healed. Houses and homes were not to be replaced overnight. Schools did not simply reopen with known villains nearby. People didn’t just wake up one day, deciding that they didn’t need to mourn. They were aching. They were lost. Shouto could relate. 

Shouto wasn’t an idiot. He knew he couldn’t stay in Musutafu, so he didn’t. He had slowly made his way to Tokyo, where he hoped the population of the city would conceal him for good. Like many people here, he did not directly pay attention to the news, playing high in one corner. It was much the same. All of society's success stories with none of the stress of decay. Only at the end did the warnings go out, reminding people of curfews. There was no mention of him and that was all Shouto cared about.

He slipped out of the building, keeping his hood high and his face down. He itched his nose through the black surgical mask he wore and didn’t take it too personally when anyone regarded him with lingering distrust for wearing large sunglasses inside or at night. As far as a disguise went, it was abysmal. But Shouto didn’t have the funds or resources to upgrade it now. 

Right now, all he cared about was verifying that his trail was lost, that he wouldn’t wake up one day to an unwelcome visitor. 

He didn’t know where Touya went. It was for the best. He had shown leniency once. Shouto wasn’t sure if he would the next time he encountered him. Shouto didn’t trust himself not to give up and give in if Touya did decide murder was the best way to deal with the last Todoroki ever stupid enough to claim he wanted to be a hero. Not that Shouto needed his brother to remind him what he was. Shouto already knew that. He did.

Yet for someone dead set on disappearing into a life of bleary mediocrity, he sure had a penchant for getting himself into trouble.

“Help!” 

It was followed by a crash, items toppling over. The same voice began to plead until their voice turned to strangled terror, forcing Shouto to stop at the mouth of an alley. Crime was rampant. Heroes and police far. A normal person would keep walking, run in the opposite direction, maybe call the police. Very few would investigate further. No one with his past would breach the space between street lights and total darkness. 

“Please, help me! Please!” 

Yet, Shouto was moving before the second plea. He didn’t have much on him, save a small bag, which he pulled off his shoulder and threw as soon as he could make out a large man, stalking toward a woman, cornered into a wall. Garbage cans and stray boxes were scattered on the drying cement from where she bumped into them as she was forced to back away from her pursuer.

The man stopped when the bag hit his head. It fell straight to the ground. 

He turned. Smiled. “What's this? Dessert’s found its way here too?”

“Get away from her.” 

“You’re going to have to try harder than that, sonny.”

The fire, always within reach, thrummed beneath Shouto’s left knuckles. He lifted both his hands in front of his face, cautioning his quirk to remain silent. 

Shouto knew he had weak spots in his technique. He knew he was better at distance fighting than he was at close combat. But just because it wasn’t as honed as what once might have been his hero technique, it did not mean he wasn’t prepared to trade blows with a man twice his side with jeering taunts whenever Shouto misstepped or fumbled, earning him punch to his side that he was lucky didn’t fracture his ribs. 

The man kicked him, sending him tumbling and rolling toward the area opposite of the woman. She called for the man to stop. She called for help again. Shouto gritted his teeth, pushing himself back up on his hands while his opponent laughed. 

The woman slid to her knees, holding her hands over her mouth. It was stupid. With the man distracted, she should have been running. He wanted to tell her just that. Go. Go. Go. Didn’t she want to be free? But she was scared, and Shouto understood. He knew how paralyzing it was to stand and observe the worst possible fear breathe life and not be able to turn away from it. How it strangled them and forced them to watch until their dying breath. It almost poisoned Shouto too now, reorienting on the shadow of the man and seeing someone else, someone dead. 

“Don’t worry boy, I’ll break that defiance yet.” 

He blinked, and his father’s ghost was gone. A stranger in his place, who only wanted to hurt this woman. She must have taken this alleyway every night as a shortcut to get home or maybe she saw a cat run this way off the main road and followed it to give it some treats. Whatever the case, she didn’t deserve to be attacked.

Shouto found the man’s face and leveled him the meanest glare he could behind his darkened disguise. The man only smiled, “what is this? You think you’re some sort of hero?”

No, Shouto was nothing. No one. He said, “I don’t want to fight you.” 

“Should’ve thought about that before you came sticking your nose in places where it don’t belong.”

Shouto would need to remember that in the future. Heroes rushed into fights for the sake of others. Shouto wasn’t a hero. He was a runaway. His only allegiance was to himself. It wasn’t his fault if people got hurt because heroes weren’t near.

The woman was crying. He couldn’t see her very well from where he was kneeling, letting pools of water soak his pants. Her tears were silent, ruining her makeup in dark streaks down her face. Perhaps someone had told her it was safe enough now to go out. Perhaps they were right, just not tonight. 

Shouto couldn’t help what he had already done. He was already here. It did no one any good to stay down and let this man take him out, and then take this woman while he was unconscious. There was nothing he had to bargain. No way to get out of this without injury. 

In the future, he would be better. 

He would be. 

Shouto warmed his hand to the hottest it could go before it erupted. He was pulled to his knees as the man gripped his head, pulling the hat off his head while he lifted him further, but before he could do more, Shouto punched the man’s gut. His opponent might have been expecting the force of it, but he couldn’t have prepared for the heat. It caused him to fumble and allowed Shouto to fully stand and bring his knee to the underside of his chin. There was a bad crack followed by a thud as the man fell toward Shouto, then fell over, unmoving below him, blood beginning to pool around his head and staining his hair red, and Shouto saw. He saw. 

Shouto had only enough time to rip off the mask, the sunglasses tattering to the ground, before he was vomiting the small portion of the meal he had earlier. He coughed and gagged on it until it was all out, and he couldn’t see past the burning blur in his vision. Every time they refocused, he would see red, his heart echoing in his ears. Another memory to resurface.

You wanted this , he thought, how many times did you wish it? 

But childhood hopes born out of spite were not without consequence. His father was dead, and Shouto, he—

“Are you okay?”

Shouto jumped when a hand fell on his shoulder. The woman snatched it back as fast, holding it to her chest. She was shaking. Still scared but freed from her shackles to come to him, now that the threat was seemingly past—unconscious and down below him. Shouto had done that. He had. 

Still, the woman swallowed around her own unsteadiness to say, “that was a brave thing you did just now.” 

Shouto didn’t feel brave. He felt small. He felt rain, though the night was dry, and he saw the eyes of someone else who could never have thought a night would end such as it did. There was no victory in it. Certainly, no pride.

He backed away from the guy, with the full intent to run back out into the street and find the small quiet place he had been sleeping the last few days. Not that he would sleep now after this. He would shake, and he would burn to make sure no frigid temperatures accidentally took root. 

But in his haste to go, he forgot the woman, still thanking him for coming to her rescue when no one else had. She had her purse in her hands. She was digging through it, pulling out crumpled yens, but when she looked back up at him her figure froze. Shouto mirrored it. Recognition was a pitiful thing. It made people feel like they knew when they did not.

“You’re him,” she stuttered as if his face would change as she said it. It didn’t, though Shouto wished that it would. He shook his head. “You are. The one UA’s looking for. Todoroki. ”

If Shouto had more in his stomach, he might have gotten sick again over just hearing that name. Shouto was bad enough. But Todoroki was a tattoo on his soul that ensured to everyone that he was not an untethered, that his story was connected to two others in this twisted game.

“I’m not,” he tried. “I don’t know anything about.” He shut his mouth and squeezed his lips together. He thought about falling to his knees and begging. He thought about wrestling her purse away from her to find her phone and slam it against the ground to prevent her from calling the police. 

He thought about Touya saying, “you’re like me now. There will be no place for you to truly go in this terrible place.”

The woman breathed. In the barest whisper, she said, “you’re just a kid. Your mom was on TV, so I knew, but just, you’re so young.” 

And Shouto was. Sixteen and shivering because his body always resorted to ice when he was scared, no matter how much he told himself he wasn’t. Because this woman knew, and if she told anyone, the police force that had conveniently avoided this area thus far, wouldn’t anymore. They would come in masses. They would have their victory without cost. The heroes soon after them. There might have been a war, All for One’s forces scattered and preparing, but if Shouto was easy to find, made himself easy to find, then what was one night to bring a lost boy back home?

He couldn’t have that.

“Where are you staying?” She was soft-spoken when she asked it but more sure in her words. Later, he would wonder what she saw in his face. In his stance. She called him a kid but did she really see one? Had anyone ever looked at him and thought weak? In need of protecting? 

But she wasn’t calling the police, yet. She had removed her hands fully from her purse, both hands bare and empty. She was asking instead, “if you want, you can come home with me. I have food. A shower. My son isn’t quite your size, but the clothes might be more comfortable. I’m not asking you to stay, only for the night if you’d like, but it would be safe. I would never say a word.”

Shouto was never taught the kindness of strangers. He didn’t know if it helped him or hurt him that night. He shook his head, taking further steps away from her. Disappointment flashed quickly and silently behind her eyes.

In time, he would not know if he would have been better off going with her. If she was telling the truth and only wanted what was best for him. She was a mother. Maybe like his own mother, she would understand the horrors he had gone through. The obvious reason why boys with forced destinies ran away from such things. It might have been just enough to get back on his feet and create a new plan for his newfound life. He might have been satisfied under her care and relearn what it meant to be human, existing truly as a civilian proper, hiding, but never lost. 

However, had Shouto left with her that night, he would have woken in the morning to police sirens and demands. To her hiding in the corner of the room, repeating the phrase, just a boy. 

Children needed their parents to protect them. Shouto’s father was dead. He could protect him no more now than he ever tried to do then. 

In truth, when she walked back out of the alley, he did not think it would be long before she was calling the police. He wasn’t keen on the logistics of finding DNA in puke, or any of the other ways they could tie it back to him. The man might have been unconscious, but he wouldn’t be forever. Would it be enough for them to place him here? They would contact the heroes. It would leak to the villains. Shouto would have to run again. He would have to go. 

He spun, ready to sprint in the opposite direction, leave this prefecture, and go somewhere else. Become someone else. He had no place in mind, save for get away. Go far away and don’t look back. Don’t miss it. Don’t wish for things to be different because they would not be. Could not. He made it this way. He did. He was alone, born to be apart. 

“Mighty nice thing you did there,” someone said. Sparks flared from his fingertips, littering the pavement. Bad. He pulled his hand to his chest, gripped it, and silently begged for his quirk to stop. Wide eyes searched the darkness to find a person, leaning against the wall near the overturned dumpster. 

“I don’t want trouble,” he said, trying to sound brave, failing in the cadence of his voice. “Just let me go. No one has to get hurt.” 

“Someone already got hurt,” they said, stepping forward and indicating the criminal. Shouto didn’t know what to say. No way to know how long the person had been watching and waiting for the woman to leave. He debated on following her out to take his chances on the busy street with no mask or glasses, only a hood to protect him. If the police were already on their way—“Including my pocket,” the person continued, “Ratchet here hasn’t lost a fight in six weeks. He was supposed to make me thousands.”

"If you’re a criminal—"

The person cut off his shaky response with a laugh. “You’ll what? Call the police. Seems unlikely to me. Wouldn’t want to attract any unwanted attention, now would you?”

“—I’ll fight you. Just like him,” Shouto finished. He managed to keep his head up. Defiant. Years of training under—He took a deep breath and continued, “that lady is going to call the cops, and by the time they get here, I’ll be long gone. You can be too—or join your friend here on the ground.”

In lieu of responding, the person stepped forward into the light and pulled down their hood. Two horns sat curled in red hair. Matching red eyes met him. Disconcerting. But Shouto would not back down. He clenched both of his fists and shifted his stance into one proper for fighting.

“You got some balls on ya kid,” the person said, “that’s good. You need that kind of thing out here.” They took another step forward. “So, I’m going to offer you a preposition. I don’t expect you to recognize me—my sort of business isn’t something they’re keen on teaching those in that fancy school of yours. But it’s a simple facet of life, our society if you will. 

“See, I’ve got some powerful friends that I don’t call on often because I’m pretty powerful myself—but they’re heroes and villains alike. You get what I’m saying? Anyone who needs to know about you, will know, and even those who haven’t given it a thought, will be thinking about it. In under an hour, you’ll be back in your shackles, the heroes left celebrating another victory.”

“Or,” Shouto risked. 

They smiled. “Or you pay me back what you owe. Like I said, Ratchet was my star fighter. He was on his way to one of my arenas when you ruined his fun.” 

“He attacked someone.”

“He’s a petty thug,” they shrugged off, “Here’s the deal. You come with me. You fight in his place. If you don’t make up what he would have brought in tonight—you stay until you do.”

“And if I don’t?” Shouto asked, eyeing freedom just beyond them. Besides the horns and their statement, there was nothing for Shouto to gauge what their quirk was. Fighting and running were a possibility. But still, there were too many variables. Too many what-ifs.

They lifted their phone. Shouto made out the number. “Police inbound: one minute. You think you can fight me, and get away before they get here, be my guest.”

Shouto’s stance wavered. 

“Okay,” he said.

“Perfect,” they replied.

Yuki’s fight ring was in a secluded part of town. No cover. Open to what it was. Mostly villains and gang members, looking for a brawl, some quick cash. Every fighter masked, to not cause grudges in the stands. Shouto’s own was a wooden demon with an unruly tongue. He donned it, barely able to see out of the eyes, but that didn’t matter. He was unanimous.

Across from him was a man wearing a clown mask. He laughed, twirling a knife between his fingers, staring Shouto down. Shouto had been given weapons too. He had no idea what to do with them. They sat awkwardly in his palm. When the horn blared, signaling the start, he was lucky for the solidity of wood, causing the knife to glance off his head instead of getting embedded in it. 

Luck, however, was a word Shouto never associated with himself, forced to be on the back pedal as his opponent attacked with sure-footed movements. He knocked Shouto's weapon out onto the dirt and kept coming for more, forcing Shouto back. However, no matter how many times he jabbed and attacked, the movements, while confident, were easy to predict. The clown was not so overly skilled. Shouto wished that they were, that they could manage to trip him up and take him out as they pushed him this way and that. The only thing that kept him from botching the fight altogether and taking a proper hit down was knowing that Yuki had said he was earning back the money from the street thug. If Shouto lost, he’d be back in. He’d have to do this again.

So, for one of the obvious punches to his head, Shouto didn’t just raise his arm to parry it, he shot his left hand up and grabbed the person’s naked wrist. He couldn’t risk a lot, given where he was and how eager bloodhounds were once they caught a scent, but he could burn. The man screamed, and Shouto dropped his arm, distantly watching blisters form along hastening red skin. A contact quirk no more. The man fell to his knees, cursing and yelling, and Shouto backed up and searched for the entrance he had come in while the stadium bellowed for him to finish him. The door was closed. The man he could see through the bars had his arms crossed unmoving. Yuki, with their red horns and eyes, stared down upon him from their elevated box in the makeshift stands and waited. 

Injury was not death. He had watched what ended the fight before his. He had twisted over his stomach to avoid any more unnecessary pain. 

Was Shouto a fighter? He did not know.

The cheering grew around him as the clown man struggled to stand. They wanted him to put this stranger in his place. It was either be hunted or hunt, any moral quarrels he had after the fact didn’t matter as much compared to him surviving here tonight. Besides, the onlookers didn’t know. Under the mask, he was any broken man. He was not Shouto, UA alumni, lost. He was a player. A pawn. The jester for the onlookers to jeer at. They wanted a show, and for the second time that night, Shouto turned someone else’s world dark. 

He won. 

It took Shouto seven straight nights of fighting to earn back what the other man would have made. It took him an additional three weeks to pay off his room and board—something about how he wasn’t trusted to not disappear as soon as he was let out of the fight club. Not that Shouto had places to go, and if this was a prison, it was a quiet one. It was easy to forget about himself there. It was easy to wear a mask and fight who he was told to fight.

The fights got easier too. Not in the sense that his opponents were of poorer quality. There was a hierarchy to who fought who. It reminded him of the video games Bakugou would sometimes play in the car during their remedial courses. He’d defeat one enemy only to be scaled to the next and so forth. 

What was easier, then, was that he didn’t get sick after every person he took down. If he didn’t look at the body underneath him once it was over, he could walk away on steady feet. If no one knew it was Shouto in the middle of the ring fighting, it was almost like it wasn’t him. Anonymity was freeing as it was dangerous. While no one died within the arena, death hung around it in back alleyways and rooftops. Deals went from bad to worse. Very rarely did the police come, however. Never once a hero. Maybe that was why the minute he paid off his dues, he didn’t run away. It wasn’t a home, but it was somewhere warm and that was all that would end up mattering. 

Shouto didn’t use his quirk after the first battle. He knew weapons, only he hadn’t had much of a use for them when his quirk was proven just as volatile. But whereas his quirk could hide his shame of injury, a blade, staff, or otherwise, was a metal extension of him. The injuries he bestowed were concrete with evidence pointing only in one direction. No one could deny what it was he did. He did it well, born out of desperation to not be discovered by falling unconscious and having someone remove his mask and know. And because maybe, maybe, pushing himself to the brink of ruin was the only way Shouto ever knew how to act. There might not have been grand accolades for his wins, but there was reward.

“We’re moving you to the Northside. Better fights, which means you’ll be making more money," Yuki said one day after they were done handing him his cash. The translation of which meant Yuki would be making more money. Shouto only saw a small cut of his earnings, and it had been modest. Enough to get by without falling victim to the street. However, there was no place for him to speak in this arrangement. It was how he wanted it. It was harder to listen to the voice in the back of his head that told him he was doing something wrong, was wrong, when it was others that were pushing him to do it. It didn’t assuage any lingering guilt but what choice did he have? Yuki knew his identity. They could have called the police, heroes, weeks ago, but they didn’t. All because Shouto did a good job. 

So, he moved on. He fought and stumbled out of various arenas while people chanted a name after him. They called him  Yokai, which might have had something to do with the mask he wore, but it wasn’t like he cared or was overly fond of it, just as long as they didn’t call him by his real name. It was fine. 

Graduating to the more notorious fight clubs allowed him to find and afford a miserable apartment, overlooking neighbors that got in a fight every night, which he ignored, and a perpetual leak that colored the ceiling yellow in spots. It was there that he first attempted dyeing his hair. But dark brown or all red, had him reflecting the face of men that were not him in a cracked mirror. It caused the bathroom to spiral and taunts and pleads to perforate the small place. He stopped trying after the second time. His roots grew in too fast to maintain anyways, and Shouto wouldn’t leave anywhere without a hat on his head regardless of the color of his hair. 

The only issue with gaining a repertoire in these connected fight clubs was that the fights progressed outside of thugs and street urchins. People talked and judged. They made up their mind about him based solely on how he acted and kept to himself. If anyone was ever too curious about what face sat under the mask, Shouto knew it wouldn’t be too hard for them to prove themselves right. All it took was someone brave enough, desperate enough. Their were many in places like this. 

A vigilante, for instance, with the right information could be calculating. However, they were always easy to spot. Cocky. A bit bold. Secretive. They looked out for themselves, which was fine, so as long as they didn’t bother him. Fighting against them was a learning experience. Whereas others fought like they were on TV, using only the semblance of form and thought, vigilantes fought with grit. They fought dirty. They winded Shouto and kept coming, so Shouto adapted. He became better. 

But worrying about whether or not a vigilante would recognize him and cash in the reward for information that was currently on his head, was nothing compared to the first time Shouto saw a hero in the stands. 

They were buff. They weren’t in their hero costume, and only a broken memory of a magazine Midoriya used to read whenever they took breaks from their studies alerted him to who they were as they walked away from the stands to enter the arena. The whispers and glares filled in the rest of Shouto’s broken memory of the man. His quirk specialized in binding. It was ethereal. Almost like Midoriya’s Blackwhip. He stood atop victory after victory, loosening cheers from those wary enough to bet on him. He wasn’t the first hero Shouto knew to frequent places like this to get cash, just the first one Shouto saw, and consequently the first one to know him. 

Well. 

This version of him. 

“ Yokai!” He demanded with another defeat at his boots. The hero wanted this arena’s best, and Shouto was not so conceited as to think that was him. He hadn’t lost, but he hadn’t won enough to warrant special treatment. Shouto didn’t know if the shadows spoke of him. He didn’t listen. But the crowd had sat tense, awaiting Yuki’s decision. Shouto knew before it was settled. This type of thing was imminent. It didn’t matter if he declared he didn’t fight heroes. It didn’t matter what he said. He was a mask with no voice. No actions that would be considered their own. At the mercy of the game master, who had none: fight. 

Shouto did not know why this hero had come here. He did not pay attention to the happenings of the world outside this neighborhood. He didn’t even know, really, if people were still out there searching for him. He hoped not. But he did not know the state of his missing person case. He did not care to. 

If Shouto was to lose a fight, it should have been against that hero. Until then, he could exist as unassuming as the many other fighters that came and went out the clubs and bars, looking for quick cash, fun, and alcohol. Only a few made themselves regulars in the business. Put themselves above everyone else as the undisputed picture of victory. There was no ranking system here, this wasn’t as stringent as heroics after all, but there was gossip. There were those who went far and fell harder once they were defeated. Shouto’s risk in avoiding ever having to lose.

In the end, the man’s quirk was like Midoriya’s. It did the strange hero no aid in being less than him, but then again, every hero was less than Midoriya. There was no comparing. It did the other man no good to be up against someone who knew how to circumvent it and get its caster to overshoot him, so he could quickly close the distance between them. 

Midoriya mentioned once or twice that he always forgot that Shouto was skilled in close combat, mostly because Shouto’s style wasn’t inherent to it. Shouto wondered if Midoriya would be able to recognize him like this. If he’d ever show up in the dingiest of these clubs and see him for what he was and could never be. A Midoriya who stood surrounded by bloodthirsty cheers in shock by the errant violence he was seeing and could not stop, finding him in the center with blossoming disappointment in knowing Shouto had caused it.

It did no good to focus on that possibility. 

So, he kept winning. 

He didn’t think as he fought, only did as he was told. In a way it was nostalgic. It reminded him of a house. He was tense and scared back then too. Still, puny, weak Shouto, taking the first opportunity he could find to run back to a ratty mattress and heave. In and out. A stolen police radar rattling off local crime, while he squeezed his eyes shut and begged.

More often than not he woke up cold with a stale t-shirt, sticking to his back, as he lay overtop the blanket. He had dreams he could not recall, but maybe that was for the better. No need to dwell on the past kept locked away at a distance.

Shouto thought himself well-disciplined, not getting into any business that could be contrived as saving the day. A life. He did not dwell in dark streets, did not keep his ears peeled for screams, muffled by a hand. He fought, only when contained to an arena, making sure to keep away from things that would get him caught. He thought he’d been doing well, remaining unseen, on the periphery, until a group of five approached him. Not heroes nor villains.

Vigilantes. 

They were ragtag, easy to get around the first time. One of them could control blades, which Shouto only knew because he got cut across his arm during one of their matches. Two girls and three guys, all of which he fought and defeated, making himself scarce when they tried to approach him again. 

But vigilantes were persistent and unlike heroes, they did not fear staying within the boundaries of the law. The next time he saw them they were lounging on his sofa, eating his ramen, and ignoring the shattered glass that littered the floor. 

“You’re a hard kid to track down.”

“Get out.”

The tallest one—the one who spoke—gave him a leveled look. 

“Leave,” he tried again.

“Ah, don’t be like that,” one of the girls called, “you don’t even know what it is we want.”

“I don’t have money.”

“We’re not stupid kiddo.”

“Neither am I.”

Shouto indeed was. Everything he had was in a small safe he kept under the sink at the bottom of a rather empty first aid kit. He wouldn’t give up what was rightfully his. Five-on-one was not a fair fight, but Shouto figured his odds for success were rather high, considering they didn’t open with beating him up. Granted, that could have just been because they hadn’t found his savings yet, or what it was exactly they were looking for in him. He shifted on his feet.

“Now, now,” another said. He was muscular and had talons in the place of fingers, which he tapped along his arm. “Why doesn’t everyone take a deep breath, and we discuss things here rationally. We’re not after your winning’s kid.”

Shouto was not entertaining them when he asked, “then what exactly are you after?” What he was doing was stalling for time, formulating a plan that involved only pepper spray and the knife he kept on him at all times.

“Do you know Ito Daiki?” The talon man asked. Shouto shook his head. “White collar guy, makes a fortune selling high end fashion for an affordable price.” Shouto knew next to nothing about apparel, but he wasn’t going to say that. “He’s corrupt in the way most millionaires are. Too many to go around and with the fall of society and everything, not many ways to stop them—conventionally.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

“Hold on, boy, let Lazarus finish,” the first guy said. His eyes were purple. They glowed.

“Eight days ago, his wife posted a hit. Now, generally, my friends and I don’t bother dealing with marital disputes where the spouse wants insurance money or the company; however, Ms. Ito’s case does deal with something we actually are concerned about—

“He hits her,” one of the girls interrupted, scowling, “doesn’t let her leave their swanky apartment for weeks on end if he catches her along the jaw.”

The rest of the vigilantes wore matching frowns.

“Silver is right. Ms. Ito has a baby on the way, and she fears what will happen to them once they are born. She asked us to take care of her husband to alleviate that stress.”

“And by take care of,” Shouto asked.

“Hand him over to the police wrapped up in a bow with all the evidence of his abuse stapled to his chest,” the purple-eyed man said.

“Only problem is,” Lazarus continued, “we can’t get close. Ito already knows our group. We took out one of the leaders of his friends for money laundering three months ago, and since then he’s more than doubled his security. We need someone who can blend in with his detail, capture video of the abuse, and then take him out. We’ll handle the rest.”

Shouto laughed, covering it with his fully gloved hand. “You’re not serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

Shouto shook his head. They were asking him to be a spy like one of those old movies Kaminari was fond of in his efforts to impress Shinsou. Shouto didn’t have the slightest clue what it meant to infiltrate a place, let alone blend into a security detail. He’d be outed as soon as he entered the place, put in a squad car with no way out.

“Look buddy,” the tall one said, “I know helping others isn’t really your thing, but you ain’t no villain looking for cheap cash. More often than not, you’ll stop someone before they get too far with the women Yuki keeps around the club.”

Because no one else was. Because it was easier for him to take a punch than a mom, trying to make ends meet for her child back home. Because he couldn’t stand by and watch someone with power get abused by someone with none.

But he wasn’t a hero. Helping the women around the clubs was different than helping someone out of an abusive marriage. He couldn't even save his mom. Even now, without his father in her life, the Hero Commission used her as their puppet, speaking on shows, begging for him to come home. He doubted that if she knew all that had happened with Touya, she would beg so ardently. Shouto was made to be apart from them. So he was. 

“I’m not a spy,” Shouto said, “I’ll be a liability rather than any help.” 

“Says the man in the mask, who disappears before anyone can ask him something,” Silver said. “For someone who doesn’t think he belongs to the shadows, they certainly favor you.”

“It’s not as simple as hiding in the shadows. You want me to pretend I’m someone I’m not and then sit while I watch a man beat his wife, surrounded by enemies, the minute it goes wrong—

“We’ll come in as back up,” Lazarus shrugged, “we’re not asking you to do this on your own, we’re asking you for help. We are a team. We don’t leave anyone behind, including rookies with nothing to lose. Look boy, not many have the grit to fight to make a difference in this world, preferring to watch life pass them by. If that’s the type of man you are, then so be it, we’ll never talk to you again. But if you have the itch, the need to save someone who would otherwise be ignored, forgotten, then this is the opportunity for you.”

Shouto told himself he never wanted to be a hero. He lay wide awake after each nightmare and stared at the water stains on his ceiling, repeating, it’s what he wanted. Endeavor wanted Shouto to be his successor. The hero he could never be. Shouto only wanted peace. A family unbroken.

He would never get it. 

He told the vigilantes he would think about it. They gave him two days. 

Shouto didn’t go to the club the next day. He wasn’t scared of the group. He knew compared to some of the others, they had a moral code. A deal was a deal. They would not approach him there. But for the first time since he started, Shouto could not will himself into doing what had been his routine up until this point. His sleep was fitful as if he was still on the street, and the very idea of eating filled him with such disgust, he knew he wouldn’t even be strong enough to stand on the arena floor. 

For the first time in weeks, Shouto was re-newly conflicted. He had been so blinded by just fighting, surviving the fights, he forgot that people could perceive him even with a mask. They weren’t heroes, though. It was probably the only thing that kept him spiraling further, that, and the fact that they hadn't leverage his identity against him. Having just come home when they had appeared and this apartment having no personal effects, he could only assume that his identity was still a mystery to them. If it wasn’t, was it worth risking everything to help them? He could just go. There was nothing holding him to Tokyo, and with the amount he had been winning, he could afford to at least leave the city. It wouldn’t get him out of the country but further away would always be better. 

The reason he gave himself for walking out the door early that morning was that his neighbor’s continued argument was louder with the window open, and he needed time and peace to think. 

The excuse did not get him far as to why he got on a train. Why, in leaving Tokyo, he didn’t take it north. 

It was a nice day. Somehow, Shouto had missed most of Spring. He had barely been aware of the rain last night and would have completely missed it if it hadn’t puddled on his floor. Now it reflected in dark pools on the road where children called out dares as they hopped between them, trying to get the biggest splash.

Musutafu was once his home. It missed all the nostalgia that should be associated with a place he had spent his childhood in. Shouto didn’t press on the issue any further than that. 

He got off a bus in front of the cafe Iida once brought him to, checking his appearance in the window of a shop. He was nearly all in black, save for the deep red of his turtleneck, tucked under a jacket, and his shoes, which looked obnoxious with the outfit, too pale, but when he found them, he couldn’t pass them up. Otherwise, he had a baseball cap over the butchering that had happened to his hair last night in a fit of panic—all red and terribly short—and a face mask and sunglasses to cover the rest of his face. He was no prodigy with makeup. It was absurd that this would be his first outing to test it over his scar, as if he wanted to be caught. 

He did not. 

He just. 

He needed this. 

For all their boasting about security, UA had failed to fix the one spot in the fence where the electrical current was faulty. Six months ago, he used it to break out of UA, run and run and run until he could not feel his legs, and then come back just as the sun was breaking through the horizon. No one had to know about him breaking into the school. And no one did. All eyes were on the arenas in the center of campus, on the one hosting the second years. Japan's so-called last hope. 

Shouto found his way to the stadium rather easily, dodging teachers randomly checking tickets. It wasn’t as busy as it had been a year ago, but maybe that was to be expected. Civilians were uneasy about sacrificing themselves if All for One was to attack. Shouto assumed he wouldn’t. He’d want to build up the children he had declared as enemies, and then laugh when he destroyed them—Not Shouto’s problem. There was a different villain more menacing than anything All for One could do against him, whose potential Shouto feared more. 

He chose a seat up high, on a bench, near a pillar, which caused a shadow to cross over him. He splayed his hands against his knees, forcing his legs to remain still, to remain calm. He did not remember the first event of the Sports Festival. He only noticed Bakugou explode in the center of the arena during the second event. 

Around Shouto, most others were on their feet, screaming and cheering. They waved homemade flags and chanted when their favorite heroes made an appearance. It made him sick, but Shouto could not go. He had to stay. Had to see.

Midoriya Izuku was an easy boy to find in a stadium of thousands. Unlike the rest of the students, he was kept apart. Rather that was on purpose or because the President of the Hero Commission and her entourage were behind him, Shouto did not know. Midoriya did not react to most of the fights during the third round. No pulling at his lip, contemplating quirks and battle strategies. 

A blank stare once he was in the center of the arena. The winner. The crowd sang. Midoriya walked away.

In the process of setting up the winner’s podium, Shouto found himself taking the stairs two at a time, accidentally running into a man selling peanuts, which he apologized profusely to before running again. The halls of the stadium were near empty. The odds of him meeting another hero, high, but for the first time in his life, Shouto might have been lucky, sneaking all the way down to the student quarters

A year ago, he had hid in a room, not wanting to face the fury of his father for failing. He cowered in the corner of darkness, watching the door and waiting for the fire hero to burst through. If Shouto had known the strength of ice, then, would he have countered it? 

Who had come instead, was All Might. No question for the boy with everything, hiding in the shadows. 

Midoriya had caught him while he was led to the stage he said—

“I’m proud of you,” Toshinori’s voice was quiet now. Shouto slid to a stop at the corner. “It’s okay to accept this as a win.”

Shouto glanced toward the round mirror kept high in the opposite corner. He could make out Toshinori, the silhouette of Midoriya, who said nothing, nodding to his mentor instead. Toshinori bowed and someone further down the hall called, catching his attention. Midoriya did not immediately follow his footsteps, staying by the door, holding the handle behind him as if he wanted to stash himself away inside.

Shouto had his opportunity. One step out and they’d be alone. Izuku and Shouto. At one time, Shouto thought that was all he needed. Whatever tribulations came before him, as long as he had Izuku with him, he could figure it out. He made Shouto brave, and Shouto needed to be brave now if he was going to take the final step around the corner.  Izuku's ideologies weren’t so stringent that they couldn’t bend. At his core, he wanted to save people. Shouto thought that was his same core once too. He thought that was what made a person deserving of being a hero. But he had acted carelessly, and his father was dead. He needed Izuku to tell him that he had been wrong. 

He needed Izuku to tell him that he was right. 

A scream shook him from his thoughts. The hall raced with green lightning followed by a thick smoke to fill it. It swirled through the air, whispering between Shouto’s legs. At the center, Midoriya clutched his head, sliding to the ground, Shouto got three steps toward him before another voice filled the space to pull him back again. 

“What the fuck is this about nerd?” Bakugou’s voice rang. Shouto grappled with the wall. Midoriya’s smoke screen waned. “You upset you couldn’t show off all of your quirks, so now you’re having a hissy fit here?”

“Go away, Kacchan.”

“Tough chance,” Bakugou said, crouching by him. “Fuckers are going to start looking for you soon, and then where will you be? They’ll start questioning if you can do this.”

“Maybe I can’t,” Midoriya said. His voice broke Shouto’s heart, causing him to hesitate when he reached another unlocked door. It wouldn’t be long now before the pair was able to see down the hall and question the man in the mask, clinging to the last dredges of shadow like it was his only lifeline. “Maybe I’m not meant to be a pillar. Maybe I am supposed to be just Deku, no one else.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Bakugou’s tone was short, reminiscent of the time before, though not as drastic. “I’m not here to ease a guilty conscience and humbly accept my medal. I’m not going to let you back down now. This is what we are—there’s no running from it. You can’t keep blaming yourself for something you didn’t choose.”

“Yeah, but maybe I did,” Midoriya said, “if I hadn’t urged him to forgive someone he shouldn’t have, none of this would have happened. Todoroki-kun would still be here, and I can’t, Kacchan,” Midoriya fell forward, only saved from further collapse, by Bakugou’s arm across his chest. “I can’t go out there. I can’t accept this. I’m a fraud. I’m a—”

“Well, it ain’t about you,” Bakugou interrupted. He knelt ahead of Midoriya to finish. “You need to go out there because they need it, okay? Eijirou. Cheeks. Glasses. Pikachu. The rest of the class. They need it. Save the people you can now, and we can worry about him another day. I can’t hold us together without you.”

It was an admittance that no one should have heard out loud, gifted only to Midoriya but stolen by Shouto too. 

He had come here searching for absolution. He had only found more of his crimes in its wake.

He wasn’t good for him. He wasn’t good for any of them. 

Run from it. Hide from it. Pretend. It doesn’t change what we are. What we were always born to be. 

The Todorokis were cursed. Shouto most of all. It leached from him. A poison that endangered others. Led them to ruin. 

Shouto missed what made Midoriya stand up. He pushed Bakugou away as soon as he was on his feet, starting toward the opposite tunnel. Bakugou shouldered his way next to him. The pair to disappear into blinding white light. 

Shouto was careful in his steps through depleted, graying fog. He made sure not to accidentally stumble upon any other students. There was no one. Everyone outside under a spring-green sun, clapping for the victors.

His world spun without thought or purchase. He caught sight of Midoriya after being given the golden metal. He raised his hand above his head. In honor of two heroes now dead. The crowd accepted it as truth. Shouto burned. He mourned for a boy who could never finish being one because of a weight Shouto was supposed to alleviate but had only worsened in his haste.

Shouto should have left then. 

It was the only natural thing to do. 

He had seen his despair. 

He had watched his destruction. 

He had witnessed whatever could come from confronting Midoriya in that hall. 

Midoriya would have blamed himself fully, more than he already did, and Shouto would have let him, wouldn’t he? If that was all coming here was for—telling Midoriya the full story of why, so he could possibly be welcomed back home—then his brother was right. There were only villains in their blood.

Shouto was not a hero. 

Yet, he stayed and watched and listened to all the things restless wandering ghosts should no longer care to hear. 

He stood in the middle of the room, so crowded he had nowhere else to go, with his baseball hat and mask, hiding any lies on his face that might suggest he was not the eager onlooker or fan that stood poised all around him. Ahead of him were cameras and reporters, ready for their assault of questions, and beyond them a long table with many chairs, though only a few in the center captured his attention. 

Aizawa sat just to the right of the center. The moment Midoriya sat down next to him, his hand went to reassure him. If Midoriya was calmed by the gesture, he didn’t show it. The hero of the day kept his attention only slightly above the table while the other members that made up the table, faculty and those new ranked heroes Shouto did not know, fielded all the questions the reporters threw. Despite UA using this event as a harbinger of safer times, there was still distrust there. Discontent. Being able to see the heroes of tomorrow was supposed to change that and maybe it did help. After all, how was Shouto to know, he himself had never truly believed in the hope of heroes. 

Regardless out of all the questions pushed to that table, what did earn Midoriya’s attention, past whatever drabble the Hero Commission told him to say, was a question aimed at Aizawa, or rather any of the faculty up there. 

“What are UA’s plans about the recent dropout rate amongst students enrolled in the heroics program?”

Someone answered easily. They noted how UA had gained hero students in the last year, though they could not speak on other schools. Their focus was, and would always be, on their students. While heads nodded and voiced a sentence or few in their agreement, Midoriya swallowed.

He said, “I think it’s okay if kids are realizing they don’t want to be heroes. Most do when they reach the age seven, but a few hold out. To treat kids in hero programs as the last hope, the only ones withholding all villainy,” Midoriya smiled. It was one for grief. “Well that’s a tad silly now, isn’t it? Any other profession wouldn’t ask that of a child.”

There was a murmuring throughout the crowd. A push and pull that threatened to unground Shouto from where he stood. Today was a day of celebration. They needed the victor to confirm it.

“I’m not complaining,” Midoriya continued, “It’s a great honor to be here and be given the the trust to be able to save the day, but we shouldn’t disparage those who realizes that death, dying, isn’t what they hope to achieve before they’re twenty, eighteen, sixteen.” Midoriya’s voice wavered, but he squared his shoulders. “If dropping out and leaving school only saves on life, their own, then maybe it’s worth it.” 

Shouto knew then that if he left, Midoriya would be okay. It might not have been the complete truth, or anything worthy of the truth, but it was a serviceable lie. 

Why did you leave?

I was scared. 

Why did you leave?

I am not this. 

Why did you leave?

I want to be no one. Forgotten. 

Why did you leave?

I am no hero. 

“However,” Midoriya continued. In the upcoming days, Midoriya would be called naive. A little kid, sitting at a table meant for grownups, not realizing the irony of who put him in that spot, who pushed him to tackle the ultimate form of evil, a little over a year later. They wanted Midoriya to already be All Might, save for this speech, a year of mistakes, he stood ahead of them like he already was. A hero beyond the rest. 

“I don’t think that means everyone who is leaving hero schools, aren’t meant to be heroes. I think, if they find themselves holding back, not knowing what to do next. If they’re doubting themselves but still run into danger, still try to protect someone who needs saving, What other word would you call them save hero? The world needs heroes, not large, imposing one's, but everyday heroes, willing to fight for what’s right, despite what goes on day by day, only then will we come out on top. As long as we all work together, it will be okay.” 

Shouto didn’t hear the next question. The next five. Many targeted Midoriya, who answered them, doubling down on what he believed. Anyone could be a hero, not just those walking UA halls. Yes, he meant anyone. Anyone who started running the moment they heard a cry for help. The moment they stepped between a bully and a victim. The moment they couldn’t sleep at night, trying to tell themselves that their choice was already made, hands tied.

Shouto wasn’t a hero. It wasn’t in his blood. But he had made a promise. One of many to Midoriya Izuku, and while most of them turned to white ash, listless on the breeze, he could still do his part here. A burden halved, no more. It would not absolve him from any past crimes. It did not make rain-soaked rooftops easier to bear or an apology easier to remember and accept. 

The Number One Hero, Endeavor, was dead, and it was Shouto’s fault.

There was nothing, nothing, Shouto could do to make that right again. He wouldn’t pretend that he was trying to. He didn’t convince himself that any act done now would have as much consequence on the world then what he had already done. But that did not give him the right to cower. It did not give him the right to flee. He could never exist as Shouto, a civilian with an at-home job that paid well and allowed him to do his part in the community. It was never in his future. Nor was a home, a family, friends. It was all okay. Shouto never had much time to hope for such a life either. 

Between the shouting and the cameras, Shouto found Midoriya again. He would never see him again, at least not in person. If Shouto was smart, which he needed to be better at, coming here was a risk, too high a risk, he would maintain that they stay separated. Imbued with the light of a Pro Hero that already burned so bright he was hard to look at sometimes. Midoriya would understand. He had said so himself. People left because they were scared, and Shouto was, ultimately, very scared. He didn’t know when he would stop being such. 

Midoriya searched the people ahead of him too. After his speech, he faced the issues of the crowd head-on, taking in them all, only to slow and pause the moment he reached Shouto’s section of the room. He didn’t move beyond his position. He stayed attuned to him as Shouto swallowed, once, twice, willing Midoriya to be looking beyond him, in front of him, anywhere but at him. He itched his face out of habit, reaffirming the face mask was in place, that his scar was still tacky with foundation, and watched as Midoriya responded. His chair scraped along the floor, the sound deafening though no one commented on it.

Shouto didn’t wait to stick around to see how far Midoriya would go with it. He turned, pushing through the bodies that tried to keep him contained. They were distracted by the commotion in the front of the room. At their hero moving away from his chair, past backs of heroes, wise and old, who did not see. Despite their distraction, they made room for him, collapsing behind him just as well, hiding his retreat with each step. 

A murmur went through the crowd when Midoriya hit grown level. Shouto did not turn. He could not. 

There were students in the back of the room. People he had missed when he was aimless. Uraraka clung to Iida’s bicep, and Bakugou scowled next to them. At his arm, Kirishima held him back. All of their attention forward.

“What is he doing?”

If Midoriya could not be the world pillar, at least, he needed to be strong for the class. Bakugou’s one ardent request. In their faces, Shouto could see the valor in that. They needed Midoriya. They always had. It was why it was so important that they get him back, and why, now, Shouto needed to go before he caught up to him.

Shouto ducked into the first empty hall he found. As soon as the door was closed, he sprinted. He did not look back when he pulled the second door open, and the first door slammed into the wall. 

Shouto darted around familiar corners and classrooms. A campus empty with the festivities. Nowhere to go to hide or get lost. If he stayed, he’d be caught. He would not be. He took the stairs two at a time. He could not hear if someone called. If someone screamed.

Midoriya was faster than him. Shouto knew this to be absolute when warm air hit his face, and the escape of a green pasture and a distant fence was all he had left. 

Midoriya knew the home beyond the barbed wire. If Shouto made himself easy to find—

Footsteps shouted behind him. Shouto made a decision. A terrible choice that left him in the perfect position to watch as Midoriya stumbled out of the building. He got to the edge of the grass and stopped so abruptly that his body pitched forward, causing him to fall. Shouto knew what Midoriya saw ahead of him. Emptiness. No one. 

 Shouto settled against the trunk of the tree, pulling his knees to his chest, and biting his tongue to keep himself from crying out.

Midoriya was slow to move from the grass stains at his knees. He did. He searched right and then left. He searched his hands, left gripping the dirt below him. Shouto almost expected him to call out. He wished that he did. 

Todoroki Shouto was a cruel, vile man, already stained black because certainly, if he was better, if he was kind or good or whatever else said to ease a conscience about the state of his birth, he would not be up where he was now. A kind boy would free the breath from his lungs, ignore his own consequences of wronged actions, and give to Midoriya what he hoped to find by chasing him out here. A kind boy would apologize and might even leave a note. Shouto was not. 

And the only detriment to his charred soul was watching Midoriya curl over himself in too-perfect green grass. He did not scream. He did not cry. Agony in perfect silence. Pain. Another hero for Shouto to hurt and damage. To leave without the trial of trying to save.

“I don’t know who I am if I’m not this,” Shouto had told his brother, refusing to look down, because down was death, and down was awful, terrible, and jarring. Unreal. 

“If you don’t know what you are yet, then focus on what you are not,” Touya said. “It will sort itself out in the end.” 

Shouto already knew what he was not.

Shouto’s neighbors fought. They might have thought that they were successful in containing it to their home, but their colors bled out of lines, staining the small narrow alley of space between his apartment and theirs. It was always the loudest at night. Shouto’s window was already broken when glass crashed, and a person shrieked, followed closely by tears. What was another window made to break? 

Abusers were always comfortable in knowing they were the strongest in the room. They could not fathom another hand coming against them. It made them sloppy. In the end, their surprise over this change was what always did them in.

The ski mask might have been difficult to see out of with the ski goggles, which were shaded for unencumbered sunlight, not the tragedy of a house, more comfortable in the dark. However, the man didn’t get up below him. Any moral quandaries about Shouto’s worth did not threaten to dispel into the black fabric at the sight of a bruise forming on the side of the man’s face. Behind him, whimpers. 

He turned, rubbing his knuckles. It hadn’t hurt as much as it ought to, and while he had been fist fighting for weeks, it would be practical to get more protective gear. He was useless if he couldn’t use his hands. 

“Please,” the only other person in the room started. She was maybe his age. A bit older. The man behind him was very much his elder. Shouto had ignored too much in his haste to disremember. 

“I don’t. I don’t have any money. You can take the TV. I have a ring, but it’s fake silver. It’s not worth anything. I swear. You can take anything here. Anything at all. Just don’t. Please don’t hurt me.” 

Shouto took another step away from the man. The girl whispered please again. Shouto was careful when he knelt a meter or so away from her, not to frighten her more. 

“I’m not here for money.” 

“Then, what?” 

She was crying, scared, but she didn’t shy away from looking at him. His father used to hit his mother whenever she looked at him the same way. He declared she needed discipline. All she had ever wanted was a chance at love and home. 

“You are hurt,” Shouto said, indicating her arm, and how she held it. It had been slammed into the doorframe. Other prominent bruises spoke to more. “I could help.”

In time, Shouto would learn that this type of help was not always wanted or accepted. Plenty of occasions where he got a glass bottle thrown against his chest or mauled for stepping in where he was not welcomed. He never blamed anyone for those attacks. It was hard. It had always been so hard for him too. But no one had ever offered to save him when he could still be saved; it would never cause him to heed and not try.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the girl said. “No one does anything without something in return, and I don’t have what you’re looking for, so just get out. Leave me alone.” 

“I don’t want anything,” Shouto said, then amended, “I’d like for you to be safe.” 

The girl scoffed, shaking her head. She peeked over at the man, who was still unconscious and would stay that way if Shouto had any confidence in his abilities. He did. 

“Do you have somewhere to go?”

“What do you think?”

No, of course not. No one came to this part of the city on purpose. They were forced to it, and when society failed, more came. Discontent and disharmony. Shouto might not have been there very long, but he knew the signs that led to villainy and crime all the same. People who thought they had no options. Cornered ones with nothing to lose. Any help from those who might have brought it, far, far, away, protecting others. Those, which were easier. Those not so embroiled in society's misfortunes.

However, Shouto had thought far enough ahead on tonight’s adventures. He tossed rolled bills on the floor between them. Enough to get to Okinawa and start over if she so wished. She didn’t immediately take it. Shouto didn’t blame her. 

“It’s yours if you want,” he said. “No one should be forced into a life they don’t want because they don’t have the means to escape.” 

He leaned back on his heels before he stood up. He stepped around the man. He’d have to keep an eye on him to make sure he didn’t try this again or send a clearer message if it came to that. 

At the window, the girl called, “wait!” He did. She was still on the ground, but her right hand was wrapped around the money, apparently satisfied that it was real, that he wouldn’t try to take her chance at freedom away once offered. She swallowed, finding her voice again to ask, “who are you?”

Shouto bowed his head, “I’m no one.” 

“We gave you all night,” Lazarus said as Shouto unwrapped the tape from his knuckles. He had a cut on his shoulder that had dried with his shirt and one of his shins were tender. “The guys wanted to jump you the moment you got here, but I can only hold them off so long. So what do you say? Are you in?”

Shouto dropped the tape into his open bag and then zipped it up. It was too dangerous to think about taking off any other part of the fighter persona here. Besides, people were already used to Yokai, roaming the back halls before and after matches. There was no need to confuse that person now. The fewer people knew of him, the better.

“I work alone,” he said. He slung the bag over his uninjured shoulder. There was only one exit out of the locker room. Nothing about the vigilante would ever be imposing enough for him to hesitate in passing him. 

“That’s it then? You’re going to let that son of a bitch get off terrorizing his family for years to come?”

“I didn’t say that.” 

Security details, many people, and an unfamiliar territory all led to a bad hand. There were better ways to do things. Ways in which he didn’t have to rely on the help of others, least of all the questionable quality of a group of morally white vigilantes—if vigilantes could even be classified as such.

“You steal our hit from under us, you’re going to end up with a problem.”

“I don’t care about your money.”

Lazarus studied him further. Whatever he found didn’t warrant more scolding from an aging man. He took a step back, giving Shouto the perfect opening to go forward. Shouto was fine with it. The less he had to speak with a potential threat, the better. However, Lazarus wasn’t done with his words just yet. 

“This isn’t a job most people walk away from unscathed,” he said, “It will break you if you let it.”

Maybe if Shouto thought himself still able to break, he would have listened to the man’s warning. However, heroes hesitated when they were scared. They had things to lose and themselves to protect. 

This part of the city couldn’t afford hesitation. It needed action, sure-footedness, and results. It might not needed him, but it was who they got, so it would have to do.

Two weeks later, Shouto got shot. A graze that caught the bottom portion of his ear. The shock of it gave the person who did it time to escape. It gave them three more nights to terrorize and feed off helpless worry. When they were face to face the second time, Shouto didn’t give them time to see him, dropping from the fire escape while the other took a smoke break. The force of the landing broke one of their legs. Shouto ignored their curses when it happened, beating them all the same. He dragged them to the streets. He left them there to rot while the rest of the shadows looked on and whispered. 

Ideally, running on fumes to take on bad case after bad case would have been just as easy and mind-numbing as taking up work at the fight club. However, whereas losing in a ring cost a person nothing more than their pride, losing out here could be death. It could be something worse than death too, and for all Shouto wanted to be, he was not good at it. He was brash where he needed to be cunning. He was cruel where it might have served him better to be kind. He was no one, but the city streets couldn’t have an unknowable force taking out their men, so he was known, just without a name. 

So he came home one night to gunfire and an eviction notice. He lost a molar while he was being held down by another, so the man above him could punch and taunt and taunt and taunt. They didn’t care what lay underneath his mask, that person wasn’t doing a thing, but the caricature of a shadow man, who took the same criminal’s hand later, that person, he was becoming fear. 

It suited him, Shouto thought, nursing a bruised rib. His whole life had been pain better now for him to be the one to sow it. He might have gotten a glass bottle to his side and had to spend hours over a porcelain sink, painting it red in his efforts to get every piece out. He might have had to learn how to better dodge bullets, learn how to better listen to banter that told them they would shoot him. He might be dying, a slow marching death, but he never had feared death, and while he was alive, he would do much. All that he could. 

The fight clubs continued to serve their purpose. Where there were drinks, people spoke more freely. It was neutral ground that bartered deals. Shouto had already given a wide berth to those men in smart black suits, whose winning bets didn’t win them thousands but rather soldiers for a battle that continued to press on despite Shouto’s isolation from it. The yakuza leaders or fledgling villain bosses, he did not so easily avoid. Getting involved with them further his goal, and the Hero Commission, whatever their ultimate plans were in being in backwater alleys and clubs, had always existed outside of him and his family. Panopticons who were no good at intervening for all they could see. 

All of which led him to where he was forced to pivot again. A warehouse. Empty. Glass had long since littered the floor from high above windows and while the door had once been locked and chained, it was cut long before Shouto came, pushing it open so he could see what lay inside. Networking was not a foreign concept to him. Most other vigilantes seemed to work in a system that catered to others, meaning they got paid by someone else to do their dirty work. Shouto didn’t need the extra money. He was making do as he was, so consider it curiosity that pulled him to the center of dust and forgotten wood pallets. An anonymous donor who wanted to meet with him. 

“You’ve made quite a name for yourself.” 

Shouto frowned. He did not back away from where he had stopped, watching the darkness ahead of him drift away and reveal this new arrival. He dug his hands in his pocket, leveling a covered glare. 

“I have done nothing to you,” he said. “I stayed away.” 

Touya’s scars were broader than when he had last seen him. They took up much of his face, all of his hands, and presumably much more, kept under his street clothes. He dug into his jacket, producing a file, which he threw in between them. Pictures and other artifacts littered the area. Black and white.

“You’ve been busy.” 

“What do you want?”

“You’re not an easy man to get in contact with.”

“That’s the point.”

“Is it?”

Shouto’s glower deepened. He did take a step back. He started to turn, “I’m wasting my time here. Take your advice and leave me alone. I’m no threat to you.” 

Shouto got far in his retreat, closing almost half the distance between him and the door. He knew Touya wouldn’t chase after him. He had made a promise to him, after all, words bound in blood. Touya’s gaze toward him had changed ever since that day. It wasn’t anguish and angry. It wasn’t upset. It was a mystery, part not. Concern on any of his family member’s faces always was. 

“Crime’s down 11% in this sector this last month. Did you know that?” 

Shouto hated that he slowed. Hadn’t they already proven that any close proximity between the two would only ever end in disaster? Shouto could not hate his brother, but he was not keen on being subjected to a rant or criticism of his actions. Shouto already knew he was a flawed actor, there was no need to press the issue. “They say there is a new hero, come to vanquish in this hell.”

“They’re wrong.”

“Are they?”

Heroes had to operate within the confines of the law. Shouto was decidedly not. He could just as easily be arrested as any of the people he charged toward and attacked. At no point in time had vigilante justice been allowed in Japan. 

“You told me you didn’t care what I did,” Shouto said, “as long as I stayed out of your way.” 

“Maybe I changed my mind.” 

Shouto’s fingers flexed. The biggest obstacle with Touya had always been that he knew too much. He had information that would eradicate civilians’ trust in the system, and he had used it gleefully. He had played Hawks at his own game and let his allies perish to fulfill his own goals. Touya was not a good man. Shouto wouldn’t disillusion himself into thinking he had become one in the few months they had been apart. He was simply a powerful one. One who knew just as well as Shouto what happened to their father. 

“So that’s what this is? Extortion? I don’t have much left to take from.” 

“No, no,” Touya shook his head, irritated. It took Shouto seconds to realize it wasn't targeted him, but at himself. Touya was mad at himself. “We’re doing this all wrong. I’m not here to hurt you—I’m trying to help you. I want to help you. I,” Touya frowned, “I made a mistake. I was young and stupid and brash, okay? I should have gotten you out the moment I woke back up, instead of focusing all my energy on dad. You didn’t deserve to grow up in that house anymore than I did.”

Shouto wondered what that might have been like. His dead brother to burn through their home. An avenging angel to take Shouto’s hand and lead him out. Shouto would have gone willingly. While he might have been somewhat aware of his brother’s anger toward him before his death, it was not enough to make him fear him. Between two monsters, Shouto’s choice would have been Touya. 

But if he went to Touya, he would have never gone to UA. He would have never met Midoriya, Bakugou, Iida, or the whole class. He would have never changed and would have held just as much resentment toward his father as he had years prior. 

Would he have become a villain like Touya? 

Maybe that didn’t matter. 

Both roads would have led them to where he was now. Touya’s intervention would have only made it so that he ultimately hurt less people that he cared about now. 

“I never looked for anyone to save me,” Shouto said. Touya’s expression mirrored and replaced one of someone else. He had said the same thing in a room that celebrated the greatest hero, too. Midoriya had said just because he didn’t think he deserved to be saved, didn’t mean no one should have tried. “What is this really about?”

Touya indicated the folder and the pictures strewn across the ground. They were of him. Well, they were of him, fully masked and covered. There was only one that caught sight of his hair, but in black and white and grainy, it was hardly proof of anything, save he had a stalker of a brother, who had told him to go. If Touya had wanted to shelter Shouto, he would have found him beforehand. He wouldn’t have let him leave out of his sight, to begin with.

“I didn’t take these,” Touya said, however, “luckily for you, I still have contacts in the commission. I told you it was only a matter of time before they came after you.”

He did. Shouto expected them to. Maybe a bit more upfront with it, instead of taking photos from afar.

“Maybe I don’t care if they find me,” Shouto said. He didn’t want to go back to UA. There would be no risk in that with the Hero Commission. If they wanted to speak to him, it meant they knew, and if they knew, they were simply working him to his most tired state before interfering. 

“I care,” Touya said. “The commission is the last group you want to get messed up with in this life. One way or another, they’ll ruin you.” 

Shouto didn’t say that maybe he was already ruined, so what did it matter if the Hero Commission got to him?

“I’ll keep an eye out then,” Shouto said. If Touya wanted appeasement, so be it. He wanted to protect his self-interests, and Shouto was a liability. Shouto knew that. 

Only Touya wasn’t agreeing to that statement nor was he demanding more from Shouto, yet. Instead, he was surprising Shouto with a possibility he never considered from his once supposedly deranged elder brother. 

“I spoke with mom." Touya said, "she’s moving the family out of Japan. She doesn’t know where yet, but it will be soon.”

“What else did you tell her,” Shouto couldn’t stop the tightness in his throat. He had watched his mother ask strangers kindly for any information on her kind lost son. She had seem more tired as of late. Was it this?

“Only what she already assumed to know. She didn’t ask about him. She only wanted to know about you. How we could protect you.” 

Had Shouto always seemed so fragile to others? Did people really look at him and think weak, frail, in need of protecting? A child. It had been the other way for so long, he didn’t know what to say when it presented itself to him, from his family no less. 

“There’s a ship, waiting a few blocks from here that is willing to smuggle us aboard,” Touya said. “To Korea. We’ll be out. Japan has too many other things to worry about then us, and once we’re gone, we can be whoever we want to be. You don’t have to keep resorting back to what you know in order to survive. You can live. We can all live. Happily. Like a family is supposed to.” 

Perhaps it shouldn’t have caught Shouto so off guard. Perhaps it should have. If Touya could escape tonight, he could have escaped whenever. He waited until he found the time to speak with him. He planned and talked to their mother, so they could go together and eventually all reconnect somewhere else with new identities under false pretenses. It was as Touya said, a chance for them to be a family. A real one. 

A boy once saw glimmers of a future like that. A small home, surrounded by gardens with no office or training room, but a large family room, filled with plush cushions and laughter. A house to grow old in with many generations of relations and joy. A place where Shouto could stop pretending and live the life he wanted to for so long. 

And never, not once, would Fuyumi, Natsuo, or their mom ever bring up questions as to what happened between the two of them and their father. It would be like it never even happened, and Shouto could move on.

But could he?

If anything, he had since learned that he attracted trouble, and if it didn’t come to him, he went searching for it. In that perfect home, he would have his mom, sister, and brothers, all waiting at a dinner table, waiting for him to come home, restless at heart, getting in trouble. Being discovered in another country was still discovery. Only worse, they would know he had help, and they would search them down too, punish them for not doing as they should, for not knowing. 

“I can’t go with you.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Shouto. You have to. You won’t survive otherwise.” 

Shouto shook his head, dropping his brother's gaze. “You’re not responsible for me. Whatever happens, it’s not your fault. I don’t blame you.” 

“You should.” 

“I don’t.”

“Don’t be a brat,” he said, marching toward Shouto and for a brief moment, he could picture him grabbing his arm and dragging him to his boat. Shouto wouldn’t go without a fight. He would do so kicking and screaming until Touya let him go or fought as well. He didn’t want to fight his family again, not so soon afterward, not with just as much to lose.

And for his pleas, his prayers were answered. Touya stopped short of him. Not without proper cause. Touya raised his palm to his face, stretching out his fingers, one by one to study each of them, and Shouto tensed. He felt it too. His quirk, which he had gone through so much trouble to ignore and keep quiet, was gone. It left him cold.

“You need to go.” 

“Shouto.” 

Shouto already had his back to him. But the way he had come was still just empty. The door closed. His eyes darted to the walls, back to where Touya came in, but Touya’s eyes were up. He was staring at the rafters of the ceiling, and Shouto followed it too. Red eyes met him in the dark.

“I should have come for you sooner,” Touya said.

“Get out,” Shouto said, “I’ll take care of it.”

“You can’t beat him.”

Maybe not. Shouto certainly didn’t have the years of hand-to-hand combat that Eraserhead did. But Shouto didn’t need to beat the underground hero in a fight, he just needed to escape. He couldn’t do that if Touya was still a piece in play.

“He’s after me,” Shouto said. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” 

Touya pursed his lips, but he didn’t argue further as Eraserhead took a step forward, falling from where he had been perched.

“I’ll come back for you,” Touya said, backing up. One last reminder on his tongue. “They don’t control you.”

Shouto didn’t watch his brother’s retreating form through the back of the warehouse. He kept his attention on the hero ahead of him now. Shouto’s quirk was still not in play. He wouldn’t use it even if he could. Fighting a hero in the open like this wasn’t a path Shouto wanted to embark on. All he needed was the confirmation that Aizawa wasn’t going to chase after Touya and that his real target was indeed Shouto. He was proven true once Touya’s footsteps had long since faded into peripheral background noise, and they were still staring at each other unmoving.

“You let him go.” Aizawa’s first words to him. 

“He’s my brother.”

“He’s wanted for far more than your father’s death.”

Shouto had already paid for making the wrong choice. He would continue to pay for it, only it didn’t feel wrong at the time. It didn’t now. Touya had never had a choice. It felt cruel to cast judgment on him for that. But since it was Shouto’s choice, he was accountable for his actions. He knew that. 

“Are you here to arrest me," he asked. Aizawa gave himself away the moment his hair started to drop, and Shouto felt that which he wished he couldn’t. “I wouldn’t be upset if you were, just there are people who need help still around here, so I hope you can find them for me if I have to go.”

There were too many to count, all spread far with disparaging hope. Everyday people chose sides. Very few chose heroes, but it didn’t matter because the heroes held all the power. Many more chose to align themselves with villains. To become villains themselves because the world had been cruel to them, so why not be cruel back? Shouto understood. He wanted to help alleviate that stress. All gone now because of this. 

“I’m not here to arrest you, kid.” 

“Then, why?”

Touya’s photos were still on the ground trampled beneath them. The only other reason the Hero Commission would want him was for him to be their fodder. So easily would they look away to make their perfect hero. They would rewrite all of Shouto’s wrongs and make him better. Let him live in fantasy as the world crumbled at his feet. Shouto took an uneasy half-step back.

“Because you are my student, and I vowed to all of my class that I wouldn’t leave anyone behind.” 

Shouto shook his head. “I don’t go to UA anymore.” 

“I don’t recall expelling you.” 

“I,” Shouto bit his tongue. “I’m not good. I’m not like them.”

“You’re a kid.” Aizawa said. “You’re allowed to be forgiven for mistakes.” 

If only Shouto’s crime was as simple as that. It wasn’t like he miscalculated a move and got hurt in the process for it, forcing training to be over all too fast. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t wished for this reality to be true, long ago when he was small and the house was so large, and only one man had ever come to his room with blazing fists, demanding more and more and more, that child wanted his father dead, and the Number One Hero was, left to rot in the streets for anyone to discover and desecrate. It was not a simple mistake. Shouto had made a decision. Of two monsters, he chose one, and it costed a man his life. 

“I don’t want to go back.”

“I know.” 

Shouto swallowed. He should have stayed home. He should have been prowling the streets, not looking for a lead or a way to make more money. He should have been satisfied with what he had. What he had fought for thus far and nothing more. Another stupid mistake and miscalculation. For all he had tried to avoid, it stared ahead of him now in his old teacher's face. He didn’t deserve forgiveness or understanding. He didn’t want to put this burden on anyone other than himself. It was his to bear, so he would bear it. He would make do. 

Aizawa’s quirk still wasn’t activated, he was waiting for Shouto to make his move. Fire whispered in his blood. Ice mourned as a coffin that spread just below his skin and up his arm. Great men pushed past their limitations and became better. Shouto never wanted to be great. It was an ideal placed on him, thinking him altruistic, worthy of a title that should never been bestowed upon a Todoroki. 

In the end, Shouto didn’t need to contemplate the usefulness of his quirks against a man who could take them all away nor did he have to wonder if his learned skills in the fight clubs would prove beneficial against an actual hero through and through, because an explosion sounded in the night, directly behind him, blistering blue. A fire that consumed all in this dry, barren place of wooden match sticks. Weakened by the strain of being forgotten. Touya’s favor to him. 

They cannot protect you. 

They have always been too weak too. 

They will fall back on their laurels. 

They will brand you, shape you into the beings they fear so much. 

And then. 

They will kill you. 

That is their way. There is no understanding gray. 

So, run, Shouto. Run away far and don’t look back. 

Don’t wonder. 

Don’t pray.

Don’t wish for things to be different.

They won’t be, not anymore. 

Shouto had no fear of smoke and ember. He had long since been assimilated to the itch in his throat and the heat on the back of his neck. There were exits all around. In popping broken windows and dwindling walls. Any of which he could dive through and escape further. All of which he should have. 

Aizawa was calculating through the smoke. He was speaking, shouting. All words were lost between them. He paralleled him, walking left. Aizawa would have to hesitate before he walked through fire. Shouto wouldn't need to. What was walking through fire, really, for man who could yield it?

Through the buzz of errant adrenaline, a crack broke through the smog, falling beams that rained and crushed dusted cement, stirring up smoke, concealing all else. Shouto took his chance at a short sprint, reaching his target and using a clothed fist to punch through thin walls, which disintegrated into ash and fell apart further. He could hear sirens in the distance. It was only time before he saw the lights. Aizawa didn’t bring backup, it wasn’t in his character, but help would come regardless. Shouto had to move. He had to go. Was ready to do so, saw freedom in the shadows that drifted on as naked riverbeds, reaching out with their dark hands, asking for him back, asking him to come and be safe. There was no harbor in light. Only, his senses were not completely numb, and a groan was almost as loud as the thundering of his heart in his ears. 

Don’t turn. 

Don’t look back. 

Don’t. 

Gray smoke swirled and settled against the backdrop of cooling orange flames and overtop darkening black beams of which Aizawa laid underneath. It was burning. If Aizawa could push it off, it would only injure him further. The place was would go quickly. It was disinterested in the state of bodies left in its wake. While Touya’s opinion of Shouto might have changed, he still didn’t like heroes. He still didn’t care if they died to further his own goals, even if that goal was Shouto’s safety. His protection.

Shouto left the wall. He didn’t hesitate, moving through the destruction to look for the safest path. Falling ash ate away black fabric and melted parts of his shoes. The ground beneath his knees when he fell burned, but it did not wholly consume the skin. Aizawa didn’t tell him to go, which was good. Shouto was terrible at listening to the advice, but he knew his former teacher couldn’t ignore how he lifted the beam. The unsaid question as to why he so easily thought to use his hands in place of anything else. In place of what could suffocate the fire all at once if he had the power to do so. 

Instead, Shouto burned his hands. He got his legs underneath him and pushed up, allowing a bit of room, which let Aizawa crawl out further underneath. The man’s left leg was damaged. While Aizawa was strong and could do almost anything, he would not be able to walk out of the burning building without help. So Shouto ignored the pressing panic in his chest and looped the man’s arm around his neck. He did not take a deep breath. He could not. But he took one step at a time, heading to the door not far from them and refusing to collapse when it was opened for them.

Firefighters and police for him but not for the others that needed them just as much. Flashing bright lights that caused him to wince. They rushed to them, to Aizawa’s aid. Shouting questions and demands that went around Shouto in his effort to keep going, keep marching, keep standing. When one of them came to pull Shouto and Aizawa apart to lead them to an ambulance, Aizawa's grip on him tightened. His silent demand. 

Shouto assumed this part of his life was over. 

It was not.

Chapter Text

Izuku woke sprawled in the middle of the bed, his left arm, reaching out into empty space. He opened and closed his fist, not quite connecting the action to himself. Broken sunlight filtered through the cracks in his blinds. He bit the inside of his lip, listening for any sounds in his room and finding none.

“Shouto’s alive,” he whispered. 

It didn’t feel real. Sour, in the back of his throat. 

He blinked hard. 

“I’m going to get to see Shouto again.” 

And that was that. Izuku couldn’t let it be a distraction. He had his job to do. He rolled onto his back and then pulled himself up. He grabbed whatever was the easiest to reach from his closet and made his way to his bathroom. 

The Izuku he found in the mirror was a mixture of a decoy and himself. He rubbed at the black kohl under his eyes, smearing it worse. It hadn’t dawned on him last night to take off the disguise. Belatedly, he touched the ends of his hair, pulling out a bobby pin. The wig was lost somewhere in his living room from ripping it off his head sometime after he got back.

He turned on the shower and existed twenty minutes under slightly too-warm water, closing his eyes against the spray. He breathed in and out, reminding himself he was alright. Told himself again: Not to think. 

Do not think. 

Do not wonder if Shouto woke up to the sun too. If he still went on morning jogs, which he had absolutely hated, or if he had stopped when he decided he wasn’t going to be a hero. 

If he regretted it. 

If he missed Izuku, like Izuku missed him.

Izuku rubbed his eyes, meandering to the kitchen, only to stop, at the sound of frying eggs. He dropped his hand and blinked. 

Ghost faced the stove in Izuku’s tiny kitchen. Two pink straps tied into a neat bow at the hollow of his back that Izuku recognized as a gag gift from Uraraka two years back. An apron that read, "Pretty in Pink." Ghost grabbed an egg from the carton. Bare hands brought it in front of him, leaving Izuku only to hear the sound of it cracking. 

“Did you sleep alright?” Ghost didn’t turn to face him. The pan crackled, and he replaced the broken shells with a new egg. Repeating the process.

“You stayed.”

“You asked me to,” Ghost said, abandoning more shells, and continuing with his task at the stove. “If you ask me to go, I will.”

“Don’t—you don’t.” Izuku bit his tongue. “If you’re not busy, you can stay.”

“Okay,” Ghost said, finally turning back to Izuku. Blue eyes. His cowl was left around his neck. “I hope you don’t mind eggs and toast. The corner store didn’t exactly have the best options, and your kitchen is abysmal.” He brandished the spatula toward him. “Don’t think I won’t add ‘Go Shopping’ to your weekly to-do list.”

“Says the man who probably eats more take-out than I do,” Izuku said, stepping into the kitchen and grabbing the loaf of bread to start on toast. “You didn’t happen to grab coffee, did you?”

“I’m not sure your coffee pot works,” Ghost said. His attention was back on the eggs. “I think you’ll survive one day without caffeine.”

Izuku was about to mention that good friends were always ready with coffee but stopped. It had been much more than several weeks now since Bakugou was grumbling in their shared space with two identical cups, mindful of where he placed Izuku’s in case Izuku startled awake and hit it off. 

Izuku’s phone was in his pocket, fully charged. He could call. He could text. He could rectify that he had chosen to leave him behind, that he hadn’t chosen Ghost over him. It was about the mission. He hadn't even wanted to go. But the missing had to come first. It did. Bakugou would see through him. He always did. 

Doing nothing didn’t change the weight of it. Doing anything wouldn’t either. 

With the toast down, he stepped behind Ghost, hesitated at the counter, then turned to the small radio he had taken from his mother’s place. He spun the knob, changing channels and waiting until he got to the news. 

“Dynamight's safe. He got home early this morning,” Ghost said. 

Izuku nodded. He stopped the moment he hit the news channel, reporting on local weather. He went back to his task, grabbing each slice as it popped out and placing it on a plate. It didn’t take long for them to get to what he wanted to hear, needed to know, but was too scared to leave the comfort of his small kitchen to wretch open by watching it happen again on the tv in perfect color. 

Izuku had left Bakugou. He had abandoned him. 

The news reported, “… following the historic siege of illegal drugs and weapons last night in the Alderan district. Close to one-hundred men and women were arrested. Some estimates have already suggested this raid will put the leading yakuza back nearly a decade.”

All standard stuff. Izuku quietly buttered the bread. He said nothing to the look Ghost gave him while he plated the eggs beside him. 

“This monumental crackdown could not have occurred without the help of the Number Two Hero,   but more importantly the hard work put forth by his agency's newest member, Pro Hero Dynamight.”

“Midoriya,” Ghost said, “we should eat before the food gets cold.”

Izuku shook his head.

“Efforts that will not go ignored so it seems. Early analysis already show that his actions here, as well as numerous jobs throughout the city, have completely shaken up the rankings, as we close in on the half-way point of the summer. The Number One Hero Best Jeanist has reportedly dropped to Number Three, following a lull in his own workload. Hawks remains Number Two. However, it appears after the sting last night, and the frenzy at which Pro Hero Dynamight has worked since arriving at his new agency, has given him an edge. At our current standings, Dynamight is our new Number One Hero!”

Izuku’s ears rang. “Number One,” repeated on loop. He didn’t realize he was shaking until Ghost placed his hands over his, stopping the knife. Izuku kept his head bowed and cleared his throat. 

“I should call him to congratulate him.” He cleared his throat again. “He deserves it. He’s a great hero. I’ve always known he’d be the best—one day.”

“There’s still time,” Ghost said, “it’s not even July. Best Jeanist will hold the official title until October.”

Ghost was right on a technicality alone. While the Hero Commission wouldn’t declare anyone else the Number One during the interim, people could, and very much did, tally the points. Hence the announcement.

“I dropped to Number Four,” Izuku said, biting his tongue and rolling it between his teeth. “Fuck,” he breathed.

For his part Ghost was silent. He dropped Izuku’s hand and picked up the plates, bringing them to Izuku’s ratty couch. On the short table ahead of it, the file from last night sat, neatly organized. Ghost placed the plates between them and sat on the chair. After a moment he turned back to Izuku. 

Ghost said, “it’s my fault you dropped ranks. I shouldn’t have had you working at night. There’s no publicity in it.”

Izuku pushed himself off the counter. 

“Thank-you,” Izuku said, slow on his walk to the couch, “but you don’t have to shoulder this. We already established big crime being down. Cases like what happened last night, are far and few between. It’s what makes the ranks,” Izuku shrugged. “It burns now, but I’ll get over it.”

He had to get over it. Being Number One had never been his dream. His dream had been to be like All Might. To save the un-savable. To be a beacon anyone could look to. However, he didn’t have the strength his old mentor had to stand on his own. Try as he might, Izuku was still beholden to needing support from his peers. Bakugou was able to separate himself from it, and now he was Number One. Izuku couldn’t fault him for that.

“I’ll have to give a statement,” Izuku said, sitting down and grabbing a piece of toast. “Probably not until after the numbers are finalized, and Hawks’ Agency says something. Tomorrow, most likely.”

Ghost nodded, hesitant it seemed, in grabbing his own food. 

“I know you’re not going to like this, but you’re going to have to take the day off.”

Izuku didn’t like it. He had an itch. The urge to run off and do something reckless. Find a monster and defeat him with one deafening punch. It was absurd. The press would read it as it was. Deku lashed out, taking Bakugou’s win as an affront. Criminals would be more apt to hide, not wanting to face the wrath of Hero Deku.

A brief part of him entertained the idea of taking a train two hours south to a sleepy beach town but pushed it away just as fast. He couldn’t race to Shouto no matter how much his heart ached to do so. Izuku had a mission. Everything else was merely circumstantial. Ghost asked him to take a break, so Izuku would do just that.

However, he turned to face his partner. “Does that mean you’re off today too?”

Ghost tilted his head. He did not stay no.

Musutafu in the summer was lazy. Most kids were in school and adults were at work. Those few with a day off, found a fan to sit in front of in a vegetated state, unwilling to move. When Izuku was a kid, summer was watching a clock in a too-warm classroom, eager to run outside, chasing down crime he was too young to see as dangerous. A notebook under one arm and a pencil between his teeth as he watched local heroes stun and amaze. 

Izuku, now, as they slowed to a stop, realized he didn’t have a summer routine. No treasured hobby he looked forward to with the warmth of the season. Even his civilian clothes, a t-shirt and cargo shorts, reminded him of an Izuku long buried.

“This is the place?” Ghost called ahead of him.

“Yeah.”

Ghost revved the engine twice then pulled into the parking lot. 

When Izuku had mentioned going to visit his childhood town, Ghost had shrugged and said he didn’t mind sightseeing. When Izuku had mentioned they’d need to take public transportation to get to said town, Ghost had laughed, shaking his head. Apparently, trains and busses were beneath the elusive underground hero, though not ranked Pro Hero Deku. While Izuku had been tasked with finishing getting ready, Ghost had disappeared, only to reappear with a motorcycle—which, if you ask Izuku, of course, he did. Ghost was as clichéd as he was mysterious.

Though the thought of sitting on a train as people took his picture while they talked about him behind well-placed hands, irked Izuku a little too much to push for taking something else. 

The trip itself was easy. Ghost was an expert at everything he did. Between the helmet and the rushing wind, Izuku allowed himself the momentary respite of shutting off his brain and simply existing on the back of the bike while Ghost weaved through traffic, heading to the place Izuku had typed into his GPS before they had left.

And now they were here. 

A quiet pier far to the left of them. An ocean ahead of them. Piles of trash between them. Ghost shut off the bike, easing off of it and surveying the landscape. He offered Izuku his hand, which Izuku ignored, hopping off the bike, and pulling the helmet off to place on his seat.

“Come on,” Izuku said, stepping around Ghost to the boardwalk, leading to the beach, “we have work to do.”

In all his years since first cleaning this beach, it had never reached the dump level it had been when Izuku was fourteen. Now the litter that proliferated was mostly careless garbage people left when they came to visit interspersed with trash from the sea. With the dumpster in the parking lot and an extra set of hands, it wouldn’t take Izuku nearly as long as it had in the past. He pulled off his backpack and dug between a few warm water bottles to pull out a roll of trash bags. He tossed a roll to Ghost, who caught it with one hand.

“We’re cleaning a beach?”

“Do you have something better to do?” 

Ghost shook his head, and Izuku’s attention went back to his backpack, trying to ignore the feeling of an inquisitive look. He pulled out some gloves and then dropped the bag in the sand, turning to start his task. Ghost didn’t question him further, picking up broken beer bottles and wrappers. Izuku started on the heavier stuff, several propane tanks, an old scooter, and some tires. Nowhere near the heaviest things he had ever pulled from this place, but after a couple of trips, he could feel the sweat roll down his back, his muscle aching.

Ghost remained quiet, near the shore, where the ocean kissed his boots, taking away every step he made. When Izuku crested a dune, coming back from a trip to the dumpster, Ghost hardly seemed real. A hazy mirage on the horizon. A dark spot on an otherwise beautiful sunny day. It was odd seeing Ghost in a place without shadow. Nowhere to hide. 

If anything, Izuku would have assumed the man would be awkward in direct daylight. Unused to be unhidden. But Izuku thought it better that maybe Ghost just preferred being unseen to keep from disappointment—others being disappointed in him. How much easier would Izuku’s hero career be if the people he helped save didn’t criticize his every action for not being enough?

Izuku focused back on his task. 

Maybe it was none of those things. 

Perhaps Ghost did not know he could be as great in pure daylight as he was entangled with shadows.

None of which was Izuku’s place to say. Ghost had given him a great gift last night. A monumental discovery. Izuku didn’t need to ruin it by trying to voice to the underground hero how working the daylight hours really wasn’t all that bad once you got into it. He didn’t need to seek problems with the man for choosing a career different than his and comment on damage, that could was probably long mended. There was no reason to say, full of masking mirth, to come to share an office with Number Four Hero Deku and walk lazy patrol routes that rarely ended in anything more than a checkmark on a piece of paper that all was clear. 

But maybe,  maybe , Ghost would stay. There was that business with the Hero Commission after all, and who better to stop it than a man who could get anywhere and a hero supposedly loved by the masses? It was Izuku’s mess to clean up. His failure in oversight when the Hero Commission came back to power after the fall of All for One. Ghost probably wouldn’t allow Izuku to blame himself entirely for it, but he’d help. He was a hero. Izuku wouldn’t ask him to stop what he was doing and wouldn’t hesitate to follow him into those shadows light had no place in surviving. However it looked, Izuku did want Ghost to stay. 

A strange thought. The need to make one believe they were needed, that they were cared for, that it was okay to stay and rest, no matter what the world outside was. A feeling Izuku didn’t believe started to burn so fervently since he was in high school, and the onerous to heed the request was on him. If he stayed, they would win. If he left, needless death. The outcome of which wasn’t the point here. Izuku had long buried that regret. Ghost's risk at staying hurt no one. Leaving, just one. Perhaps that's why there was hope there because Izuku could begin to see a new future where he wasn't so scared anymore about trusting people again. 

Regardless, Ghost was striking at the crux of the sea. While they didn’t talk, Izuku felt himself trailing after him on each trip away and each trip back. He didn’t know why that was. 

The sun dipped into the ocean by the time they were done. Ghost collapsed in the sand. Izuku sat down next to him. The lights on the pier were on, though no one else was on it. Far beyond it, he could make out the shapes of people, but they were walking away from them. Izuku glanced back at Ghost. Ghost’s attention was already on him. 

Ghost said, “I expected you to ask more of me today.” 

“Spending hours cleaning a beach not fulfilling enough?”

Ghost sighed, rolling his head back in the sand to watch the wisps of clouds above them in darkening blue. 

“More questions at least,” he said. “It’s not every day a person returns from the dead.”

Izuku could taste salt on his lip. The grime on the back of his hand where he rubbed his face. He dropped it to dig his fingers in blistering sand, finding coolness underneath. 

“It’s not that really,” he said. “You can’t come back from something you never were. He never died. I don’t know what else to think about it.”

“I think you do,” Ghost said. “Or you will. I’m here whenever you want to talk about, just.” Ghost fisted his hands, stretching out the seams of his gloves. All day in the sun in all black with zero complaints. “I don’t want you to lose yourself for him. He’s not worth it.”

Indignant, Izuku almost responded that he was. He wanted to tell Ghost he knew nothing of him, nothing of Shouto. But the truth of it, Izuku didn’t know Shouto, either. He was a stranger. A civilian who got out before the curse of heroics could take him under. Shouto was able to do what Izuku could not do. He left UA for good and did not look back. He did all he could so that he wouldn’t be forced to.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Izuku said. “I need time, I think, to process it fully. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Ghost nodded. His head, cratering the sand. When they would leave here, and Ghost decided to take his whole get-up off, sand would pour off his mask and cowl. He’d be washing it out of his hair for weeks.

“Then can you tell me what else is bothering you?”

Izuku’s brows drew together. They hadn’t exactly spoken much in their efforts to clean the whole of the beach, but Izuku hadn’t thought he was walking with more weight on his shoulders than necessary. The Shouto thing would take time, he knew it, whatever came of it, but it wouldn’t be good if he drowned in it completely. But Ghost wasn’t pushing that. He already had Izuku’s truth on the matter, which was the truth, no matter how minimal it was, so what else was there to bother him?

“Nothing.”

“I don’t think we would have come here if nothing was bothering you,” Ghost said. He hadn’t denied Izuku coming here. He had said so himself that Izuku needed to take a break. This was it.

Only, it wasn’t, was it?

It was punishment. It was training. It was not good enough, not good enough, not good enough. It was him, back to square one. He always knew—he  knew— that there were others who were greater than him and would achieve that success outright. Only, he and Bakugou had been much the same since high school, this seemed like the final nail that set them apart for good. Bakugou, who could move on and succeed, and Izuku, who was scared of what lay, waiting in his past. Ghost was right for him to worry that Izuku would let Shouto ruin him further, he already let him once.

But that wasn’t fair on Shouto. It was Izuku’s fault. It was. 

“The Hero Commission wanted to make me the Number One Hero as soon as I graduated,” Izuku whispered, turning away from Ghost as he said it. “Earlier, than that actually, but UA wouldn’t let them. They said I wasn’t ready yet, that it wasn’t fair. The president came to my graduation, congratulated me, my mother, my classmates, and then they took me to the side and handed be a contract and a dream. They said that I had done it, that I had proven merit.” 

Being the greatest hero and being the number one hero weren’t always one and the same in his mind. A person’s ability to be great was singular, a reflection on them, no one else. Izuku wanted to be a good hero when he was young and had no quirk to prove himself with. He wanted to show that he could still succeed, save. Be great. Izuku wanted to become the Number One Hero when he wanted to prove to All Might, Bakugou to some extent, that One for All wouldn’t be wasted on him, that he would inherit the mantle and become even greater than his mentor if such a task like that was even possible. 

“I turned them down. Best Jeanist was the intermediary Number One at the time, and I knew society needed someone older and trusted to help rebuild society and heroics. Six months later they came again, and then six months after that, and so forth. To be seen as a light of hope is a great honor. I am happy with where I am, but it never felt earned, and it wasn’t. It was an honor in title only.” 

Ghost had since pulled himself up, loosely resting his arms over his knees. 

“Do they still?”

Izuku shook his head. “They stopped around when I was twenty, when I,” he shook his head. It didn’t matter what he tried to do. The punishment of it was the same. Izuku was the same. “But that didn’t mean I stopped wanting it, you know? I figured I needed to grow out of my young twenties and one day I would just know. All Might didn’t become the Number One Hero until he was 27, that’s still over two years away for me. I have time. I know I do. I just, guess, didn’t expect Kacchan to beat me to it. 

“That’s terrible isn’t it? Kacchan’s always been worried about falling behind me, and the one time he overcomes me and achieves total victory, I can’t handle being left out, cast away to the sidelines.” 

“I think it would be more weird if you didn’t care,” Ghost said eventually once Izuku forced himself to stop. It wasn’t fair to keep talking to Ghost about all of his problems just because it was easy to talk to the other hero, and so far, Ghost had never made it seem like Izuku couldn’t. Ghost continued, “but I wonder if being the Number One Hero is truly that important to you.” 

“Of course, it’s important to me,” Izuku said. “I didn’t accept the role when I was younger because I wasn’t ready, and I wasn’t, but one day I will be, and I want it then.”

After everything Izuku had been through thus far, he needed it. He needed to know that none of this was worthless, that he made not only a difference but the most difference. The hero of his generation. 

“I don’t think you do,” Ghost was bold enough to say, “if you did, you would already have been it two years ago, during the fall ranks. Bakugou wouldn’t have been close to having it now.” 

“I’ve seen my numbers, I’ve been close, but not that close,” Izuku defended. 

Ghost said. “Every year, you’ve come close to overpassing Hawks or Best Jeanist, but you slow down. Every single one. I’m not saying this because I think you get lazy the two months prior to the official ranking or stop trying your best. I know you don’t, which was infuriating to watch before, but it’s more obvious to me now why you do it.”

Obvious enough for Izuku not to know? For his shoulder’s not to tense and iron in his mouth where he bit his lip to keep from talking over the other hero? 

“You’re scared,” Ghost said simply, “because you do want to prove that it’s all been for something. However, the idea that it’s  not , that you will still have regrets even afterward, I think that’s whats holding you back. If it wasn’t worth it to even be Number One, to be considered the greatest hero in your field, than what was the point of it all anyways? What was the point of any of your sacrifices or losses?”

It had been a long time since someone had the guts to say straight to Izuku’s face an obvious flaw in his stature and not waver from it. Ghost didn’t break eye contact with him. The sun was warm above them. The waves across from them intermittently crashed against the shore. Ghost pinned him where he was. Blue, blue, blue. The color of the ocean during the day under a blazing sun. Dangerously bold. 

“However,” Ghost finished, “you don’t need to be the Number One Hero, Midoriya. You don’t. Whatever you’re scared of realizing in holding yourself back, it’s not as bad as you think it is. You’re a remarkable hero. You’re my hero. Whatever failures your think of behind you, don’t change that now. It can’t. You’re a good person. A kind one. You’re better than whatever lie you keeping telling yourself, and I hope, one day, whatever it is that is troubling you, you’ll be able to forgive yourself fully for.” 

Izuku’s eyes burned, and he swallowed down whatever feeling came with being seen and filleted open for all to see. Only, people hadn’t seen, or if they had, they had never thought to say anything or critique. Not that Ghost had spoken in the matter that it was criticism. It was only an observation, after a careful too many nights together. Izuku knew what it was like to watch people, to sit out on the sidelines and observe, but he had become deaf to any concerns or comments on his own life. People cared, he knew they did, and had the evidence they did, but, god, Izuku couldn’t shoulder their grief. It was so unbearable most times, undeserving too. 

It would be one thing to agree with Ghost's assessment if Ghost knew fully what it was Izuku had done. He called Izuku kind, but there was a point where he wasn’t. Where he was vengeful and cruel with a radio in his ear and a demand for a mission to only end one way. It was seeing flowers on a makeshift memorial and the man who stood over it, asking why they weren’t correct. Why Izuku had even bothered to come to him when Izuku hadn’t been strong enough to save his brother? 

This wasn’t just about not being durable enough to withstand the pressure of a collapsing building so everyone made it out alright or switching out his patrols, only for disaster to strike right where he should have been but wasn’t. It was a definitive choice that he made, and he knew as soon as it was happening that it was the wrong choice but by then it was already too late, left to watch blood run in the water.

But was it really what kept Izuku from becoming Number One? 

The answer was obvious to him. Would only be obvious to him. No one else knew. Would ever know. He wasn’t strong enough to change that now, even with comfort with Ghost. There was already too much that happened today. He couldn’t talk about the actual dead Todorokis too.

So he didn’t. He swallowed the rest of his discomfort and put on a blank face, masking the rest of his uneasiness. He turned to Ghost. 

“What’s your favorite ice cream?”

At the abrupt subject change, Ghost released his legs. Izuku expected him to push the issue. Ghost had already discovered the nerve of the problem, might as well see it to fruition. Only Ghost was patient. Izuku may run now, but he could not run forever.

“You already know my favorite. I think it’s fair for me to know yours,” Izuku continued. 

Ghost tilted his head. “Am I five? I don’t have a favorite.”

“Sure, you do,” Izuku said, relaxing and putting his weight on his hands behind him. “Everyone does.”

“I don’t.” 

“You do.”

Ghost, petulant, turned his head toward the ocean, watching the waves roll in.

“Maybe those chocolate and vanilla twist ones? My mom brought me to get ice cream once when I was younger. I had that.The only other ice cream I’ve had since is your favorite.”

Izuku bit his tongue from saying that Ghost’s favorite ice cream was possibly the most boring option out there as Ghost finished his statement, gaze set on the sun.

“You didn’t have a lot of sweets growing up, did you?” Izuku commented. “My mom tried to be a stickler, but she was too much of a bleeding heart. I ate my weight in junk food growing up.”

“Yeah, my dad—he didn’t like the stuff, didn’t want it in the house, and I,” Ghost shrugged, “never acquired the taste for it.”

“Your dad sounds like a real prick,” Izuku said without filter, “kids need candy and cookies and sweet things, it’s like a childhood bi-law or something.” 

He missed when Ghost turned back to him. He wondered if he felt how artificial their conversation had become. If he hated it. Izuku couldn’t stop. He wanted to move on. He needed to find himself again, and when Izuku was younger and happier, one of the things he used to do was get people to try things they never had done before. 

“Well, there’s no time like the present to figure out your favorite ice cream. Banana popsicles are ten out of ten for me, so generously I figure they’re like an eight for you, right? There’s an ice cream shop real close to here. I’m sure they have your twist thing. We’ll start with that.”

Izuku jumped up, dusting off his pants. “There’s a bench up at the pier. Why don’t you head there? I’ll go and get the ice cream. That way we don’t have to deal with questions asking us why on earth you’re dressed for Halloween in June.”

“Okay.”

“Okay!”

Izuku tampered the force of the statement, helping Ghost up before pointing exactly where he wanted him to go. Ghost nodded and started his way through the shifting sand. 

Quietly, Izuku thought it probable, he was being unfair to the other man. Ghost was easy to talk to. He saw too much and knew even more. Izuku couldn’t hide from him. He shook his head, turning to work his way up the boardwalk. The next time they went out, or had time to just exist, Izuku wouldn’t compare that to something else. Ghost was new. Ghost was exciting. He was, hopefully, his future. There was no looking back. 

Regardless, it was hard not to be chipper, no matter how artificially sweet it was. This was going to be the most normal thing he and Ghost had ever done. While eating ice cream with a friend was something children did, not grown adults, Izuku could at least say he never got to do it for much of his childhood, and well, Ghost apparently never did it at all. Izuku refused to dwell on their upbringings, stepping into a deserted shop, and ordering a pair of cones. This was all about new beginnings.

Izuku had a new friend. They were not a hero of UA. Bakugou and Izuku would no longer be working closely together. But it was okay. Izuku had a new person to rely on. Izuku wasn’t considered the best hero. It was alright, All Might never wanted him to directly inherit the mantle, and the existence of Ghost all but guaranteed good heroes, great ones, weren’t always recognized by the Hero Commission. People could still do good, outside of being a ranked pro.

Shouto was alive. 

Izuku faltered on the cement at the cusp of crossing onto the pier. 

Izuku could begin to move on from his death; he would reach him this time.

Ghost sat at the very end, watching the last rays of the sunset. He thanked Izuku when he sat down, handing him his cone. His mask was already pulled from his face, though it was still awkward to eat around it. Izuku refrained from telling Ghost outright to remove it. Their relationship was built on patience and trust. One day, Izuku did believe Ghost would take off more of his persona and reveal more of himself to Izuku. Today didn’t need to be that day. 

“For the most basic item on the menu,” Izuku said, half of his ice cream already gone, “child you was correct, this isn’t half bad. No banana dipped in chocolate, but a solid six, no seven.”

Ghost nodded. “Do you rank every food you eat, or just the deserts?”

“Well, of course, everything falls into categories, but katsudon is the best ever creation known to man, especially my mom’s katsudon. Absolute perfection. I don’t think I have a favorite seafood dish, and while I like my curry spicy, I wouldn’t come close to Kacchan’s curry. The Iida’s make a great stew, and I absolutely hate stew. Mushy carrots? Disgusting. Obviously, the best noodle dish is soba, but everyone knows that.”

“And what if I told you I didn’t like soba?” Ghost couldn’t raise his eyebrow expectantly at Izuku, but the message came across.

“Then I’d just have to say you’re wrong. What’s not to like? It easy and refreshing on a hot summer’s day. In fact, I’ll probably make it tomorrow.”

“That will require you to have actual food in your apartment, which you don’t.”

“Then I’ll just order it,” Izuku said, resisting the urge to stick his tongue out like a child. “If you know so much about what’s your favorite dish then?”

Ghost tilted his head, ate more of his ice cream, and said, “well my second favorite meal is,  concombre a la menthe .”

“What? I don’t even,” Izuku shook his head, “what about your favorite food. Number One.”

Ghost took a bite out of his cone. Around it, he said, “you haven’t unlocked that level of friendship yet.”

“That’s not fair,” Izuku whined, “I’m practically your best friend at this point.” Then he schooled his face. “Does Shinsou-kun know your favorite food? Don’t think I won’t corner him and demand that he tell me. I can be very persuasive, you know, and then what will you do? Come to my place and eat it with me because friends make each other dinner, and eat it quietly, even if it’s garbage.”

“Are you insinuating that my favorite food is trash?”

“No!” Izuku shook his head. He felt warmer than he had all day. “I mean without knowing what it is it’s hard to say if I would like it, but I’d still make it for you! If you asked, or came over, or wanted to eat something that wasn’t fast food on a rooftop.”

Ghost placed his hand on Izuku’s knee and squeezed, “relax, Midoriya, I was just teasing. I bet your cooking’s great, and I,” Izuku got the sense Ghost was biting his tongue, rolling something over in his mind before saying, “I’d like to come over to your place to eat. It’d probably beat greasy burgers and stale two-in-the-morning fries.”

Izuku was about to press him further on his favorite food when his phone started buzzing in his pocket. Distracted, he glanced down at the notification, seeing far too many missed calls and texts. His friends were having a field day, and Izuku wasn’t keen on answering Uraraka’s incoming call. Granted, if he didn’t, there was a good chance she’d go to the police, claiming he was a missing person, and then all of Japan would be out looking for him. With a sigh and a smiled apology to Ghost, he picked up the phone. 

“Hey, Uraraka-kun.”

“Save it mister,” Uraraka said, “where the hell are you? I’ve been to your apartment twice and your agency three times. No one knows where the hell you are. I know you weren’t keen on celebratory drinks tonight with gang but to ditch us entirely to throw a hissy fit over your rank is below you.”

In truth, he didn’t know what to say to Uraraka. He didn’t want to have the same partial conversation that he had with Ghost with her. Where Ghost had stopped, sensing, perhaps that Izuku needed it, Uraraka would push it until he broke. Not because she was malice or had ill intent, but because she knew the longer he sat on things, the more likely he would never face them outright.

Izuku took his phone away from his ear to check the time. They wouldn’t be getting back to Tokyo until it was late, and even though Izuku had patrol in the morning, he really should try to make an appearance at whatever bar they were at, considering he left early last time too. He really was a trash friend.

Ghost plucked the phone from Izuku’s grasp, placing it by his ear. “Uraraka-san?” Izuku made a panicked, high-pitched noise in the back of his throat, reaching back for the phone. Ghost merely pulled away. “I’m sorry for keeping Izuku from you all day.”

Izuku?  He could hear Uraraka squeal from the phone. Izuku himself was certainly not squealing or acting even more absurdly in his effort to get his phone back. Ghost switched hands, holding Izuku back his free one. Izuku struggled more.

“Who am I?” Ghost asked, attention back on the phone, “I’m just a friend of his.”

Izuku pushed against his arm, stopping when he felt a circular object press against his chest. His mouth fell open. He whisper-hissed, “you wouldn’t.”

Ghost glanced at him, “test me.” Uraraka must have said something in response because the next thing Izuku knew Ghost was continuing with, “he doesn’t snore at night. All the forums say that he does. It was a tad disappointing. It could’ve been cute.”

Uraraka screamed. Ghost pulled the phone away from his ear. Izuku didn’t dare move against the wraith pressed against him, at the mercy of his two friends. Thankfully, Ghost didn’t seem too eager to keep the conversation going for too long.

“If I had known he had plans with you tonight, Uraraka-san,” he paused, “Ochako-san, I would have made sure he got home sooner. You know how he is, can barely get a minute in without him running off to save the day, but alas, he’s, my hero.”

Uraraka was going to eat this up. She was probably in the bathroom at the bar and the moment she got back, she’d tell all their friends that Izuku was at a secret rendezvous with a boy. It basically collaborated their claim that Izuku had a secret partner he was keeping from all of them. He’d never live it down, and now, because of Ghost, he was going to have to stage a fake breakup where he pretended to be completely distraught eating ice cream with Uraraka and watching bad romcoms.

“Very well, I’ll let him know. Have a good night,” Ghost said, hanging up. His hand fell from Izuku’s chest, and he tossed the phone at Izuku before Izuku could tackle him for it.

“That was rude,” Izuku said, thumbing through the rest of his notifications. They were mostly from friends. Uraraka would fill them in. He started messaging Best Jeanist back, letting him know he was good for work the next day.

“Got you out of going to that bar tonight,” Ghost said, “if anything you should be thanking me."

Izuku glanced up at his phone, “maybe I was looking forward to hanging out with my friends. I was just waiting for a moment to ditch you.”

“Not likely. Uraraka said I sounded like a dream to be with.”

“Well, she’s a liar, who doesn’t know any better,” Izuku said, finishing the message. His next one was to his publicists. As he assumed, they wanted to schedule a press event where he addressed his drop in ranks. Two days after the next. Apparently, Best Jeanist already had a slot lined up.

“Funny, she said you’d say that—or well, you’d at least downplay our relationship. I don’t know, however, what she means, I think I was very clear about the state of our friendship.”

Izuku glared over the top of his phone. Ghost didn’t wear smiles. Couldn’t contain laughter in blue eyes. He existed as he was, expressionless. He wasn’t unknowable. “You’re a real jerk, you know that right? After all my help in trying to find you your favorite ice cream flavor.”

“Now come on, don’t be like that. I could have told Uraraka I was available to be your plus one at her wedding.”

“She didn’t.”

“She said she knew it was short notice, but she also said whoever got you sit down once and a while, was a good enough person to attend her wedding. Unfortunately, black tie events aren’t really my thing,” Ghost said, “Though I do think I’d look rather dashing on your arm.”

“I can’t stand you,” Izuku said without bite. His heart rate was calming down. The joke of it, mellowing out. Whenever he saw Uraraka next, he’d insist that they were indeed simply friends and that in fact, he had made Ghost—he wouldn’t call him Ghost—clean up the whole beach with him. Izuku wouldn’t take someone on a date to a beach filled with trash, obviously. He’d take them somewhere nice, quiet. First dates were all about getting to know one another. A romantic dinner. An awkward movie. Maybe finding a quiet hill to stargaze. Though, then again, what experience did Izuku have with romance?

Ghost stood. He stretched, fingers threaded and arms high above his head. He said, “come on, follow me,” and Izuku’s brows knitted. The day was ending. The only thing left for them to do was go home. But Ghost didn’t walk around the bench to the mouth of the pier. He walked to the right and looked over the edge to the beach again. He turned back and found Izuku watching him.

“Do you trust me?”

A question Ghost didn’t expect an answer to. Ghost lifted himself on the railing to be able to swing his legs over it. Izuku got up. Ghost didn’t wait for him to catch up, falling the distance between the pier and the sand below. The sand barely protested his landing. Not a single sound or noise. Izuku jumped down too. 

Ghost had already worked off his right and left glove, dropping them side by side on the ground. He had his left leg bent over his right, unzipping the side of his boot before pulling that off as well too. So close to the edge of the water, his foot was wet when the ocean rolled in. Ghost didn’t seem to mind, taking off his other boot and sock, and tossing them both to be more centered on the beach to not get wet. He took the time to pull up and roll up the edges of his pants until they were just below his knees and that was that. He started to walk into the ocean. 

Izuku stayed where he was at the shore. He wasn’t completely sure what for. Ghost couldn’t go far with how he was dressed, but the ocean was kind to him. Quiet against his shins and eventually his lower thighs when Ghost went just deeper than he had promised his pants, one of his gloveless fingers through the water, perhaps just to watch how quickly and easily the ocean was to mend while holding the other to his chest. For some reason, Izuku felt as though it was a scene he shouldn’t be watching. Too bare to be the hero, though, not yet bare enough to encapsulate the man either. Izuku’s mouth powder dry regardless. 

“Aren’t you coming?”

Izuku wasn’t sure what they were doing. He was exhausted. Two emotionally fraught days one after the next. He wanted to be home; he wanted to have such a place that he could return to for peace. He knew his apartment wasn’t it. It never had been but a place he had his bed. Maybe when Uraraka still lived with him, but even then, its form had always made Izuku feel not quite right in his skin. 

He stepped on the back heel of his shoe, slipping both his socks and shoes off. One at a time. 

There was an awful lot still to be done. There was still their mission. Bakugou was newly compromised and cut out. There was Izuku’s own place in his profession. How he would act in the light of Bakugou’s success? What he would do about Ghost’s honest observation? There was Shouto. Wherever he was now. Whatever it was he was doing. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps, he found quiet respite in taking a moment to look out his open window, taste salt on the breeze, and watch as one by one the stars woke up.

The water was colder than Izuku expected it would be. Ghost had walked in so confidently. He hadn’t hesitated at all. Of course, Ghost had fire in his blood, and despite Izuku’s many quirks, he never had his father’s own affinity for flames and warmth. However, the cold could be ignored. It was not something that Izuku would let hold him back by. He didn’t care when the hem of his shorts began to get submerged. His only thought was to meet Ghost at some point out there among all of it.

When he did, Ghost had stopped trailing absent-minded through the listless waves and instead faced forward toward the unbroken horizon. Izuku settled beside him too. Unsure what it was that Ghost wanted to see down there that they couldn’t have observed where they were sitting before. 

“Peace.” Ghost said. Izuku dropped his head, letting his hair fall forward to hide his warming face, which only caused Ghost to snort, near laughter. He didn’t take the opportunity to tease Izuku, though. No, Ghost started talking, revealing more than simple pale skin. 

“It’s important to enjoy a break when you can.” He tilted his head up. Izuku didn’t think it was possible for him to feel the breeze above the waters. But he couldn’t deny that it didn’t look as if Ghost was enjoying this moment. “We’re allowed so few as it is.” 

It was true. Izuku’s mandated off days, back when he had days off and wasn’t working overnight, were filled with other menial tasks that had to get done, many overtop one another, so that the only time when Izuku did have a moment to himself, he wasted it, watching the news to be prepared for his following shift at work, uncaring as he scrolled through his phone, and oftentimes cut off short as he rushed to battle because he didn’t know what to do with himself if everything just stopped. 

“I’ve always liked the water,” Ghost continued. “My house is on the ocean. If I have the time, I like to take my morning coffee out there.” 

“You have a house?”

Of course, Ghost had to live somewhere. Izuku had assumed it was a place like Shinsou’s. Small and manageable. Not on the ocean no less. 

“It’s more like a vacation cabin right now,” Ghost said. “It’s a bit too far out of the city, so I rarely go back to it when I’m deep deep in a case. But, I’m not homeless, now or anything. Aizawa, Shinsou, and I have several properties across the city that are serviceable enough to stay at temporarily here and there. Kacchan needs to stay somewhere, of course. I’m sorry, Kacchan is my

“Cat,” Izuku finished. Ghost’s cat who he brought with him wherever he went. It was sweet. Whereas Izuku couldn’t see it before, he could now picture Ghost walking into his home, temporary or real, scooping her up off the ground while he made his way further into the house. “Katsudon, right?”

“Right.” Ghost said. “You won’t believe me, but she loves the water too. She chases the waves at the shoreline. It’s rather ridiculous. I tell her every time that she’s not supposed to like the water. But she doesn’t listen to me. She’s good for that.”

“I’d love to meet her,” Izuku said before he caught himself. Before he put together the implications of saying such a thing. Ghost beat him before he could take it back.

“I would like that.”

Ghost didn’t try to offer an explanation further about when or how, and somehow Izuku’s racing mind didn’t catch up to him at that moment to demand one either. It was a promise. A quiet one. But a promise, nonetheless.

Had this been a year ago, five months ago, and Izuku had been faced with the knowledge he was met with the previous night, Izuku wouldn’t have survived it. He already felt as though he was only partially himself, this revelation would have broken him fully. It would have destroyed him. Abandonment had always been a tricky thing for him to ignore and deal with silently alone. But he would have hurt himself further in rushing to the boy who broke his heart, asking him to break it again and again and again because Izuku couldn’t help himself. He would not have stood in the ocean, watching the moon rise, steadying his breathing to accomplish the impossible in finding peace. 

“Ghost?” Izuku didn’t turn from the golden moon ahead when he sensed Ghost’s head tilted to find him. “Thank you.” 

Words that were too little to fully quantify all that it was that he needed Ghost to know about how deeply he appreciated him. Izuku woke up this morning, and he could breathe. He could get out of bed. He knew it was irresponsible to put it all on Ghost and soon, probably, he would have to reckon with the path of changing and healing himself, but that path—always dark, narrow, and impossibly long—didn’t seem so impossible now. Izuku wasn’t alone anymore. He had this. He trusted this. 

And Ghost could have said it was nothing at all. He could have asked for clarification. He could have denied ever needing the praise. But he didn’t. He accepted Izuku’s words in the following silence, turning away from him to have this golden hour moon over him, making him glow. An object of fantasy. Ethereal. Remarkable. Someone that people couldn’t touch, but Izuku was just close enough standing side by side that he could feel his residual heat. Who had held his hand the previous night and stayed. How, after all of it, that was what Izuku always wanted.  

A shadow wasn’t permanent. The moonlight intangible compared to the brightness of the day. People hid to stay hidden, but they didn’t share information to make them found, to make them real, human. A man with a face, who could laugh, cry, and scream. Exist. Izuku thought he knew all this. Never hesitated, wondered, what the curve of a cheekbone might be, or the temper of a brow. Didn’t think about the color of hair or how short it might be. He knew Ghost to be real, didn’t need to see skin to believe, and yet, this snuck up on him all the same. 

It should have scared him. It should have caused him to step back and away from that which anchored him here. Run away. Izuku was good at that. He had been running since he was sixteen. But he felt a bit of misplaced bravery there and now. A bit of hope. When they went back to shore, went back to Tokyo, Izuku didn’t need to feel like he had to squander something misplaced. True, he didn’t know where it was this relationship with Ghost would lead, but there surrounded by darkening water on all sides and a thousand possibilities for wishes, there might have been a spark in his chest, an opportunity to grow into something more. 

He liked Ghost. He really did. It might not have been love, no, he knew that feeling well. The hollowness in a missing piece of his soul. 

The thing was, however,  Izuku didn’t know what this tempo in his heart

was.

Katsuki got out of the car close to his house but not  close  to his house. He might have been willing to throw on a mask for this incursion and add gravel to his voice to combine with gold contacts, but he wasn’t stupid. He didn’t trust the vigilante anymore than what he paid them to accomplish. He trusted their driver just as less. 

The car took a left at a stop sign and disappeared from view. Katsuki shoved the envelope deeper into his pocket, resisting the urge to rip it open and scour it for every detail that was offered to him. The criminal had already told him what he needed to know. 

I don’t know what to tell ya, man, your guys not there. Never was.

They were quick to rectify that people went missing all the time in Tartarus. The living conditions were apt for disease and plague, compromised individuals were the most at risk. Katsuki’s target would have certainly fallen into that category. Only, Katsuki didn’t think the Hero Commission would have allowed a resource such as Dabi to die under their supervision. They would have used him. But they weren’t. They were lying about what really happened to him. 

Katsuki cut through neighborhood backyards, scaling fences and bushes. Despite the rigidity of his new costume, it did its task well. No one was up at the hour, but Katsuki had little fear that if they were awake they would see him outside in the deepest part of their lawns. Not that Katsuki was making slow work of any of them. He wanted to get home. He needed to reconvene with what he had all discovered thus far and debate next moves. What he could get done. 

His home was dark as he approached it. Eijirou long in bed where he had left him when he had slipped between the covers, pulling them snugly against the underside of his partner's chin. He had debated looping him into this mess, but he didn’t want to needlessly worry him. Katsuki could handle it.

He made easy work on the climb to the open second-floor window, sneaking in and shutting it behind him. He threw the fabric mask over to the corner of his office, tossed the envelope to the messy desk, and then walked over to the small mirror to get the contacts out. He hated wearing them. They itched his eyes and only did so much in concealing his actual identity. He was lucky that the people he had to go through were not very bright. When he was done, he wrestled with the zipper on the back of the uniform, tugging the top half off to hang off his waist before walking to the wall opposite of the window, stretching out his arm and taking in all he knew so far. 

A little over fifteen years ago, Todoroki Touya was considered dead. Since the reveal that he was not   dead, any and all classified documents surrounding the incident had leaked or were exposed, chronicling all the wrongdoings of the Todoroki manor and the non-investigation right afterward. There were plenty of podcasts and documentaries to sift through and consider, but, for the most part, they all dealt with the same facts. The eldest Todoroki survived. It was debated how that was. Katsuki didn’t particularly care how he did it, or who specifically intervened to save him. It didn’t matter now.

For a year or so after that, there was nothing, until the first mention of  Yokai  showed up at the fight clubs, decimating his opponents. He started off small. He didn’t immediately use his quirk—it would take a handful of more years for Dabi to truly emerge and start honing his power—but he did so eventually. He was good at it. As if he had a vendetta against those he fought. Like he needed to prove that he could stand among them. 

But he left the fight clubs, either forced out once it came to light what he was getting up to on the streets or of his own fruition in not wanting to be caught by the sporadic heroes that frequented them. 

With all the information Katsuki and the agency had gotten from the raid, the number of heroes who had, at least once, gone to the fight club to make money was ridiculous. There was so much more a hero could be doing, could be helping, for them to simply give up and act like this was all they had left. It was rotten. It diseased the whole profession. What they were able to ignore in order to make some quick cash. 

Hawks claimed that he would look into it and perhaps their agency could start a private investigation that outed the cause for it and remedy the solution. Katsuki wasn’t confident in that future, however. He had been to the fight clubs himself. He knew the Hero Commission frequented them just as well. 

Dabi started killing people around the age of 17. All fire quirk users. All within five years. He then joined the league. Katsuki knew what happened there. He had witnessed most of it. He had seen the face of a madman set on destroying his father and killing his brother in one precise blow. Shouto had said he wasn’t sure if his brother could be saved. Katsuki was of the opinion that he couldn’t. He had hated it then that they were making his friend do it, that there was no better plan than to send Endeavor and Shouto, marching toward their deaths. 

What got messy then, was what occurred after Endeavor’s death. 

It was supposed to be simple. It was supposed to be. Dabi leads a life on the run until he is arrested by Izuku four years later. Only,  only,  Katsuki didn’t believe that to be the truth. Not anymore. 

He returned back to his desk, picked up the envelope, and tore open the seal with his thumb. There was a lot of administrative jargon, several pages. The vigilante had done the best they could do. They had snuck into Tartarus, after all. Despite Katsuki’s opinion of their morals, he had to commend them for getting that far. The paperwork was only to corroborate what the vigilante had said and what Katsuki had already suspected was true. 

Dabi wasn’t in jail. 

He never was. 

The edges of the paper browned, wisps of smoke around his thumb and forefinger.

Katsuki wasn’t wrong often. But he had hoped he would have been wrong now. If Izuku found out, it would kill him. He barely survived facing Dabi the first time without Katsuki there; Katsuki didn’t think his support next to him would help him now. Therefore, he couldn’t immediately go to him. He wanted to do this smartest way. The best way. So that Izuku didn’t get hurt. So he wasn’t re-hurt by the after-effects of the Todoroki drama. 

Katsuki returned back to the wall and unpinned the date of arrest from the wall. It led to a long, open timeline of possibility. One he was beginning to fill and curate with what he knew of  Yokai  and how that still factored in. 

There were two of them. He knew that. There was a grim picture in the far corner of the board to remind him. But where the  Yokai  of just after Endeavor was killed was tepid, scared almost, careful of his attacks, it didn’t take long before he was superseded by something that much more resembled the original  Yokai.  Dabi’s return to the ring.

It was already chronicled that he left the League after his confrontation with his family. If he needed cash quickly, the place worked in his favor. Further, Dabi couldn’t use his fire. Izuku’s profile of him after their contact said, “suspect claims some sort of quirk illness." If fire exasperated that, he couldn’t rely on his quirk. But that didn’t keep the man from acting out in violence or getting what he wanted out of people.  

It led him to a single date Katsuki was apt to ignore until now. 

Shouto’s death had never sat right with him. It was too clean. Too perfect. A body left in a flowering field, overlooking the river. Completely charred with a single bullet wound to the skull. Shouto was not a coward. He wasn’t weak. He was a stubborn bastard and that alone had let him survive all those years in that house without help or aid. Katsuki long suspected he was murdered, staged in a way that kept the cops from looking deeper into it, considering all that was going on at that time, and the fact that maybe it was easier to simply let it be, that in pursuing everything that was wrong, it would only expose more damaged hurt. 

Katsuki did not give up, but he had nightmares, and he had the weight of a whole class, watching from the hall of the hospital as Izuku screamed that it wasn’t true. He had seen the fright on their faces. The uneasiness in their stances. Katsuki was a good fucking leader. He was strong. He did not bend. A homicide investigation would have dragged out for years. It would have been them, coming and going from the same precinct, being asked the same questions, over and over, with no respite. No time to heal. And it was selfish, wrong, that Katsuki chose them, the ones who stayed, who survived All for One and the League, and the rampaging villains that made those few years hell, then push further on the issue, to give up on Shouto and not fight as hard as Izuku wanted to find whoever it was that caused Shouto to end up where he was. 

Katsuki had failed. 

He failed then. 

Shouto had been forced to fight at the clubs just as he had been forced to do anything in his life. Whatever else happened in those years eventually led to his death. Dabi may not have been holding the gun. He might not have even wanted his brother dead at that point. But the Todoroki’s had a dirty habit of using the youngest boy. Dabi had, even accidentally, caused it. Shouto was dead because of him. 

And after Shouto’s death? Where did Dabi go then?

Not jail. Not on the run. Not out of the country. 

Yokai  and Ghost were the same person. 

They always had been, so obviously right here in Tokyo, avoiding the light, detection, for years. 

For redemption? 

For time? 

For the win—ultimate victory in securing that heroes were nothing and could be played for no more than chump change. A simple plan. 

Ultimately, Dabi’s reasonings did not matter to Katsuki. In the end, he would defeat him. He would avenge Shouto and save Izuku.

Katsuki would not fail again.

Chapter Text

“He’s waiting for you in his office, Deku-kun.” 

Izuku thanked the receptionist on Best Jeanist’s floor with a partial wave while he shoved a muffin in his mouth, bounding to the partially opened door. 

He had woken late. Late. And it wasn’t because he was out fighting crime or jerked awake in the middle of the night with a bout of insomnia. He simply slept in, forgetting to set his alarm the night prior. Ghost had left coffee in his pot still warm from whenever he disappeared, obviously earlier than he thought warranted waking Izuku up for his day. 

However, despite the fact that he was now going to have to stay an extra five, seven minutes from when his shift technically ended, and his day’s schedule was pretty blank, a routine patrol, some reports, a few words ahead of a camera, Izuku was perky. He was as close to feeling invincible as he had in forever. He’d tackle Best Jeanist meeting to go over Bakugou’s latest rise, drafting their agency's level response, and whether or not it still warranted a full press release, and maybe talk about the mission. Izuku could say he was still confident in his and Ghost’s capabilities to solve it on their own. More than confident, actually. 

Izuku pushed open Best Jeanist's door with his foot, saying, “I’m sorry, I’m la,” trailing when he came into eye contact with not Best Jeanist, but the President of the Hero Commission, where she stood in front of the hero’s window. He found Best Jeanist shortly thereafter, stiff in his office chair, hands pressed together, but otherwise deceptively stoic. 

“Is something wrong,” Izuku finished. Perhaps he would have to do more to convince them that they had everything handled.

“Nothings wrong,” Best Jeanist said.

The president didn’t nod or voice any agreement, stepping away from the window to the center of the room. She didn’t stand opposite Izuku but rather to the side of Best Jeanist, letting her hand fall against the back of his chair.

“There will be a press conference this afternoon. It’s my understanding you already agreed you could attend,” she said, gold eyes calculating.

Izuku nodded. “I’m proud of Kacchan.” 

More than proud, the longer Izuku had to sit on it, the longer he realized how relieved he was over the matter, that Ghost might have been closer to the truth than even he believed. Bakugou would make a good Number One Hero, even if he wasn’t officially nominated by the time the award ceremony came about. One day he would, Izuku was certain of that. 

“The conference isn’t about Dynamight’s potential rise in the ranks,” the president said. Izuku followed her gaze to Best Jeanist, who nodded but didn’t immediately speak. Izuku couldn’t see what else warranted such a measure. Their agency hadn’t done anything that extraordinary unless Izuku missed it because his other job had taken priority in his life.

“You wanted to tell him yourself, Tsunagu, I would have preferred to schedule it this morning, otherwise.” 

“Relax Kei.” 

If anyone wasn’t relaxed, it was Izuku, who had to fight the urge to start tapping his foot while they silently spoke to one another. As it was, he was already squeezing and repeatedly releasing the wrapper of his muffin in his left hand as some sort of stressed ball. 

Best Jeanist cleared his throat. It was to be determined if he made it worse or not. In the moment, all Izuku had was disbelief. 

Best Jeanist said, “I’m announcing my retirement. Effective immediately.”

Red Riot walked alone. Ghost wouldn’t consider this a bad part of the city by any means, but it was in the opposite direction of his house. The speculation of where he might go added the only intrigue in following the hero. So far, the only things Ghost had seen Red Riot do was go to the gym, get groceries at a fancy market up town, and then volunteer with a group of older heroes, all either helping children with schoolwork or with the elderly to pick up groceries and take care of their lawn. It was all very boring and very gold star of the hero. It was a wonder he wasn’t up higher in the ranks as it was.

Of course, if Red Riot was the traitor, his contract could have been done, and they were wasting unnecessary resources trailing him. 

But if they lost faith in a hero, leading them to where they were going next, then Ghost suspected the next logical choice would upset Midoriya more, and Ghost wasn’t convinced that his distrust over an institution made them obligatorily the bad guys.

Therefore, reasonably, their next course of action would be to spot and track Kurono himself. He wasn’t thrilled about the prospect. The Shie Hassaikai had perimeters put in place, so they couldn’t be easily spied on from the outside. It would be more dangerous to put Midoriya in that place, and Ghost didn’t know how well Midoriya would take to being asked to sit on the sidelines while Ghost covered it.

All he needed to know was the identity of their secret partner. Once he had that, he could begin closing in, find the virus, get out, and finish the mission. 

And, then?

Ghost didn’t put much credence into thinking about the future. He did not picture himself at 40, 50, 60, much older than that, reading in front of a quiet koi pond during the summer and a hearth in winter. He gave up that future when he became this. For one reason or another, heroes didn’t tend to live that long, underground heroes less so, especially once they got targeted by a villain organization, and there were no resources or even wider knowledge to save them before their untimely death. It had made the original decision easier to bear in the beginning. If he was already welcoming death in a few years' time, what was nailing the coffin now and burying it size feet?

The problem now, however, was that Ghost was thinking about the future. It wasn’t all that much different than the life he lived now. But it was changed because some nights he didn’t go to a cold temporary apartment to feed his cat and try to catch some sleep on the floor. He instead went to a golden home that was beginning to accept smiles again and was eager for his return. Hitoshi and Aizawa were always relieved to see him back from a mission, but Midoriya was excited. Ghost to parallel it.

That was where the danger lay. How fragile hopeful tomorrows were. One wrong move and it would be decimated. It required a delicate touch and careful planning.

Midoriya would one day want to know Ghost’s face. He thought that much was inevitable. No matter how much he wished it wasn’t. While he could be this and that and nothing altogether, Midoriya’s patience was not infinite, no man’s was, and he’d get curious and ask 5, 10, 15 years down the line when the danger was null, and all Ghost had left to damage was one final whispered hurt. 

It was foolish to find a coward still, trailing in his shadows. Cowards did not walk into yakuza dens with only a pair of knives, a few tricks, and a snarky comment to clue everyone in on his entry. Cowards did not continue to walk the path toward heroism, no matter how flawed and unheroic they were. They bought a house, ignored calamity outside, and worked for some tech company, so they would never have to be known outside four walls. 

But Ghost was scared of this. It was a foreign feeling, and it disgusted him, reminded him of a weak child with a weaker disposition, who needed to change before he killed anything more.

So it required a fix. An addendum.

First and foremost, Ghost always had to come first. There were too many people relying on him now that he couldn’t throw it away and start a life as a reborn man—if such a thing was even possible, Ghost never put weight into it being so. 

The second most important facet had always been Aizawa and Hitoshi. How they played a role in his life, and he in theirs. No action could be done without recognizing what impact it would have on the others. Hitoshi had already made his opinion known on the matter. Ghost had no wish to find his old mentor and ask of him what he desired; he already knew. Aizawa had warned him ages ago the only future that would come out of a choice such as this. 

Third, third, had always been more abstract. It was checking himself before he followed up with a mission because if he was killed and left on the street, he’d be found, and there would be questions abound. If he was going to die, it must be total death. No body. No question. Acceptance, only from the two he knew. Further, it was making sure there was no way he could lose a fight. No chance for a person to get their hands around his neck and dig into cloth and flesh and pull up. Not because Ghost was ruined if a face was found, but because once one person whispered it, twenty more would follow. They would presume to know what lay underneath and rumors, no matter how outlandish, had a way of leaving careful circles. It would restart a witch-hunt all over again.

Before this summer Ghost wondered if Midoriya would still care. He had hoped Midoriya didn’t, prayed that he let it go and was able to move on such as he wished. Ghost knew better now. He had been right to be cautious. But, how far would that caution lead him? He was trembling, thousands of feet in the air with only a rope under his feet that hoped for his mis-stepped. His eventual fall. The pieces were already there in place to do so. It was he, who ruined it from within, after all.

Once this was over, Midoriya would go to Shouto. Ghost wouldn’t go with him. Midoriya had to face that on his own, though the outcome of that trip dictated Ghost’s future either or. 

If Midoriya decided that Shouto was not worth crying over, if he truly was ready to move on and forget about him, then Ghost, himself, would have to leave as well. It couldn’t be as drastic. It couldn’t be death. But it left too many open questions if he stayed, too many risks.

There was a reason they were two. A Shouto and a Ghost. They were not one and the same, and in leaving Midoriya a second time, there would be no reason to narrow that fact into one. Ghost himself never did. 

It was the future Ghost was most prepared to walk. Shouto’s actions were unforgivable. Ghost was a consequence of that. 

He had to find a way to ignore the part of him that wanted to stay regardless if Midoriya made that decision. That he could have both, somehow. Let Shouto rot as he should have, ignored and hated, and let Ghost bask in Midoriya's warmth as the true hero he now was. Ghost was everything a hero should be. He had cut out all the pieces of himself that were marred and terrible. He had perfected this. 

But with just that thought, it proved that Shouto still lingered there in him, still poisoned him completely. Midoriya would be better off if Ghost left. He knew that.

However, there was a prospect, a small, tiny hope, that when Midoriya saw Shouto again, he’d want him to stay. It still couldn’t come undone immediately. It couldn’t be fixed as fast as it was ruined, but there was an opening, at least, for the rest of the truth, left currently blank and easy to avoid. If Midoriya learned Shouto again, and he stayed working with Ghost, then maybe one day they, Shouto and Ghost, could learn to come together again. A day where it would not be so jarring to see. 

It had been so long since Ghost had thought about him, he didn’t know if he could do it. He didn’t think it was possible, which made the first outcome all the more reasonable. After all, he had always known his future was meant to be a part. There was no reason to mourn what could not be. 

Still, it made these last few weeks, a mission they were barreling toward a finite end, all the more important. While he would have small moments after, in his quest to slowly part, it wouldn’t be as full nor as grand. Perhaps that was why Ghost still did things such as this. Slow a mission, he knew the next part already, to keep the conclusion from coming true. 

Though, he could still be surprised as was well as weary when the place Red Riot went to was a restaurant—a small noodle place, not at all unusual—though his company was. 

Hawks was a dangerous hero to get on the other side of. A spy in the same right as any of the best underground heroes. Once in the pocketbooks of the Hero Commission. Ghost knew better than to test his luck in trying to see if the same could be true now. 

He backed away from the edge of the roof, already under the cover of a falling sun, but made more permanent by stepping completely out of sight. Out of instinct, he started toward his gauntlet, pulling up the number for Hitoshi, only to falter before typing the number out, though Hitoshi’s demand before things went to shit, rang loudly in his ears. 

What was he missing? 

The Hero Commission tower glowed in the distance, watchful for all but him; they made that clear years ago. He turned away from it. 

“Don’t you dare,” Uraraka called behind Izuku, somewhere to his left. “It looks perfect the way it is.” Izuku dropped his hands from the tie around his neck as Uraraka appeared in the mirror beside him, throwing her arm on his shoulder to lean on him. She sighed, “you’re so lucky to be my best friend, just think I could’ve picked something ugly to clash with your hair at my wedding.”

“Pretty sure your maid of honor wouldn’t have let you get away with dressing us atrociously.”

Uraraka shrugged, pushing off of him. “Well, how does it fit? There’s still time to get it adjusted again if we have too.” She plopped down on a couch. “Also where’s your phone?”

He told her its location before taking in his appearance again. Uraraka’s wedding was two weeks away, and with the opening of his schedule, he could finally get around to tailoring his suit. Apparently, all of his measurements were off again, though Izuku didn’t feel much bigger. He couldn’t see it in his reflection. Hopefully, Uraraka was wrong, when she had sighed earlier saying they would still half to do last-minute adjustments.

He fixed the cuffs and rolled his shoulders. “It fits good. I should be able to pretend I can dance in it.” 

The suit itself was pink, not too dark, and while Uraraka had been right that it didn’t clash with his hair, he would need a haircut before the wedding. It was turning into a near untamable mess. He was about to ask Uraraka if she had any recommendations for a stylist when a flash went off. 

He blinked. “What was that for?”

Uraraka smiled behind his phone. “Don’t you think your boyfriend wants to see that you clean up nice? If you tell me his number, I won’t leave you floating on the ceiling while I go get lunch.” 

“I don’t have—We’re just. He’s a coworker,” Izuku said, dropping his face, but with the mirror ahead of him it did little to hide it.

“Okay,” Uraraka drawled, “then why were you two at one of the premier date locations in Musutafu? No one takes their coworker to a moonlit pier to eat ice cream and talk.”

“Well, maybe I do,” Izuku said. “Besides we spent the whole day picking up trash. Not exactly high romance.” 

Uraraka shrugged, continuing to scroll through his phone. Presumably looking for Ghost’s contact, but alas, Izuku never texted Ghost on his real device. And even if she could, or did, message him, Izuku was confident he could blame the other for instigating it. After all, if Ghost hadn’t taken Izuku’s phone to speak to Uraraka to begin with, she wouldn’t assume he had a boyfriend—notwithstanding the fact that all his friends already thought he was dating someone in secret. They were wrong. Izuku and Ghost were platonic. Izuku didn’t even know what he looked like; he couldn’t have a crush on someone without seeing their face—He didn’t.

“I dunno Deku-kun, taking him to a place to show off your rippling muscles sounds like a fool-proof plan to me, you know if the guy is into that sort of thing. Granted, he’s obviously into you, so he probably drools all over your stupid boy muscles.”

Izuku rolled his eyes, stepping away from the mirror. “I can tell you with absolute certainty that he does not drool over my muscles, and everything I did the other day was purely innocent. I clean up that beach all the time, I just decided to bring a friend along.”

“We lived together for six years, and not once did you ask me to help. I can make things float.”

Uraraka had a point. However, the other day had been weird. Izuku hadn’t planned to go anywhere, let alone Musutafu. Ghost had just been there—after holding Izuku’s hand for an unknown period of time the previous night—and Izuku hadn’t wanted to deal with his thoughts alone. It was easier to do that around Ghost than his other friends. Make himself believe he was a hero, instead of just acting like one. Their relationship might have been fresh, but with everything, Izuku was tipping into the point of no return, telling Ghost truly everything.

But that involved Shouto and he had since then promised himself he wouldn’t do anything about his Shouto problem until after the case was finished. A timeline of about three months—though, hopefully much less, given the severity of the case. 

If only Izuku could promise himself to be patient and not do anything rash.

“I didn’t ask you because I know how much you hate manual labor unrelated to our jobs. You would’ve just complained the whole day.”

“And let me guess, mystery boy didn’t complain once? Not even at the peak of the afternoon heat when his t-shirt and shorts stuck to his body?”

“Not once,” Izuku said, shaking the thought away of Ghost in mundane clothes. If Uraraka knew what he had been wearing, she’d probably faint. 

“A saint,” she intoned. “He sounds perfect for you.” 

“We’re not,” Izuku sighed, dropping it. 

He took one last look at himself in the mirror before he began to pull the tie off. He was careful with it. Perhaps too slow with his movements, missing when Uraraka got up from the lounge to approach him again. She stepped ahead of him, taking his hand away from the tie. They were shaking, even held in her gentle grasp. 

The humor in her expression was gone. What was left instead was a similar sorrow, empathy, that had been present ever since he woke up in that hospital seven years ago. Izuku didn’t need pity, especially now, after he knew—knew that what was broken never needed to break, and what it took to mend it was not as simple as two impossible words he had begged to become reality. He couldn’t even say as such to Uraraka, sworn to secrecy to protect Shouto, to protect his choice. 

He didn’t think he was upset with it, which was strange. It had to be strange. When Bakugou had left the agency without saying anything Izuku wanted to punch him square in the jaw. Make him hurt for hurting him. The pain he felt with Shouto leaving was ten times that, but when he thought of Shouto all he felt was grief. His body too used to his death to be anything more than dejected. 

The world failed Shouto. Izuku failed him. How was he supposed to be angry at that?

“I’m going to talk,” Uraraka said, successfully pulling the tie around his neck. She moved next to the column of buttons down the shirt. “And I want you to listen, nothing more.” 

He nodded. 

“When we were kids, I had something of a crush on you,” she smiled to herself, “shocking I know. I think most of the class did, and while I can’t speak for them, I didn’t love you because you punched bad guys the hardest, or how strong your quirk was, or even that you were a leader. 

“You were easy to love because you gave away love so freely. Anyone. No matter if they pushed you down, shoved you away. Declared you enemy one. You wanted to save everyone, and I wanted to save you. A rather lofty dream, but I was sixteen. I think I was allowed that—I was going to be a hero, after all.”

She gave a partial shrug with the same quiet smile. “But some dreams can’t come true no matter how hard you want them to be, and when you send kids to war, some of them don’t come back, and those that do manage to, don’t always come home the same. Can’t.” She paused, taking a breath, running out of buttons to undo. “Sometimes I think that I failed you. I couldn’t be what you needed me to be because I wasn’t him.” 

“Uraraka-kun.” 

“Shh, I’m not done,” she blinked a handful of times before wrapping her hand around his forearm. “You pushed us away. Not out of sight, I think you were always too scared to do that, to lose any of us again, but you stopped giving away the love you had in easy smiles. Stopped getting close to anyone you hadn’t already known in an effort to keep your heart from breaking again. I thought, maybe, it’d affect this, our jobs, but it hadn’t, hasn’t. Instead, I’ve watched you drift through the last near decade of your life a ghost, and, god Deku-kun, I was so scared to leave you alone. That if one of us couldn’t keep our eye on you, you’d be truly gone.”

She dropped his arm, to hold her own to her chest, her attention on the floor, and stepping around him. It did little to wash away the expression she held. Opened and torn, so unlike Uraraka, Izuku couldn’t quite fathom what to do, watching her pick up his abandoned clothes.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Izuku said, “I’ve held you back for so long now, you don’t have to worry about me anymore.” 

“That’s a pretty silly thing to say,” she said with a wet smile. “I’m always going to worry, but that isn’t the point I’m trying to make.” She took a deep breath, pushing his clothes into his hands. “I haven’t seen you smile this much in years. There's no dark circles under your eyes. You look at me now, and I finally feel like I’m being seen like you’re back. Back for good. 

“I know it isn’t all because of one person, that you have some responsibility in this too, but I need you to be honest with yourself here. When you tell yourself you can’t possibly like this person, is it because you truly only see them as a friend, or is it because you haven’t forgiven yourself for falling in love with Todoroki-kun, and you think that’s what got him killed? Because you weren’t there to keep him safe. ”

Izuku opened his mouth to counter, but Uraraka beat him, saying, “I don’t need to know the answer. That’s for you, and potentially this new best friend of yours. Just Deku-kun, promise me one thing: You’ll allow yourself to be happy. It’s what Todoroki-kun wanted.”

With that, Uraraka left the dressing room. He knew when he eventually followed her out, the conversation would be different. Something lighter, wedding related no doubt. Izuku squeezed the pile of clothes in his hand. He swallowed down the lump in his throat. He almost wanted to call Uraraka back, ask her how she knew she was in love, in love forever.

Midoriya Izuku loved Todoroki Shouto. There was no doubt in that. He loved him too late for it to mean anything. For all he knew, his punishment for such transgression was this, a purgatory of solidarity. Shouto was unwilling to be found. His greatest love, his soulmate, to be kept apart. 

or 

Midoriya Izuku was simply scared. A broken heart too raw around the edges to even think about the possibility of falling in love again. Maybe Uraraka was right, and he was punishing himself by not allowing himself to try. Because if he put any weight against how he felt in his relationship with Ghost, it echoed with faint familiarity—and he, he didn’t know what to do with that.

Izuku filled out paperwork for his evening patrol, nursing a bruised jaw. The kid had a mean right hook, and Izuku might have felt a little bad for him, which caused him to let him go with a warning. They were only stealing some food, hardly the high crime, warranted of the pro hero. He compensated the small shop accordingly, but he still had to fill out the paperwork, explaining why he had let a criminal go with a stern talking to and nothing else.

All Might used to tell him the importance in showing people kindness. In offering them a helping hand, instead of scolding them for not being better. Izuku never focused much on the lesson because he believed himself kind, inherently. He knew when to let up, when to walk away. The different aspects that made a good hero. But his actions alone weren't universal. In the face of hundreds of heroes, what good did it do really that Izuku stepped aside on his own? 

It was simply another crack. Many mistakes because Izuku had been tired, and it was easier to let the Hero Commission step back into the role of overseer than try to redesign everything fresh out of high school. With the summer lull in crime, however, he could begin to plan. Nothing concrete. Early days, but it was a start. Izuku had to be better. Better than he had been.

There was a sector of the city, small and almost completely obsolete, that no one was ever being sent on patrol to. Tokyo was vast, and heroes couldn’t be everywhere every day but usually, someone would at least drive down a street or neighborhood at least once a week to let people know that heroes were indeed therefor them if needed. It was far past Best Jeanist’s, Izuku’s, jurisdiction, so Izuku walking out there himself would cause questions for a hero who was currently trying to avoid any suspicions.

It was probably nothing, an abandoned portion of town near a pier. Izuku didn’t know the whole city, and the closest agencies probably had their own reasons for not needing to go out there. Izuku didn’t quite know why he couldn’t sit still with that. 

He resigned himself to send a message to Ghost when someone cleared their throat. Izuku dropped the phone in his desk drawer, eyes darting up.

“Here I thought he was exaggerating about how easy it was to get into this place. I’ve been standing here for five minutes and not one glance away from that computer.”

Shinsou leaned against the doorframe, holding a plastic bag. He greeted Izuku’s open mouth with a sardonic smile. “Don’t look so surprised, Deku. I did promise you, after all, that we’d be catching up one of these days.”

Izuku really needed to change the security lock on his office door, though he was pretty sure that at this point underground heroes got off on being able to hack into places that were trying to keep them out. 

“Generally, most people send me a text, asking when I’m free and then we meet up.”

“Most, but not all,” Shinsou said, walking into the room. He dug around his bag, “you still like tuna, right,” before pulling out a sub, “while I could have easily called to ask, I didn’t want to get the standard excuse.”

“Yes,” Izuku said, clearing off his desk so that Shinsou could sit down beside him. He did, sliding Izuku his sandwich, before tearing into his. “How are you doing, Shinsou-kun,” and then, “oh, wait, I never properly thanked you for helping us out a while back.”

Shinsou shrugged. “Tracking Shimmer was kind of me and Ghost’s thing before you whisked him away to the big leagues besides I owed our mutual friend a favor.”

Izuku nodded around his sandwich, “I didn’t realize how much you guys worked together before. He never mentions it.”

Shinsou’s mannerisms could be subtle. Most of the time he was lazy sarcasm, but when he wanted to be, he could be just as impassive. Right now, for instance, his expression was unreadable.

“Working together is kind of a loose term. We help each other out is more like it.”

“Well, I’m glad, glad he has at least one friend.”

Shinsou nodded, but his expression didn’t become clearer, something cloudy behind his eyes. Izuku should have pressed more on how he was doing, really, but Shinsou spoke first. 

“If anyone knows anything about Ghost, that’s me. He’s been a pain in my ass since we graduated high school. Doesn’t know how to take a break, and more often than not, I’m stuck helping him pick up the broken pieces. But he’s my only family, now.”

It certainly sounded like the Ghost Izuku knew. Izuku was sincerely happy that Ghost had people, even if Ghost didn’t talk on end about them. It was in his actions. His awareness of the others around him, and his willingness to rely on someone else to get a job done. Izuku suspected, if pushed, Ghost would say the same about Shinsou. He might have been alone, but he wasn’t alone, alone, and for some reason or another, it gave Izuku a bit of hope. 

Izuku did his best not to immediately press Shinsou for more. They ate in relative silence, listening to the sound of late-night traffic. It didn’t seem like Shinsou had appeared for any other reason than to keep Izuku company on a slow night. Izuku couldn’t say that it was bad. Shinsou carved himself an important place in the class’s dynamic when he entered their classroom during their second year. He was an exceptional sparring partner. If anything, they should have plenty to talk about. However, here was Izuku with only one thing he actually wanted to talk about. It was silly—he was being a tad ridiculous—but if anyone knew obscure tidbits about Ghost, it was Shinsou.

“Do you know Ghost’s favorite food? It’s stupid, but he’s withholding it until I earn best friend status, but I was thinking about cooking him something. He’s been over a lot lately, and I know my favorite food comforts me.”

“Is this a trick question?”

“No,” Izuku said, brows furrowing, “am I supposed to know? Don’t tell me it actually is those fatty cheeseburgers from that fast food place we always go to.”

Shinsou shook his head, “I thought we were,” he paused, contemplating, “it’s soba.”

“Hot?”

“Zaru.” Shinsou was curt with the response. Maybe because he’d know what it’d make Izuku think of, but it didn’t matter. Cold soba was a perfect summer dish, easy to make, and something Izuku had long perfected how to cook.

“I’m sorry Midoriya, but,” Shinsou shifted in his chair, “I was under the impression that Ghost told you something, something important. Big. I wasn’t lying when I told you I know near everything there is about him.”

Shinsou searched Izuku’s expression then. He wanted Izuku to verify that he knew. 

Ghost had said it was a secret. That no one knew. No one could know. But Ghost and Shinsou were friends. It made perhaps too much sense that if Ghost had needed help or doubted for a second if he should bring this to Izuku, he would have gone to Aizawa or Shinsou. And maybe Ghost knew Izuku couldn’t just rely on him for this, that he would need another person to talk to. A person from then.

“About Shouto?”

“Yes,” Shinsou said slowly, “about Shouto. We got into an argument about it, but I told him he needed to tell you that it was the right thing to do, that he was being cruel by keeping it a secret.”

“That’s a little unfair,” Izuku said, “there’s more at stake than my own feelings. Shouto faked his own death and did everything in his power to make sure no one found out. But Ghost did, he put the pieces together of a puzzle no one else could and solved the case. He’s remarkable. 

“Hell, the other day we had to do some reconnaissance on a lead, and he followed behind a person step by step down the whole corridor without them knowing he was there. We got the information we needed, and the villain was none the wiser. It was incredible”

Izuku didn’t know when he started staring at his desk while he spoke. How he had completely forgotten his sandwich to start articulating his thoughts with his hands. And worse, he could feel an ache in his cheeks from a smile. He bit his lip to reign it in. 

“He’s a great hero. I’m lucky to be working with him, even if it is temporary. He’s also a good friend. Even if he never told me about Shouto. Besides, it’s not something he’s technically at liberty to say, but he did. He did because he knew it was what I needed to hear.” 

“Yeah, he’s something,” Shinsou said. “Did he tell you anything else about the case? Any other specific factors that stuck out to you?”

Izuku shrugged, “not much. The file’s at home in a secured place. But what’s important is that Shouto’s alive, living a civilian life, completely safe, unassuming. I’m going to visit him one of these days, soon, I don’t know how much longer I can wait.” 

“And what does Ghost say about that?”

“He told me he’d support me in whatever choice I make. Why?”

“Think Midoriya,” Shinsou’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t activate his quirk. “Why would it have been so easy for Ghost to find all this information? To have it ready and easily disposable to you? Why he has been avoiding you all these years?”

It was the first time the unsettling itch over never encountering Ghost before, was finally addressed. Ghost had been avoiding him, and at least other prominent heroes. But not every hero. Not places where he needed to be known, like with Hatsume, or the thousands of spray-painted ghosts around Japan. Izuku had thought he had just been naïve in missing the underground hero, and while that was still true, it had also been purposeful. 

Ghost hadn’t wanted Izuku to know he existed. 

But that had changed. Izuku was certain of it. Their relationship was more than a job. A mission to complete in a delicate time frame. Izuku had faith in that. He had this scarred heart that was tentatively beginning to beat again. 

It came to Izuku, though, what Shinsou was insinuating. It was kind of obvious given all that he knew.

“Ghost was the underground hero that helped Shouto escape.” 

He didn’t give Shinsou a chance to confirm, continuing with, “Ghost was searching for his brother’s killer. Who better to go to, to find, than Dabi’s most obvious target? I even”—Izuku paused things better left unsaid than a child chasing a boy who wished not to be found.

“When Ghost found Shouto, he must have realized how distraught Shouto was, or how he was still in danger of Dabi. Together they worked to make sure Shouto would never be in harm’s way again. Then he tracked Dabi down, and when he couldn’t take him out, he gave that information to us, so that we could finish the job. He’s always been there, a part of this, but he knew it wasn’t his secret to share, so he kept himself away to not risk it.”

Ghost was pragmatic. He didn’t get involved with a situation unless he had backup plans for his backup plans. Avoiding Izuku before had been out of necessity, guilt. Everyone knew how Izuku felt about losing Shouto. The tabloids hadn’t exactly been kind to him when he wasted resources, trying to find Shouto and then declared to the world that they were wrong, that Shouto was still alive. 

Izuku might have been right, but for Ghost, that earnestness would have put someone he had sworn to keep safe in direct danger. Keeping in contact with an underground hero was one thing, a Pro-ranked hero was something altogether. Izuku’s very existence elicited violence. Without meaning to, he’d paint a target on Shouto’s back for a villain to take advantage of. Ghost couldn’t have that. He protected him as well as he could, but then something changed. Ghost had changed—he trusted Izuku.

That flicker of something new warmed his heart.

“That’s a nice story,” Shinsou said, crinkling up the paper his sandwich came in, “but I think you should confirm that with him. Not me.”

“Oh, come on, Shinsou-kun, you aren’t even going to tell me if I’m even slightly close?”

“Nope,” Shinsou said, “I am staying out of it. Though, I will pick your brain over what you got for Uraraka’s wedding. Their registry is picked over, and I don’t want to be the dick who didn’t show up with anything.”

“Her wedding’s in days now.”

“I know, I know. You going to help me or what?”

“Okay,” Izuku said, pulling up his internet browser, “but only because we haven’t seen each other in a bit.”

“My savior,” Shinsou drawled. His tone finally back to normal as he pulled his chair across the linoleum to properly sit next to Izuku.

They didn’t speak of Shouto or Ghost the rest of the night.

“Hero Deku!”

“Hero Deku! What are your plans for leadership at Best Jeanist’s agency!”

“Hero Deku! What do you make about this lull in crime? The slowest summer season since your debut?”

Izuku’s grin was starting to hurt around the edges. “Over here Deku!” He faced where the voice had come from, keeping his arms loose, his hands in the pockets of his pants. A frenzy of cameras went off at once, as more reporters hollered questions, none of which were about the event. A charity gala no less.

“This way Hero Deku,” a coordinator called, ushering him to the next portion of the red carpet where he’d be faced with similar questions. Not that anyone expected him to answer. He slowed around the fence line, signing the papers that reached across it, begging. When he was a kid, he barely could stomach standing in front of a crowd, let alone fathom a crowd that adored him. But he was ranked where he was for a reason and signing posters and magazines where he was the star was a rather mundane task, given everything. 

The screams of fans and reporters blended into one voiceless noise, which made the orchestral music of the ballroom at the Hero Commissions headquarters, jarring to step into. One hundred of Japan's top heroes, all in one place, intermingling with powerful people, both parties hoping to create inroads with one another. Not exactly Izuku’s scene, and one he generally didn’t have to cater to. If there were any perks to being ranked so high, it was that he had more negotiating power to make sure his agency was well funded. Funded enough that at some point in the evening, he’d be up on stage, shaking hands with the President of the Hero Commission and donating a comically large check to help children displaced by heroics.

That was Hero Deku’s job.

Izuku was here for another.

He walked further into the room, smiling at the familiar heroes, before discretely pulling out his phone, activating the device, sparkling on his ear. It beeped, no louder than for him, letting him know it was active before Ghost’s voice filled his ear.

“You spent longer on the red carpet than I expected, Sunshine,” he said. “Do I have to worry that you actually are concerned about that rank of yours?”

Izuku plucked a champagne glass off a passing platter. He used it to hide his mouth as he responded, “it’s my job.”

“To have the life of a ranked-Pro. If I hadn’t seen your apartment, I’d expect you to be filthy rich, living in luxury.”

Izuku greeted another couple of heroes, moving through the room. There was a dance floor somewhere. Izuku was dead set on avoiding it. 

“Maybe I haven’t brought you to my mansion yet because I know you’d scuff the floors,” Izuku said once he got another chance to be discreet.

Ghost’s chuckle was low. A nice sound in his ears. “I reckon I know more about living in a mansion than you do, hero.”

That very well could have been true. Ghost had years of spy work under his belt and given everything Izuku knew about men in power, Ghost no doubt had plenty of run-ins with money protecting crime. Meanwhile, Izuku was the son of a single mother, who grew up in a small apartment in Musutafu. Money made living easier, sure, but it had never been his focus or his drive for being what he was.

“How’s optics on your end?” Izuku asked, “do you need me to do another sweep around the room?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Izuku’s mission was simple. In his pocket there were two small beads. Unassuming and easy to lose. Izuku was to engage and make small talk with two of his former classmates. The only ones, besides Kirishima, that he and Ghost had left to clear. He’d slip the small beads into his target’s pocket, and that was that. Ghost said that the devices were remote controlled, held a camera, and a tracker. Once they were in the homes of the heroes, it was only up to Ghost to position them in the right spot, and then wait for one of them to make a move, outside of the standard realm for heroes.

After tonight either they would have their next big lead or find themselves at another dead end with time rapidly dwindling. 

He had voiced his concern to Ghost, about the possibility of this not working and that they would be back to square one with no leads or clues. He didn’t want to have to stare at a screen while a villain toted around a virus to the public, making demands. The whole world, knowing that Izuku had failed, had failed them again, leaving them at the liberty of a monster eager to annihilate.

Ghost told him he didn’t have to worry about that. That they were going to succeed even if this mission proved fruitless. 

“There’s nothing you can do to mess this up,” he had said, “I know you’ll never let me down.”

Izuku played with the beads in his pocket. While walking into a place with a disguise was one thing, an easy thing, Izuku as himself, planting an object on someone else, was heavy with risk. At any moment, his target, or an onlooker, could call him out, and if he was made, the whole operation fell. It was a lot to risk on, for all intents and purposes, a rookie in this field. Izuku had almost told Ghost he trusted him too much, but he hadn’t. Instead, he had promised Ghost he could do it. 

He had to. 

He had to believe that this was going to work. 

The weight of its success was on his shoulders. Izuku had stopped world-ending phenomena before, and while usually, those people wore the faces of strangers, a hero who worked with a villain, villains, well, they weren’t much for being a hero after all.

“Hero Deku!”

Izuku turned, pulled from his thoughts. A man in a rather simple suit greeted him with a massive grin as he gripped Izuku’s hand, shaking it. When he noticed Izuku’s confusion, he laughed.

“Hashiguchi Ren,” he said, “director of the Society of Underground Heroes, pleasure to remake your acquaintance Deku.”

Izuku’s cheeks tickled with shame. “I’m sorry, director. You’ll have to forgive me.” He bowed his head. 

“No harm done. People aren’t supposed to recognize the men in my line of work, and yet,” he sighed. Izuku followed his line of sight and almost shattered the stem of the glass he was holding. “If we want to be taken seriously as heroes, we too must play to the masses.”

Ghost was here. 

Ghost wasn’t supposed to be here. 

Briefly, Izuku wondered if Ghost didn’t trust him with the case and this was him performing as a last-minute backup. However, whereas Ghost normally disappeared into the periphery, under the dizzying lights and dramatic dresses, Ghost stood out. The only one in combat gear, without a suit, muted black that seemed to take all the sparkling light around him. He was talking to sidekicks Izuku didn’t recognize, but they were bowing their heads. The conversation seemingly at an end.

Ghost searched the crowd, and Izuku held his breath, though he didn’t know what for. Ghost couldn’t emote now, just as he couldn’t anytime else, but Izuku still knew when he held the hero’s attention. Ghost didn’t linger far, closing the distance between them. 

“Hero Deku, I’d like to introduce you to our top underground hero, Ghost.”

Izuku didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. Hashiguchi was the one who gave them Ghost.

“It’s okay if you don’t recognize me, Midoriya-san,” Ghost said, completely formal. “We run in different circles, though I’m a big fan of your work.” He offered Izuku his hand, while in his ear Ghost said, kept from everyone else. “If I knew our first formal introduction was going to make you speechless, I would’ve done it around more cameras.”

That shook Izuku out of it, aware, now, of the people lingering on the periphery of their conversation. The curious onlookers, most of whom treated Ghost like an urban legend. To see him in the flesh—it’d make the papers tomorrow no doubt. Hero Ghost, a man of the shadows, stepped out of them to shake hands with the Hero Commission’s chosen prince.

“Your reputation precedes you,” Izuku spoke evenly, giving Ghost his hand. “Thank-you for being able to help those I can’t reach.”

“You reach plenty,” perhaps too sincere, but Ghost played it off, leaning against Hashiguchi and asking, “now when are you dragging me to Dynamight? I'd rather get over meeting the Number One Hero while the night is still young.” Back to Izuku. “You’re friends with him, right? Do you think if I told him I’m his biggest fan, he’d sign my hand, while I scream like a crazed teenage girl?”

Izuku had to bite back his smile. He almost offered to introduce Ghost to Bakugou himself but knew it was probably better if they parted ways now rather than cause a bigger scene down the line.

“That’s enough out of you,” Hashiguchi said, “you’re supposed to be making a good impression on our hosts.”

Ghost shrugged. “Maybe this way they won’t ask me back. How anyone can survive these kinds of functions, I do not know. All seems like a waste of time to me.” He waved his hand, dismissing the thought. “But what do I know? After all, I’m not the type of hero meant for them.” He regarded Izuku with a bow of his head. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Midoriya.”

The crowd of onlookers went with Ghost as Hashiguchi introduced him to more people. For a moment Izuku could only watch. Watch as Ghost interacted with other heroes in a room of hundreds who thought him off, odd. None of it, touching him. As if he was used to the unwanted stares. The jeers behind his back. Ghost was no glowing beacon, but the way the room coalesced around him, it almost seemed like he could be. 

No one knew Ghost. He had made it that way, but at the same time, everyone knew him. People talked of him as they talked about any hero. A man already known. However, whereas Izuku, and the other Pros, had history outside of these walls, Ghost was seemingly a blank slate. He could be whatever people wanted him to be. With an intrigue that couldn’t go ignored tonight.

Ghost was here. 

In public. 

And everyone knew. 

Izuku couldn’t stop himself from staring.

“He’s a rather cocky prick,” Ojiro said, materializing beside him. “It’s like everyone suddenly forgot that we’re heroes.”

“Ojiro-kun,” Izuku greeted, tearing his eyes away from Ghost. “What do you mean?”

Izuku did not know if it was luck, or some plan on Ghost’s part to know when to leave before Ojiro arrived, possibly baiting him into approaching Izuku. 

“Well, you remember that fight club, Yokai. He started this whole thing as a criminal, yet he’s walking around a room full of heroes like he’s some type of legend.”

“People can change.”

Ojiro shook his head, “not people like him. It makes you wonder why exactly he’s hiding. What terrible dark secrets he wants everyone to forget about, so he can steal a spot on a podium meant for someone else.”

Had Ojiro said this when they ran into each other last time they met at the fight club, the first night Izuku saw Ghost fight in an arena, wearing the title Yokai with no hesitation, and was celebrated for his rapid defeat of his opponent, Izuku would have been hard pressed to deny Ojiro any of it. The law indeed said vigilantism was illegal, but if that was Ghost’s only crime—once a hero with no license—then that was a silly thing to fault him for. As for the case of his identity, Ghost didn’t hide for himself, but over his fears for others, that if the world knew the eyes behind the mask, everything would burn around him. He was scared and that made him human.

“If he really wants to upgrade from underground hero work,” Izuku said, “he’s going to have to do more than shake hands with a couple politicians and pros.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Ojiro conceded, stepping ahead of Izuku, and fully taking Ghost away from his sight. 

“How are you doing, though, Midoriya? I heard through the grapevine that you might be dating someone.”

Ojiro was too mature to wiggle his eyebrows, but Izuku didn’t miss the smile he cut off with a sip out of his glass. 

“I’d be a lot better if my whole graduating class didn’t insinuate I have a secret boyfriend.” 

Ojiro shrugged. “Our class always loved gossip, not too many people to gossip about now that we’re all older and settling down.”

It was true. The stories, shenanigans, that Class A had first got into immediately following graduation, were dwindling. All of them, now, were spread across Japan, a few at agencies around the world. They were busy with their day jobs, with their relationships, families. Uraraka wasn’t the only one to be married or married. 

Izuku’s chest tightened. 

He had been there for most of the chaos, but he couldn’t quite recall the feeling of exuberance that must have been present on his first day as a real hero. He could picture the parties and the late-night trips to bars, but they weren’t tinted with longing or with sadness that this part of his life was ending. It was as if a different person had done those things all together and that Izuku had just been given access to this body a few months ago. When he breathed, he finally felt air in his lungs. When he smiled, it wasn’t fake.

Uraraka had been right, Izuku was moving on. A near decade later, because—because Shouto was alive? 

Or something else?

He ached to search out Ghost again in the crowd. Wondered that if he did, if he would find Ghost searching back. What that meant. Why Ghost was really here. 

“I was, well, this is kind of embarrassing, but I was hoping to catch you here tonight,” Ojiro said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You see, my publicist was hoping I’d get a picture of you to post on our website. The agency needs the extra traffic and well yeah,” Ojiro trailed off.

Izuku remembered the mission. His mission.

“Sure,” Izuku said, reassuring Ojiro with a smile. “Do you just need a selfie, or do we have to go find a camera?”

“A phone should work,” Ojiro bowed his head again, “and preferably yours. I sort of busted my phone’s camera the other week.”

Izuku was quick to agree. It allowed him to dig in his pockets, plucking a bead and hiding it in his palm, while he gave Ojiro his phone. The other man thanked him again, pulling up the camera app while Izuku counted down from ten. All he needed to do was drop the bead, and it would finish the rest. He needed to be the spy, Ghost thought of him as. The hero Izuku wanted to be. He didn’t want to fail anymore. He needed to be brave. 

The flash startled him into blinking. 

“Ah, that’s not my best look. Can we try that again,” Ojiro asked. 

Izuku nodded. Swallowed. He was running out of time. This was a fantastic opportunity. Ojiro might suspect something was wrong if he came to bother him again later in the event. He might question Izuku’s character. Heroes didn’t spy on their friends. They didn’t think that they were capable of working for the enemy because they had fallen on some hard times. Heroes offered helping hands. They saved. 

Ojiro’s arm was heavy, pressed over his back, which was warm from Ojiro’s tail as it lazily waved back and forth. Izuku twisted the bead between his forefinger and thumb, hidden behind Ojiro’s loose stance, yet close enough that if he stretched, it would fall securely into his pocket.

“Smile,” Ojiro said, and Izuku watched his own reflection morph into something ugly. Hideous and unwell. The type of smile that came from lying and knowing you were caught. Only Ojiro didn’t have any bad words to say about him, shuttering several before pulling completely from Izuku’s grasp. 

The bead burned between Izuku’s fingers. Izuku only pressed against it harder. Weeks, months, of shadowing Ghost, and all Izuku got for it was being somewhat better at sneaking. Ghost didn’t hesitate when he needed to get things done. Kacchan hadn’t hesitated when the mission had gone sour and he was the only one left. Shouto hadn’t hesitated when he decided death was preferable to the living.

“Are you feeling okay,” Ojiro asked, glancing up from Izuku’s phone. 

“Yeah,” Izuku said. “Do they look okay?”

“Yes, they look great.” Ojiro said. “Thanks again for doing this, I’m just waiting for them to send.”

Izuku nodded. It was now or never. He had to. He had to. Ghost believed in him. He gave him this mission. He was out there, somewhere on the ballroom floor as Izuku’s distraction. A way to get other eyes off of him while he placed the tracker on Ojiro.

Izuku couldn’t see Shouto again until the mission was over. He couldn’t get his answers until this traitor was caught and the virus was found. He had to. 

“Okay, they look like they’ve all sent.” Ojiro said, handing Izuku back his phone. Izuku smiled as he accepted it. 

He needed to. 

Izuku slipped the phone into his pocket. It fell against the other bead. The other option. There were two spies here tonight. As if Izuku thought, he could fit into that mold nicely. 

But he had to. 

He offered Ojiro his hand. The other hero easily took it. There was no need to be cautious. This was Hero Deku. Japan’s Symbol of Peace. The one to defeat ultimate evil and suffer no losses as a consequence. 

The one with unshakable morals 

the liar

He had to. 

Izuku pulled Ojiro into a hug. He said, “Don’t be a stranger, Ojiro-kun. If you need anything, anything at all, please, don’t be afraid to ask.”

“I will,” Ojiro said. "I promise."

Izuku had long accepted the fragility of promises, lingering only in their touch to pretend go through the motions of grief and regret the moment the bead slipped from his fingers and fell where it should, completely concealed and forgotten, inside a hidden pocket. 

Funny, how after watching Ojiro struggle to part the sea of people in the ocean of men and women around them, it didn’t seem as such a finality as it was supposed to be. 

If heroism was truly doomed, then it would be like this: rotted in the core, not because people were bad, but because they had no choice but to make bad decisions to keep themselves afloat. To survive. A byproduct of a system Izuku helped to perpetrate, year after year, smiling with each medal around his neck. Each Number 3, left wanting for 1.

Izuku did not return to searching for Ghost now. He knew if he found him, the other hero would recognize defeat in his shoulders, in his stance, and search for him a way out. Muddying his own picture, while he decided in an instant what they were to do about Sato. 

Sato

Annd Kirishima, still. 

They still didn’t know, did they? 

They could only presume based on facts and numbers. The likelihood of how easy it was to break a man, already defeated. 

Was it better to wish all the heroes here to be infallible as childhood wonders made it seem or to pray that this was indeed the next lead the case needed in order for them to succeed in the end?

Izuku did not know. He could not fathom an outcome that didn’t cause him to stare at his ceiling and not think himself useless, pitifully useless, in his endeavors as a hero.

He was spinning, half walking blind. He knew he was going to have to talk to Ghost about this. These people were his friends. They might not think of Izuku much as one, but he still cared. He still wanted them to succeed and succeed well. For All for One’s prophecy about the future to not ring true.

Somehow, he made it to the bathroom without falling further. Merciful in its barren state. He found the furthest stall and sat down. He took out his phone, but his eyes blurred in trying to focus on it. Anyone he could call was already here. They were mingling, naive to the terror that lurked just on the other side of the horizon. He ached to press his finger to his earring, an alert signal for Ghost, and to let the hero come here, sit on the tile floor in front of him, and tell Izuku exactly what he needed to hear. He wasn’t awful. He wasn’t vile. But the longer Izuku pressed on that repeating thought, all Izuku could remember was what happened when Izuku was not. 

It just wasn’t about saving the day. If someone found out that Izuku didn’t trust the profession, a specific few heroes, it would ruin their careers. Ruin their lives. Would it all still be worth it in the end? Dispassionate logic said, yes. One less villain in the world made for a safer place. It made sleeping easier and anger less of a burden to bear. A sirens call of relief that Izuku wished he could grab onto and believe. He knew exactly why this troubled him so. The last time he had pretended to be a type of hero he was not, was when, was when, was—

“ Hello? I’m sorry, I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave a name and a message, I’ll get back to you. Thank you for your call.” 

Izuku watched a droplet fall from his face to the screen of his phone, brightening it and the number he had unwillingly dialed. He raced to press the end call button. The phone returned to his list of contacts and the unassuming name he gave it. A sushi place no one would ever question to be buried enough in his contacts that he thought he might forget it. 

The file was safe. The file was secured. Izuku pretended he didn’t yearn to reach for it every other second he was in his apartment alone with nothing but red streetlights and dirty ramen bowls. 

Shouto knew, too, that heroes weren’t perfect. That some fell from grace. That some should never have been heroes in the first place. But where people had ignored the villain masquerading as a hero in Shouto’s life, Izuku could no longer pretend to be naïve about the dishonest heroes now. Even if they were his friends, especially if they were his friends.

Another tear followed his thumb. He pressed call again and shakily held his phone up to his ear. It rang seven times before going to voicemail. 

Hello?

Shouto sounded as Shouto sounded in Izuku’s dreams. Stuck in a place he could not reach. He pressed his fist to his mouth and bit around his knuckle. Bit hard, so he could focus. So he could hear this. 

Thank you for your call. 

And tone, awaiting Izuku’s responding message back, awaiting the words Izuku had not yet prepared to say to Shouto back, awaiting eternity so it seemed.

I loved you once. Could you still love me?

Izuku dried his hands with too much paper towel. His reflection was more sane. A comfortable blankness with an unevenness to it that Izuku could blame on champagne without dinner when he took his seat at the head of the room, clapping gently for speeches and awards that boasted untouchability. He released a slow breath and started back out to the door. He was only partially done, after all.

He wasn’t paying attention to where he was going when he stepped out of the men’s restroom, running straight into the President of the Hero Commission. He steadied her before she fell, a litany of apologies in his mouth once he was certain she wouldn’t. 

The president only smiled, patting his shoulder and saying, “it’s all good, Deku. I don’t break that easily.” 

Izuku took a step back, nodding. “I am sorry, I should have been watching where I was going. There is no excuse for being self-absorbed.”

“I’m sure you have a lot on your mind and nothing’s amiss. I was looking to speak to you as it was.” 

Izuku didn’t dwell on what happened the last time she wanted to speak with him. Best Jeanist’s office was already empty with the memo that Izuku could graduate to his floor whenever he wished. The agency was his now, after all. Hero Deku’s agency to welcome a new bolstering future. Izuku had yet to come to terms with what he wanted his future to be. 

“If you’re not busy,” Izuku tried. 

“I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I was. Walk with me.”

Izuku did as she asked, possibly catching concerned black in the opening between the hall and the ballroom, but he was moving too fast to be certain. The president led him to a balcony. He recognized some of her aides and a few low-ranked heroes already out there, but they slowly dispersed when she entered and walked toward the railing, Izuku trailing after her.

Tokyo was alive and electric, pulsating in its night. If there was a positive consequence to the lack of villain attacks this summer, it was that people felt more empowered to leave their homes and live. Of course, they were in the center of all the buzz. There was always this bright sheen to it. This belief that anything could happen if you caught a wish on a star through the light pollution.

“How is Ghost?”

The question brought Izuku’s eyes from the sky. 

“Good. We make a good team.” 

“A better team, then you and Dynamight?”

Izuku couldn’t answer that without feeling as though he was failing someone with the truth. 

“I’ve known Kacchan all my life,” Izuku said. “I trust him with it.” 

The president could read his answer from that. Izuku didn’t want to admit how much he had come to rely on Ghost these last few months. He didn’t have a reason to lie but avoiding the truth was just as well. The Hero Commission had a way of taking from him all he wished to keep. 

“I don’t mean to put you in this position, Deku, and I am sorry that I have, but how much do you trust him, Ghost?”

“He’s a hero.” 

“Heroes can only be afforded so much. You know that.” 

Izuku did, but how well the Hero Commission knew of it, he couldn’t say. In a way, the Hero Commission could profit off of broken heroes; it created them villains if they fell far enough. Villains with professional training and quirks they spent their formative years honing. Perhaps, Izuku should consider himself lucky that all this potential hero traitor had done was leak information to the enemy and not become the enemy themselves. It was what most villains nowadays were lacking, super quirks at the likes of Shigaraki and Dabi that could decimate whole towns in a matter of seconds. It was why Izuku had grown almost bored in his profession until Ghost showed up and unveiled a whole world of additional upheaval.

“I trust him enough for this mission,” Izuku said. “We will get it done.” 

“That is ultimately what I am worried about. Ghost was supposed to hasten the process, but I fear we’ve seen little tangible progress made, and after Dynamight’s departure, I’m starting to wonder if more oversight is necessary to make sure we achieve ultimate victory. If a villain unleashes a bioweapon—

“They won’t.” Izuku said. Firm."It won’t get that far. We already have a plan. That’s why Ghost is here tonight, actually. He’s a spy, right? Consider him spying.” 

Izuku expected her to ask for additional follow-up. Ask him who he was spying on in a room filled mostly with heroes. Mostly being the keyword there. Izuku hoped she assumed that one of the businessmen with deep pockets had decided to take up funding yakuza in their spare time, and Ghost figured that catching them off guard here was the easiest way to find his answers. If she assumed a hero, then she might assume they were coming after her and the Hero Commission itself, and while Izuku knew that things radically needed to change within the organization, it did no one any good to start that argument in the face of a potential pandemic. 

However, all the president did was nod, and then say, “I would prefer to have more insight on your investigation going forward to make sure it’s still proceeding on time as planned.” 

Izuku agreed. It did make sense. They were approaching the high point of summer. They needed to wrap it up.

“Without notifying our mutual friend.”

That was harder to agree to without precedent. 

“Ghost and I are working this case together. He often has more information than I do and can explain it a lot better than me.” 

The president dropped her voice. She lowered her head. She said. 

“Ghost cannot be trusted. A wolf does not idly sit in a flock of lambs.”

What threat was a hero among heroes? Izuku could see his answer in the shaded look of her eyes as she backed away. Whatever retort Izuku had that was hasty, pressing, and urgent, Ghost was a hero, I don't like your tone, she already expected and knew. It was why she said it. This was more than about the case stagnating, this was about something else, something unknowing that Izuku didn't know about Ghost's relationship with her and the organization. But it still left him with an uneasy question, what was it that she feared about Ghost to make her say such a thing to him, Izuku, his ally and partner. 

“Madam President,” an aide called from the doorway.

The president looked to her, unbothered and perfectly straight beside him in a soft black dress. Not a speck out of place for what she had requested Izuku do. Nothing more or less. He was just to keep her informed of all their next steps because she was concerned about the mission, about the efficacy of Ghost, that was all. 

“The ceremony is about to start. They are expecting you up on stage in five.” 

“Thank you, Nami, I’ll be right out.”

The aide bowed before disappearing back to the shadows. Izuku’s collar of his shirt itched. He didn’t rub it, slipping his hand back into his pocket as he said, “shall we,” indicating toward the door to head back to the festivities. 

The president nodded, allowing Izuku to slip his hand behind her back and lead her to where they were both supposed to go. Izuku had a speech to give too, after all, praising this organization for all that it did and would do. 

“I know you don't believe me," she said before the fully stepped out of cooling night air. "You have honor, Deku, much more than normal men. But I implore you to at least take what I say into advisement going forward."

Izuku let silence do whatever agreeing that needed to be done. Izuku didn't believe her. Ghost had done nothing so far in his relationship with Izuku to think that he couldn't trust him, to think that he shouldn't.

The president pressed her lips together and tilted her head. "Ask him to take off his mask. If he does, then my fears are unfounded.” 

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Trust runs both ways. Who do you think he talks to when you’re not around to listen?”

Izuku did not know. He did not care to know. Because what the president was implying was absurd, toying the line with traitorous. She was smart to not say it outright. Izuku might not have been so kind if she had, creating a doubt where there didn’t need to be one and stirring up trouble when she needed strong-willed allies. 

But Bakugou had questioned Ghost too, and now Bakugou was gone. 

No. 

Bakugou was just out of reach. Izuku could still contact him and press him for details, find out really if the president’s implication about Ghost’s merits as a hero held any validity, or if she just liked the taste of the word villain on anyone who didn’t uphold the standards of hero that her organization sought to have total control of who the title was made for.

“I’ll keep you updated,” Izuku said, pressing his palm more firmly on her back to get her to start walking again. “You have my word.” 

And somehow, the second lie Izuku gave that night was not as hard to swallow as the first. The black bead invisible, stuck in the folds of her dress.

Chapter Text

Ghost entered through the window. Glass squeaked as it was lifted and the curtains shifted where Ghost slid between them. Besides that though, Izuku barely took in his surroundings. He had no idea how he had managed to get home alright and had only thought to take off his suit jacket and the button-up underneath, leaving him in slacks and white undershirt as he zoned out in his kitchen, going through the motions of making a meal. 

Tonight had been too much. From spying on his friends to sitting still while the president spoke in frank tones not to trust the man who so easily broke into Izuku’s house without a key or bother. He had once had his own apprehensions about the hero too, and Izuku could not ignore how little progress they had seemingly made in the interim. As if Ghost was stretching this out as long as he could for, what? Personal gain? A chance to usurp the rankings come fall? A friend?

The last one caused Izuku to falter at the sink. He didn’t think the president was right in her distrust, but if Izuku looked at the timeline of how far they’d gotten and what was indeed slowing them down, the answer did seem quite obvious. Izuku, himself, might have been the distraction that kept Ghost from fully putting his whole self into solving the case. He had to be careful around Izuku before he decided to relay Shouto’s information to him on top of showing Izuku the ropes of underground hero work. And still, Izuku had almost failed entirely tonight and had failed where he had “lost” the one tracker he put on the president as opposed to placing it on Sato. 

“Soba?”

Izuku nearly jumped out of his skin at Ghost’s quiet question beside him. The pot of noodles in the sink, rinsing while Ghost bent down as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing, glancing beside him to see the green onion Izuku hadn’t been present enough to know he cut and the other assortment of ingredients that he needed to quickly combine before the dish was ready. 

Earlier in the day, Izuku thought it would be considerate to make Ghost his favorite meal after Izuku successfully undertook his assignment. Now, Izuku was simply tired, looking at a mess of a kitchen and wondering if he was only making a fool of himself. He didn’t know what came of realizing if anyone should have been taken off this case, it should have been him. 

Still, Izuku swallowed his unease, taking the pot and cooling noodles out and going back to the counter. 

He said, “an insider source told me that it’s your favorite meal.” 

Ghost didn’t follow Izuku from his spot beside the sink. Izuku felt his presence all the same as he dumped the soy sauce into a bowl. 

Izuku wondered if he was imagining the shortness of his tone when he spoke or if Izuku was simply too frazzled tonight to begin to work out the different intricacies in a voice.

“As long as they didn’t reveal any other classified information about my state of affairs. Few people can claim to know my favorite dish.” 

“It makes us best friends now, right?”

“Only if you tell me what’s bothering you. You’re quiet.” 

Izuku was. He was scared to speak. He didn’t trust himself enough to not tell Ghost what the president had implied and that she more or less asked Izuku to spy on him for her. True, Izuku didn’t know the extent of Ghost’s past. He had become adamant that he didn’t need to know. But whatever happened back then, there was little doubt in Izuku’s mind that the Hero Commission was blind to it as well. But they weren’t as omnipresent as they liked to portray themselves as. If they had all the information they wanted from Ghost, they wouldn’t have put Izuku in this spot, to begin with. 

Izuku needed to speak to Bakugou.

“Midoriya?” A gloved finger touched just under his eyes. “You’re crying.” 

Izuku trailed after the hand that had pressed against this face, finding it wet there too.

Ghost was a good hero. Fantastic at his job. For perhaps the first time, he made people see him. He declared his presence known in a room of ranked heroes and politicians. Not shy. Not scared to be seen. Of course, Ghost wouldn’t hide himself even if the very nature of his job was secluded. He knew the game. The politics of being a hero as if he had been raised to do it. Like that was his job, though it was the furthest thing from it. 

Shinsou used to joke that the reason he followed Aizawa’s footsteps was because he hated bureaucracy, playing nice with people when he could be doing his job. Ghost was one step past Shinsou in every way. It made no sense that he’d be good at pleasing people at a gala—it made total sense. Ever since Izuku knew Ghost, he was perfect. Perfect at infiltration. Perfect at fighting. Perfect at being an underground hero.

It was Izuku who was the flawed one.

“I can’t do this,” Izuku said, backing away from the counter and away from Ghost concerned eyes, which really weren’t concerned, they were just blue. But Ghost was worried. Izuku couldn’t see how he knew, but he did.

“I thought I could be like you,” Izuku continued. “But I can’t and it’s.” He shook his head. “I wanted to be good at this so bad, but I’m not.” 

“Not what?” Ghost’s voice was laced with apprehension. “A hero?”

“No.” His hands were trembling. He grabbed a towel off the counter and wiped them off, fisting the red fabric and trying to level his breathing and thoughts. “I have no choice but be a hero.”

What happened with Ojiro, what Izuku was going to do again with Sato, the very weight of keeping the secret of Shouto, who he had called and gone nowhere with, because Shouto perhaps, still, didn’t want to talk to him as much as Izuku to him—perhaps because it was late, and he was tired, asleep, how would Izuku know? He didn’t need to deal with this all now. But it was a budding pressure. One likely to fissure, and Izuku needed some sort of release for respite. It was unfair to put this, yet again, on Ghost, but, then again, most days, Ghost was all Izuku had and that was terrifying enough of an ordeal to face. 

He said, “I can’t be you. An underground hero. I thought that I could. I thought ‘Here is what I’ve been missing!’ This ache, this feeling that I could be doing more. It’s because I chose the wrong career path. I followed All Might when I should’ve looked at all my possibilities because there were other options and finally I’ve opened myself up to one." 

Izuku squeezed his chest, clutching the towel to it, focusing on the bowl and the counter and the shelves and not Ghost. He couldn’t bear to see him at that moment of grief. 

“I found something I liked. I like running and catching bad guys. I like planning and intercepting them before they become larger threats. I like saving kids before they need to be saved. I like spending time with you.” Izuku loosened his grip on the towel. 

It was more than spending time with Ghost he knew. He knew. But he wouldn’t focus on it.

“But I can’t. I can’t learn to distrust people, everyone, because that’s what it takes to be good at the job. I almost blew the mission with Ojiro-kun, and I never even managed to find Sato-kun because I couldn’t separate my work from my feelings, and you, maybe you can, because of the persona you’ve built up, but I am Deku. I will always be Deku no matter how many times I pretend that I can be someone else, that if I just try to be better everything, all if it, will be worth it.”

Izuku sucked in a large breath to keep the room from spinning. In his silence, Ghost spoke. 

“Why would you want to stop being you?”

“What?”

Ghost took a step forward. There wasn’t a lot of space in Izuku’s kitchen. It wasn’t built to host more than one person cooking at a time. Ghost stopped just before completely backing Izuku into a corner.

He said, “You said that you’ll always be Deku, like it’s something you should try not to be, but I think you’re a perfect hero exactly how you are.”

Ghost took another step forward. His boots were soft on the tile. Soundless. Izuku wasn’t quite sure why he took a responding step back, hitting the edge of the counter on his elbow.

“You’re too bright to be kept underground. This was never your job to have.”

“But the mission,” Izuku said, "I had to step into your role, not you into mine.” 

Maybe if Ghost’s face wasn’t hidden under a mouthguard, he’d give Izuku something. As it was, he was silent, casting his eyes to the floor between them, thinking. He itched the side of his face. He asked, “Do you want to quit?”

“You can’t do this without me. You said it yourself on day one.” 

“That was day one,” Ghost said. “I could probably manage now. All it is, is a waiting game. I have time to find Sato and trail him. If not him, one of our leads will bring me to the right criminal and from there it’s a closed case.” 

“And what if we’re wrong.” 

“I wouldn’t have risked you if I thought we were wrong.”

Oh. oh. Izuku’s vision swam again. One of his old classmates really did decide to work with villains, after everything they had been through. Ghost just didn’t know which one. Crime wasn’t even down, but heroes couldn’t afford to live. The very idea of the system twisting something good, someone good, well.

Izuku took a deep breath. It was wet.

“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to reign in his breathing. He was being absurd. Bakugou wouldn’t be crying because someone betrayed them. Hell, it wasn’t even the first time he had to deal with a traitor but that was different. They were kids. They had less choices then. Maybe there was a chance this hero was being coerced too, but Izuku couldn’t calm himself on the odds of that being true again. “I’m sorry.”

“I should be the one who’s apologizing,” Ghost said. “I put you in a situation you clearly shouldn’t have been in when I could have done it just as well.” 

Izuku shook his head, saying, “how would you know? I didn’t even know. I thought I could do this, remember? I thought I could,” he gasped, “I thought I could be this.”

“I didn’t,” Ghost said, approaching again. “I never thought you’d want to. Underground heroes might be licensed, but most heroes view us little more than vigilantes. We aren’t invited to charity galas. No one makes movies of us or asks us to model in a magazine. We are heroes, but they don’t track how well we do at our job. Plenty of us disappear and are never heard from again, not because no one cares, but because we make it so that no one’s around who could. It is lonely. I didn’t think I cared about being alone, but…” 

Ghost trailed. He had stopped just outside of reach of Izuku. Izuku didn’t know which hero benefited more.

“Tonight’s not the first time I was asked to a public event. The year of my debut a podcast wanted me to speak. I declined. It got worse afterward. The Hero Commission views heroes as commodities. The more time they are on screen, or talked about online, the more money they make. As an underground hero, I don’t need to follow the rules of Pros, yet people want to know more. They ask. They make fan clubs and forums.” Ghost laughed humorously. “These were the things I had hoped to avoid when I became this. However, I am selfish. I got a taste of what I was missing, and I didn’t want to lose it. You see my dilemma?”

Izuku didn’t. Not quite. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Ghost was skittish. Flighty. Izuku had thought if he voiced what he wanted out loud, the other hero would run. The reason why exactly the devastation about not being able to do this hurt so bad. Because Izuku was a Pro, and Ghost worked underground. It wasn’t conducive for a team. Their lives were too different. But maybe Izuku was scared for the wrong reason. The same reason Ghost was.

“You stepped into the spotlight for me,” Izuku said.

Ghost nodded. “I thought if Hero Deku shook hands with the mysterious Underground Hero Ghost, then maybe it wouldn’t be so odd if they stumbled into one another on the streets, for a mission, to grab coffee. I know I’m not Dynamight or Uravity. I can’t be for you what they are, but I don’t want to go. If you’ll have me, I wish to stay. I want to stay.”

“After the mission?”

“For as long as you need me.”

Izuku feared that answer was forever, but maybe fear wasn’t the right word. It certainly wasn’t fear overflowing in his chest, pushing him to close the distance between them. Ghost wanted to stay. He wanted to be in Izuku’s life, and Izuku did too. Maybe that was the most shocking thing. The boy who had turned everyone away. Could barely stomach the company of his high school friends. Who was so scared he’d be burned again. This boy was wrapping his arms around the other and squeezing.

“Then stay.” Izuku said, “I need you to stay.”

Ghost wasn’t the only one who knew lonely. Izuku knew it too. Knew it well. He might not have gone to the same extremes as Ghost, but they were extremes, nonetheless. They were similar in that regard. A mutual understanding only the other would truly ever know. 

Ghost hugged Izuku back like a promise.

“And how is my favorite Pro Hero’s day going?”

Izuku slipped off a roof, landing softly on the ground. He straightened, waving at civilians as they passed him in the street.

“I don’t like that tone.”

“I don’t have a tone,” Ghost said. Izuku winced at the feedback in his ear. 

“You most certainly do.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ghost said as a couple of civilians slowed in their steps, staring at their phones. “Anyways, I was wondering if you were in the area, or if your patrol route had changed.”

“It didn’t,” Izuku said, digging out his own phone, sighing when the first headline came up.

“Great. I have a present for you.”

“This one better not breathe fire.”

Luckily, the villain did not. Nor was it in a business district, which Izuku took as a win compared to their last monster fight. It did last longer though. The sun was a blazing orange while he talked to the police about the villain’s quirk, enhanced, though the quirk suppressant handcuffs nullified that altogether. 

The only real damage was to Izuku’s jaw, bruised, which Ghost was quick to point out the moment Izuku met him on the rooftop. Unlike before, Ghost stayed close after the villain was defeated. Not close enough to warrant the police noticing and demanding answers on his involvement with taking down the villain—not much, passed goading, but Izuku knew that had he been in actual trouble, Ghost would’ve stepped in to help. Besides, he did a lot to distract the villain, leading to Izuku taking him out in the end.

“Let me see it,” Ghost said when Izuku sat down. Izuku let the other hero gently push his head this way and that, studying the bruise. “Hold on, I got something for this.” 

He let go of Izuku’s face, and Izuku tried not to dwell on the lingering feeling of his fingers as Ghost went through the compartments along his belt. Izuku had thought most of them stored different gadgets or weapons the hero might need for a given situation. But no. The ones Ghost was digging into held medical supplies. Bandages and creams. Ghost made a little, “aha,” when he opened the container he was looking for. His attention went back to Izuku. 

“Hold still, please,” he said as he took off his gloves. He used his left hand to tilt Izuku’s face back, so he could get the best angle, before carefully with his right hand dotted over the bruise. Izuku hissed, trying to pull away. 

“Sorry.”

“’t’s not you. It’s just cold,” Izuku said, letting Ghost apply more of the cream.

“Cold is good for bruises.”

“Well, you should rub your hands together or something. They’re freezing. Especially for a fire user.”

Ghost shook his head gently, amused. “I’ll try to keep that in mind next time, Midoriya.”

The bruise wasn’t that large and soon enough Ghost’s hands were off his chin, focusing on screwing the lid back on the ointment and placing it in the right compartment.

“You saved me, Doctor, I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you,” Izuku said, clutching his heart.

“I wouldn’t thank me yet,” Ghost said, checking over his supplies again, “you may still die.”

“Not likely. As far as field medics go, you’ve earned a gold star from me.”

Ghost observed him, nonplussed.

“Hey, that’s saying something. You know how many times I’ve had to be worked on in the field,” Izuku started counting on his fingers, but Ghost stopped him, grabbing both of his hands into his own. 

“Too many to count. Your recklessness precedes you.”

Izuku smiled, “not this year. I’m actually in the top least injured heroes last I checked.”

“Midoriya, you’ve been in the hero program for ten years.”

Izuku shrugged, not losing his grin. “You’d be surprised how many fights just come down to who can punch the hardest, and so far, I’m the best. Don’t give me that look, I wear bracers for a reason.”

Ghost grabbed his gloves, sliding them on one by one. Traffic was finally getting back to normal on the street below and civilian foot traffic was already heavy given the hour. Izuku’s heels hit the bricks of the building. It was nice outside, a tad too warm, and sure he was a sweaty mess, having just defeated a villain, but he enjoyed the atmosphere. He leaned back on his hands, pebbles sticking to his gloves, and closed his eyes, tilting his head towards the setting sun. 

“You want anything special for dinner,” he asked. “I heard that one burger place has a special going on. Free milkshakes or something. I could drink a milkshake.”

“I was thinking about katsudon.”

Izuku cracked his left eye open. “I didn’t know you liked katsudon.”

“You do.”

“Well, yeah, but I asked what you wanted.”

“It’s your birthday, shouldn’t you decide.”

Izuku blinked twice, trying not to make it seem obvious he was counting months and days.

“Huh, I guess it is,” Izuku said, pushing himself up. 

He had missed his last two or three birthdays. Uraraka had stopped trying to throw him parties when he purposely skipped one to follow up on a case. He never had grand birthday parties when he was growing up, and besides one good party in high school, there were too many other things for Izuku to be focusing on other than the fact he was turning another year older. Generally, on a random day in August, he’d be at his computer and see the date. That was that. 

Twenty-six did feel heftier than twenty-five had, though.

“You’re not going to the bar or anything tonight?”

“Nah, everyone took time off for Uraraka’s wedding, so they’re busy. Besides, birthdays aren’t really my thing. You can’t tell me they’re yours.”

“I celebrate my cat's birthday every year. April 1st, granted I don’t actually know when she was born, but it’s the thought that counts.” Ghost was so serious when he spoke. Izuku’s lip twitched. 

“Anything special your cat likes to do on her birthday?”

“Eat tuna,” Ghost said, “and sleep, and cuddle. She likes sleeping on the left side of my chest.”

Izuku pictured it. Ghost, laying on the ground, scrolling through his phone, or reading a book, while a small black cat slept soundly on top of him. He probably set whatever he was doing down, so he could pet her, gently warming his hand because Izuku was almost certain a cat would like that type of thing. 

Izuku pulled his knees up and leaned his head on them, picturing Ghost carefully trying to move without waking his cat or carrying it around his house in his arms like a baby.

Ghost coughed, hiding behind his hand. “Anyways, is katsudon okay? There’s supposedly a really good restaurant not that far from here that we can get take-out from.”

“Yeah,” Izuku said, “I haven’t had katsudon in forever. Once, my mom actually banned me from eating it for a month when I was younger. But it sort of backfired. The next time she made it, I ate so much I had a stomachache for days.”

“Well, I’ll make sure to keep my eye on you then,” Ghost said, “wouldn’t want the Number Three Hero to be taken out by a pork cutlet bowl.”

Izuku definitely did not stick his tongue out at the other hero. Instead, he watched as Ghost looked for something else in his pockets. It didn’t take long for him to find what he was looking for, extending a closed fist to Izuku. Izuku cupped his hand underneath it.

“Happy Birthday Midoriya.”

An object fell into it. A keychain.

“Dekiru?”

“You can do it,” Ghost amended. “Uravity associated your hero name with that, right? The store I went to was very proud that they had one of those in stock, apparently it’s limited edition and very hard to find.”

It was. They only made a hundred of them. A collab between Heroes Deku and Uravity back when they were twenty. The line had other things too, and all the proceeds had gone to charity. It was the easy excuse as to why Izuku hadn’t asked for one back then, but now, he knew better than to read that as anything other than an excuse, the charm sitting heavy in his hands. Izuku wondered if there ever was a time when he truly did believe in himself. 

Izuku rubbed his thumb along the lettering. 

“Thank-you.”

Ghost brushed his shoulders with his own. Blue eyes brighter under the late afternoon sun. “It’s true, you know? I think you can do anything.”

Izuku didn’t have an eloquent enough response for that honesty. Ghost didn’t appear to be searching for one either. 

“Come on, hero,” he said, stepping up onto the edge, “let's go beat the dinner rush.”

With that, he stepped off the edge. Izuku swiped his thumb along the letters again, before placing it in his utility belt, trying not to dwell.

Izuku’s phone was pressed against his ear, getting the same voicemail he had been getting for Bakugou the last three days he called him. Professional in the sense it didn’t end with him telling whoever was calling him to fuck off. Izuku couldn’t remember a time when he had gone so long without talking to his friend, and he was beginning to feel at fault for not reaching out to him sooner after he was announced as the front-runner for the Number One Hero spot—the Number One hero, already, according to the news anchors and tabloids. 

Izuku had been busy, though. He had put off the first missed calls as Bakugou was busy too, but as he typed out his message to try and get the other to set up a time for them to talk, Izuku couldn’t ignore the string of unanswered texts before it. Bakugou was ignoring him. 

The realization of it should have hurt more than it had. Unfortunately, all Izuku could muster was annoyance and a touch of anger. The minute Izuku started looking anywhere else but him, Bakugou resorted back to being moody. He used to say all the time that he wanted Izuku to make friends. He wanted him to hang out with the others, and here Izuku was, trying to meet up with him, and the man was avoiding him. 

Izuku sighed and dropped his arm.

He knew he was being unfair, and that the simplest answer was the correct one. Bakugou wasn’t texting or calling back because Bakugou was busy, focusing on something else. Just because Izuku hadn’t seen all too many headlines with the hero as the centerpiece since the big bust, did not mean that Bakugou wasn’t working. If anything, he was working too hard. Whatever else they had uncovered that wasn’t pertinent to Izuku’s case was important enough to take all of Bakugou’s attention. He was fine. They were fine. Izuku could wait. 

As it was, he would see him at Uraraka’s wedding the next day. While Uraraka had a strict No  Work policy, he could at least ask Bakugou to leave open a lunch at least for them to catch up. There were too many things Izuku wanted to catch him up with. 

Ghost was at the top of that list, voicing what he could not to his underground colleague to his oldest friend instead. Considering Bakugou’s shortness regarding Ghost, Izuku suspected he knew which side Bakugou would land on, and Izuku was prepared to accept that, just, he needed to know what made Bakugou distrust him so. If it meant that Izuku had to as well. 

Perhaps the answer to that question was why he hadn’t gone to Hawks’ Agency or to Bakugou’s house already. As it was, the only people who could claim to know Ghost were Aizawa and Shinsou, and if Ghost was truly dangerous, Izuku didn’t think either of those men would have let Izuku get as close to Ghost as he had. Certainly, Shinsou knew the extent of it, and while their last conversation might have been uneasy, it wasn’t because Ghost was hiding a secret that warranted being spied on by the Hero Commission and being distorted by the Number One Hero.

Izuku was allowed to pay regard to his own intuition. There was no danger in trusting Ghost and giving the president of the Hero Commission only just enough of their actions so as to not cause her to think he was completely disregarding her.

Ask him to take off his mask. 

He rounded the corner on his floor after leaving the elevator. 

Izuku didn’t need to do that. He didn’t need Ghost’s face. What good would it even do? A stranger was a stranger no matter what. Besides, while Ghost might have been having fun with Izuku—he wanted to stay—that didn’t mean he would listen to Izuku’s question if voiced nor did that mean Ghost couldn’t be trusted at the denial of that alone. It just meant that he was guarded, and it took time to break down the layers that he had grown accustomed to. It would be as if asking, demanding, Izuku to go out with a bunch of heroes he didn’t know on the basis that it was the only way to keep his job. Izuku had grown comfortable where he was, Ghost too. The only people they had begun to shrink the walls of those protections seemed to be each other. 

Izuku kicked the door close to his office, stripping his gear, belt, and gloves, to the floor to pick up on his way out as it was hot, and Izuku needed the window open, ready to rush through his patrol reports before heading home for the day. Ghost hadn’t said what they would be doing next nor had Izuku pressed him all that much for it. But he had said he knew the tracker would lead them somewhere, if not Ghost’s own ability to trail other heroes, and once it did, they would take their next steps. Still, Izuku didn’t want to be so exhausted that he was useless if Ghost decided that they could go off and do something else for the evening, even if it was just running through the stars before Izuku had to go back home and sleep, preparing for Uraraka’s wedding tomorrow. 

However, his desk chair was in the wrong spot. He always pushed it in before he left—a habit from his school days, mostly—and it was out, crooked, facing the window. Izuku slowed, taking in the rest of the office. The mural on the side of the room. The painting didn’t look skewed but things could be put back in place, and if someone came in here, not wanting Izuku to know, it would be only for that, his journals and all the secrets they held. 

He made quick work of the rest of the room, pushing the chair out behind him before sliding open the drawer. He took out the miscellaneous papers, lifted the trick drawer, ready to hit the button when his blood chilled, hand stalling above the red, to stare at a note. A yellow sticky piece from the pad on his desk. 

It read: He is in danger. Trust no one.

Izuku slipped one finger underneath it, then another, lifting it to reveal the button but nothing else. He pressed it just because he could, hearing the wall panel slide open, but not following the movements with his eyes. The writing was rushed. Messy. As if they weren’t sure how long they had to write it out. 

There were cameras here. Cameras over the whole building. But Ghost had already proven once that those security systems could be thwarted and whoever had left the note, if wanting to be known, would not have left such an easy trace for Izuku to follow. 

Another underground hero, then? Or someone else altogether?

Izuku crumpled the note, shoving it in his pocket. Yet another thing to take his sanity. Not something he had the time to focus on now. But the longer he stood in the office, the more he got the feeling he was being watched. 

He took in the whole of the room again. Not a soul with him. Not a person to state clearly who exactly was in danger and how exactly Izuku could help them. But then again, it wasn’t so much a who Izuku was worried about, but the danger itself. The unspoken threat that sat between the lines of phrases. 

In his pocket, his phone buzzed twice. He was slow to pull it out. But he released a slow breath at the message. 

Uraraka. 

Asking if he could come over tonight to help her before tomorrow. A distraction. One which Izuku didn’t have the luxury to give into. However, he wasn’t going to solve the case tonight. He wasn’t going to solve the message either, left as it was, and he had done enough letting his friends down in the past to ever make up for it in his lifetime. So Izuku backed out of his office space, pulled Uraraka’s message up on his phone, and called her, asking how he could help. 

Uraraka’s wedding was private. Her wife was a civilian, and while the press had managed to get a couple of blurry photographs of their relationship in the past, it wasn’t enough for the public at large—villains, criminals, simple people who wished to do harm—to know her face. It was better that way.

Not many heroes got married. Sure, they had relationships, had fun, but generally it was nothing serious. Nothing permanent. It was sort of accepted amongst everyone that once they retired, that was when they could make time for everything they missed, start a family, and settle down. To accept that, was to ignore the stats on the matter—the number of heroes, who never reached thirty. 

Then again, maybe that was the real reason most heroes didn’t try for anything permanent until they knew they were out for good. 

Izuku had his own reasons, which he could recognize in part were built largely around fear—he hadn’t forgotten Uraraka’s statement—but there was something else to it too. The failure to meet the right person made Izuku want to risk trying too. His heart was permanently with someone else, he could reason. 

Now that fact seemed less true. Shouto, permanent, alive, yet impermanent, unable to reach. 

The point was, however, that Izuku wasn’t built for casual flings, quick sex, and throwaway relationships, which was how most heroes got by. Izuku couldn’t do it. Most likely a side-effect of not letting anyone too close for ten years, but Izuku figured had Shouto stuck around, Izuku wouldn’t have been too interested in pursuing frivolous relationships either.

If Shouto stuck around, would they have rushed into things after Izuku had defeated All for One? 

Of course, the Izuku of then hadn’t focused on feelings, on people liking him, but he figured in the aftermath of it all, it probably would have been nice to be told that someone loved him—or rather, it would have been nice for Shouto to hear it himself. No matter what had happened, with his father, with his brother, with anything, Izuku loved him—and always would. Even if they didn’t work out. If fate decreed that any relationship between the pair was destined to implode.

Maybe Izuku would have met Ghost in that timeline as well. It was a nice thought. 

“You should lighten up man,” Kirishima said, handing him a beer bottle, “you look more upset than her father, and he gave away his little girl today.”

Izuku accepted the beer from Kirishima. “A lot on my mind, I guess.” 

“Well knock it off. We’re supposed to be relaxing. The world will survive one night without you watching over it,” Kirishima said, taking a sip of his beer. 

“I take it you already had this conversation.”

“Perhaps the second speech will work this time,” Kirishima said. Despite what he had said to Izuku about being chipper in the scene of the wedding, his good-natured smile faltered, just a bit.

Izuku didn’t need to ask—it was clear by the loudness of Bakugou’s absence, but he did. 

“Kacchan left, didn’t he?”

Kirishima nodded. His attention focused on the ground while Izuku cursed himself for not getting to his friend beforehand. Bakugou was at the wedding. Izuku figured he’d have time at the reception, waiting him out or hoping he would come to him, at least. 

“Here I was hoping he had at least talked to you,” Kirishima eventually said. “We all agreed Hawks and the others could handle all of us being off tonight, but Kats didn’t want to hear it. I’m surprised he made it to the wedding at least.”

In the basest sense, Bakugou focusing everything he was on his career in the face of becoming the Number One Hero, was the Number One Hero, made sense. It was a lot of pressure to live up to, and he had, even more, to prove by being the first new face since Endeavor died. The public always trusted the role of Hawks or Best Jeanist. Best Jeanist was gone now, and Hawks had seemingly taken a backseat to allow his agency’s newest member to take all the headlines. Bakugou would fight against any and all doubts with sure-footedness. When he won at the end of the year, it would be by a wide margin. No room for arguments or what-ifs. 

However, in drawing those conclusions, it was only taking Bakugou in at face value, as Dynamight and the role that meant, not the other way around. When they were kids, Bakugou was the one who stood strong against the mantle of surviving. He was the first one to push whatever grief he had over losing Shouto and look to take care of others in the class that needed someone strong on their behalf. He had been Izuku’s rock for years. He was the class's unspoken leader. He was good in the role. He knew how to compartmentalize. He would not have missed Uraraka’s wedding reception, no matter the case, because he knew the importance of all of them getting together again. 

Yet, he wasn’t here.  

“He wouldn’t have skipped it if he didn’t think there was a reason,” Izuku tried. The words felt misshaped in his mouth. Tar. Un-right.

Kirishima took in the room beyond them. It was mostly a dance floor. Uraraka was in the center, floating without using her quirk. It had been a while since Izuku had seen her grin so unguarded. Happy and carefree.

“Do you know what he is working on,” Izuku asked. 

Kirishima's head dropped to the bottle. He twisted it and sighed. Izuku waited for whatever it was he was figuring out. Patient, through the thrum of fear in his heart. Whatever Bakugou got himself into, Izuku didn’t have enough confidence that it wasn’t dangerous, paired with the note he got the night prior, it chilled icy worry. They were all known for being hot-headed, going into danger without the benefit of having any safety precautions in place, but they had been told they were smarter with age, that they didn’t make the same mistakes of their past. 

Izuku needed to catch back up to him to make sure that same could still hold true. 

Kirishima said, “He's been off for a while now. It’s hard to explain. Just wrong. He skips breakfast most days, he doesn’t sleep through the night, he’s been taking home more takeout than I have ever eaten in my life, and he won’t talk to me about why.” 

Kirishima shook his head. He dropped his voice further. There was no one around to hear him even if he hadn’t. 

“He’s been sneaking out of the house between 2 and 4 the last two weeks. I know he isn’t a cheater, I’m not worried about that, just, a few days ago, I got a call from Hawks, asking if I could meet with him. Apparently, Kats hasn’t been doing his regular patrols either, giving them away to interns and sidekicks while he goes off doing who knows what.”

“I’m sure it’s just a case. You know how he gets.”

Kirishima shook his head, and Izuku couldn’t fault him for that. Bakugou used to goad everyone because he could manage any workload UA threw at him where others would fall behind, Izuku included. Bakugou wouldn’t just give up his patrols for a case. He’d work them, get his job done, and get eight hours of sleep. A tad insane, but it was Bakugou. He wouldn’t be the reason someone couldn’t be saved. 

“He and I were supposed to meet at his agency before heading to dinner the night before last, and he was late, and I,” Kirishima rubbed the back of his head, “I can’t just sit back and watch him kill himself. I didn’t know what else to do. So I started looking through his stuff. Everything was par for the course. Normal paperwork, patrol stuff and civilian complaints. But then I—I don’t even know why I checked this, something Kaminari used to joke about getting on his desk at work to hide food, he saw it in a movie I think—a false bottom in one of his drawers, and Bingo: Operation Cursed Prince. That mean anything to you?”

It didn’t. Izuku wished that it did and that maybe Bakugou was still working on their case. Bakugou didn’t have a record of giving up on things, even when he was told he had to. Izuku suspected even Ghost knew that and was waiting for the moment Bakugou stormed back into Izuku’s office with a new lead. 

But this wasn’t that, made clear enough by Kirishima continuing, “I didn’t really expect you too. I don’t even know what it’s all about, not truthfully. The folder had next to nothing in it, save for the name of a vigilante, Yokai, but I looked it up and whoever this vigilante was, he started fighting when we were still coloring with crayons, and stopped about ten years ago.”

Yokai. 

Izuku knew Bakugou didn’t trust Ghost, but this was something altogether. Bakugou knew where Ghost ended up. Whatever he was searching for in Ghost’s past, it wouldn’t, couldn’t, discredit who he was now. Izuku had been certain of that.

Right?

When he had watched the president leave him to go speak on stage, Izuku had the sense she knew more than what she had said to him. Her words cryptic and short. She had watched for him, Ghost, in the crowd while she spoke, as if waiting for him to strike. Killed or be killed. 

If the whole world turned on Ghost, was it Izuku’s duty to then turn on him too? Find out every secret he hid and the reason for it before damning him to a life behind bars, for what? The president’s pride? Bakugou’s unspoken fears? Izuku’s misgivings at finding someone to believe in again? 

Kirishima continued. “I thought this Yokai got bored or injured and couldn’t be a vigilante anymore and picked up a regular day job, but Hawks said something else that I thought was weird. Kats was trying to get into Tartarus, but the Commission wouldn’t let him. Japan's Number One Hero, and the Hero Commission told him no. Kats doesn’t like being told he can’t do something on a good day, I doubt he likes hearing it when he’s obviously obsessing over a case,” Kirishima finished. “I’m just worried about him. I haven’t seen him this frenzied since we were kids and Todoroki left.”

The only thing Bakugou hoped to find in Tartarus was Touya. He had said he wanted to speak to him, to confirm something about a case, but what if it wasn’t just that? Heroes made do with little to no information. They had learned to and prided themselves on it. The only reason it would be important to speak to Touya meant that his issue was with Touya himself.

But that didn’t take into account why Bakugou would be keeping a secret folder on Ghost, seemingly chasing him too…unless…unless Bakugou knew Ghost was connected to Shouto somehow. If Bakugou was already on the right track, that meant he was days away from finding Shouto, alive. Izuku had a hard time believing Bakugou would accept it as easily as Izuku had. Bakugou would look for blame, and the easiest person to do that was to point at the underground hero who faked his death.

“It’s my fault, Kirishima-kun,” Izuku spoke to the silence that followed after Kirishima’s mouth fell shut. The other’s brow quirked. He frowned. Izuku continued.  “He asked me to go to Tartarus to speak to Dabi after the anniversary of All for One’s defeat. I’ve been busy, so I haven't had a chance. I didn’t realize how important it was to whatever case he was working on and for that reason he must be working extra hard to solve it without whatever information Dabi can provide.”

Perhaps Izuku wasn’t so opposed to lying, so it seemed, protecting what he knew and suspected from a friend, who was only worried about his partner. 

“He wants to speak to Dabi? Why? The man’s been behind bars for years. What use would he be for a case, let alone a vigilante?”

Izuku’s smile was tight. “I don’t know, but I’ll talk to him later this week, straighten everything out. I’m sorry you’ve been alone, worrying about him.”

“Hey man.” Kirishima gripped his shoulder, squeezing tight. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. Life’s hectic, and besides I heard your boyfriend’s been sad he doesn’t spend that much time with you. Kats is a big boy. He doesn’t need you to cover him.” 

Kirishima’s hand went from Izuku’s shoulder to his mouth, pressing a finger there firmly  

“And don’t you dare say you don’t have a boyfriend. We all saw the extra present over by the gifts. ‘Izuku’s Lover xoxo.’ He’s a cheeky one, I’ll give you that. Shame he couldn’t come. I know everyone’s dying to meet him.”

“Extra present?”

Kirishima laughed. “Ochako was counting. You really think you could just slip it in there without any of us knowing? The strength of your future relationship hinges on how good of a present he got her, I hope you know that.”

“Well, he didn’t ask for help, so I have no say in it. What’s with that smile.”

Kirishima was grinning ear to ear, significantly less stressed than he had been minutes prior. “Ahh don’t be like that Mido, I’m happy for you. It’s about time someone stole your heart.”

“No one stole my heart.” 

“Yup, and you take us all to get ice cream in Musutafu.”

“Uraraka-kun’s a liar.”

Kirishima shrugged. “Whatever you say, Midoriya.”

Izuku thought about fighting it more, but, hell, if Izuku’s love life was a distraction that got his friends to smile, so be it. Izuku hadn’t been thinking about their smiles for a while, and at least when Kirishima left him to go find Kaminari and Sero, he did so with brevity, not weighed down by what was bothering him with Bakugou. Izuku knew almost certainly it wasn’t that easy, that the doubts surrounding what Bakugou was going through would linger, but at least Kirishima could enjoy the night.

Izuku, on the other hand, had an underground hero to find and interrogate. Izuku knew very well he had only come in with one present under his arms. And maybe focusing on Ghost as opposed to any other distractions and happenings proved an easier way to breathe. His allowance for the night as well. 

Almost as soon as he moved away from his spot, his phone buzzed.

Roses.

Izuku rolled his eyes, cutting his way across the reception hall. Uraraka was still laughing with her wife, and the rest of the people around them were clearly happy as well, Izuku taking a step out for a quick catch of air would bother no one.

The large garden held many different flowers, so it took Izuku some time before he got to the roses, and even then, under fairy lights and the stars, Ghost wasn’t exactly easy to spot, tapping Izuku’s shoulder once it became apparent that Izuku was useless at finding the hero, which wasn’t Izuku’s fault. Ghost prided himself on being unseen. It was his job. Izuku was ninety percent certain Ghost liked surprising him by showing up randomly like this.

“You know one of these days I might hurt you,” Izuku said, turning around. “I might not look like it, but I could throw you over my shoulder and dislocate your arm.”

“That so, Midoriya,” Ghost said, crossing his arms. He said something else, but Izuku missed it. 

Ghost wasn’t dressed like Ghost. He was wearing a suit. His shoes reflected the lights around them. Sure, his outfit was still entirely black, save for the rose in his lapel, which Izuku was certain was a fine if he got caught cutting any of the flowers in the garden. He wasn’t wearing a tie, but the black turtleneck under the suit jacket almost made too much sense. All of which led to what was undeniably Ghost. His regular mouthguard, mask, and sparkling blue eyes.

“What are you doing here?”

“Ochako-kun invited me to her wedding, remember?” He tilted his head. “I couldn’t make the actual ceremony, but I figured I’d still pop in and say hi.”

“You’re causing me a lot of issues. My friends are starting to think I’m a pathological liar.”

“And why’s that?”

“You know why.”

“Midoriya, if you wanted a date to Uraraka’s wedding you could have just asked, I would have said yes.”

“As if I’d want to go with you, you’d just make us sit in the rafters, claiming it’s the best seat while all my friends squeal about me finally finding someone.”

“I dunno, if we sat in the rafters, it’d be pretty hard for them to bother us. Granted Uravity does have her anti-gravity quirk.” He lifted his hand up to his mouth as if he was contemplating it before he pointed toward Izuku. “But you can fly too, right? We’ll just use that to our advantage and sneak away—then your friends really would have something to talk about.”

“I hate you.”

Ghost took the rose out of his breast pocket, stepping closer to Izuku. Izuku didn’t back away as Ghost put it in his pocket instead. “No, you don’t. You know my favorite food—that makes you my best friend.”

“Best friend,” Izuku echoed. Too aware of how Ghost hadn’t backed away from him. He could feel his body heat. Their knees were almost close enough to touch, one wrong step and they’d bruise, softly, a distracted whisper of pain that Izuku wouldn’t feel until the next day. 

That was if they collided. Izuku still wasn’t quite sure if they were on that path. Ghost had asked if he could stay. Izuku had said yes, wanted forever.

Was it insane to fix a broken heart with a man who hid behind a mask? Perhaps. But Shouto had worn a mask too, and Izuku still loved him. He didn’t need the full expression of a face to know someone else’s heart.

“Why are you here,” Izuku asked again just to speak because Ghost was silent and watching and Izuku always struggled under the eyes of someone else.

“A bit of work, but mostly pleasure,” Ghost said, “we never got to dance at the hero gala, and I was really hoping to get a chance to dance with my favorite hero. I think it was one of the draws.”

“I didn’t put my name up to be a recipient for a reason.”

“Is that just a way to say you can’t dance?”

“No.” Izuku bit his tongue. “Yes. Well sort of, Ashido-kun taught a bunch of us how to dance when we were first years, but it certainly wasn’t ballroom dancing, and well, when we were third years, we were taught basic technique so we wouldn’t fool ourselves during functions, but it’s as they say you don’t use those muscles, they forget how to work. And I mean, I use my muscles plenty, just not to dance.”

“Midoriya.”

“Yes?”

“Would you like to dance?”

“With you?”

Ghost laughed. Izuku caught himself smiling because of it, but this time he didn’t try to conceal it, waiting for Ghost, who said, “just because I didn’t go to your fancy hero school, doesn’t mean I don’t know how to dance.”

“That wasn’t what I was saying.”

“Oh? Then what were you trying to say, Midoriya?”

Izuku liked the way Ghost said his name. It was distracting. Said with care. Ghost sat on each syllable as if he didn’t know which one he liked best. Izuku wanted to hear what his name sounded like on his lips without a mask to muffle it. No matter if this was Ghost’s real voice or not, he had a feeling it’d sound memorizing either way. 

Ghost leaned into his palm. Izuku’s hand against his cheek without Izuku himself realizing he had reached out and touched. He felt the shape of Ghost’s ear. The spot just below it where the mouthguard connected to the rest of his headgear. One press and it’d come undone.

Ask him to take it off.

Ghost placed his right hand against the upper part of Izuku’s back. He stepped forward, forcing Izuku to step back. Then he took his left hand, overlaying it with Izuku’s right, pressed his cheek into Izuku’s palm one more time, before gently taking it away to hold it in his.

My fear, then, will be unfounded. 

Izuku’s mouth ran dry. He wanted to be more conscious of this act. A burning question he had buried at the beginning of their journey together. Who are you? He wanted to ask, needed to know if it mattered or mattered not.

But there was also this: Trust no one. 

Similar in tone to Ghost’s own beliefs. The hero before him didn’t trust easily. He hadn’t been made to and whatever happened in his past that created this person ahead of him now had been hurt before in the company of others he wished to keep. If Izuku pushed as the Hero Commission asked, he may just as well get his answer, but he knew too that it would break them. Ghost had to come to him with it first. Izuku had to be patient enough to let him. 

And the thing was, Izuku was. When Ghost pulled his hand away from his face, Izuku didn’t feel anger or unnecessary imprudence. It wasn’t the right time now. He knew.

If the whole world were to turn on Ghost, Izuku would choose him still. It was his burden. It felt like his future. Whatever they were steamrolling forward, having the Hero Commission as an enemy—scorned adversary at Izuku’s disobedience—didn’t seem so terrible when there was a person who had shown Izuku the brightness of the world again. Izuku had hope. There was no way he was going to disparage that now, not for anyone or anything. No matter what.  

Ghost said, “put your hand on my bicep, your arm overlaying mine.” 

Izuku obliged. 

“Very good.” Ghost stepped forward again, pushing Izuku back, though their next step pulled Izuku forward, back, and forth until Izuku couldn’t call it anything other than what it was. 

“Congratulations, Midoriya, you remembered how to dance.”

“Izuku.” Ghost’s next step faltered. Izuku kept their momentum anyways. “The people closest to me call me Izuku.”

Ghost was too kind to point out that everyone in his life, save for two—three depending on Bakugou’s mood—called him Deku.

“Okay.” Ghost paused, maybe to make sure he got the sound of it just right, or maybe that was just Izuku, hanging on for each beat. 

“Izuku.”

The lobby of Hawk’s hero agency was far busier than Izuku’s agency. More apt to host and entertain the public. It made sneaking in near impossible, but maybe that was just as well. When the floor silenced because people realized Hero Deku was among them, it pointed him right to Hawks, leaning against the receptionist's desk. Hawks always acted laidback. Around a scrutinizing audience, this was twice as true.

“Green bean,” he said, pushing off the counter. “I’m so happy you could make it.”

Izuku had planned on simply showing up at the agency and walking straight into Bakugou’s office to corner him. He had not planned for Hawks to meet him in the lobby of this place. However, Izuku was not naive enough to shake off the elder hero from his shoulder as Hawks led them easily through the crowd, chattering about how good it was to see him and how Izuku never made time for him anymore since Bakugou jumped ranks. He didn’t silence the whole elevator ride up to his floor. Only adjusting his conversation when Izuku stated he was here to see Bakugou, not him. 

“Well, unfortunately, I just saw Dynamight out the door, but instead of wasting your trip. I have a feeling we have something to talk about just as well.” 

Of which, Izuku found himself in the hero's office, seated in the plush chair opposite the desk while Hawks approached the window to the right of them. Quiet rain slid down them. Hawks’ reflection stood blurred across from him.

“Terrible weather we’re having as of late. Though, I hear Uravity’s wedding was beautiful, caught between storms. She always was lucky.” He stepped away from the panes. “Would you like some water, watching this rain all day makes me thirsty.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Hawks poured two glasses, bringing both to his desk where Izuku sat. Izuku resisted the urge to tap his lap. He had prepared himself, somewhat, to corner Bakugou, sitting here, waiting for Hawks to collect himself for a conversation he was ready for, Izuku not, made him feel like nothing more than cornered prey, golden eyes sharp from their place at the edge of his periphery.

“You’re beginning to sound like your partner. It’s important to get a healthy separation from people, especially in this business.”

“Is that why you work alone Hawks-san?”

Hawks smiled, stretching out his wings. “What little birdie is asking? You or the shadow that follows you?”

“Ghost is his own hero.”

“The whispers say otherwise, but what do I know,” Hawks shrugged, “I’m practically an old man now. Head of one-and-a-half agencies and stuck babysitting the Number One and Number Three hero. Geez. I can see why Jeanist retired. I’m afraid I’m not long for this world.”

Hawks had always been a particular kind of annoying to talk to. A dance of sorts. To the public he was charming. Easy quips that made people laugh. Behind closed doors, he could be ruthless. Lead a strike team that decimated their opponents before their enemy even realized that they were there. But no matter how great Hawks was, Izuku couldn’t look at his face, hear him speak, without hearing the rain. The way thundered rolled above them. Hawks acted like he didn’t, that everything was part of a more distant past than it was.

It made Izuku sit straighter in his chair. He was not a boy. A mere child at the mercy of UA’s rules and the Hero Commissions guidelines. The other had no qualification to hold him here for a chat if Izuku didn’t want him to. 

“If it’s all the same to you, Takami-san, I am busy no matter if you think that I am qualified for the role.”

“Who said anything about being qualified? After all, we are the youngest top three, ever. People tend to think that means we need added guidance. I’m sure we feel the same way about that opinion.” Hawks lifted his glass, tilting it to Izuku, “anyways, little bird, what brings you to my fine establishment this afternoon.”

“I need to talk to Kacchan. I already told you as much.” 

“Yes, but Bakugou isn’t here. Whatever urgent matter that caused you to come all the way down here under the guise of your hero capacity falls to me. Unless, of course, it is a personal matter. Word on the street says you don’t care about your rank that much right now. I know better than to assume such a thing.” 

Izuku could have accepted Hawks’ hunch as it was. Let him make do with what little Izuku had said thus far and press him to find out where Bakugou was at this very moment and be gone. However, if Hawks had assumed only that this was about Izuku’s gripe with Bakugou’s rank, he would have told Izuku outright where Bakugou was today or where he would be soon. Instead, he led Izuku here. A distracting ploy or the other hero had something worth sharing. 

If it was about Bakugou, Izuku wanted to know. Hawks had already given Kirishima some, Izuku was prepared to hear the rest.

“Last month Kacchan asked me to go to Tartarus for him for an unknown case, and now Kirishima-kun is saying he isn’t sleeping, working himself ragged. As his boss, I was wondering if you knew what this secret mission was.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you kicked him off your classified mission. Logic dictates he’s working on that case.” He fell to his chair, swinging idly. 

“Perhaps, but you know as well as I that if Kacchan needed to get into Tartarus for my case, the Hero Commission would have let him.”

Hawks laughed, leaning back and folding his arms behind his head. “You really think they would? Tell me Deku, do you know how many visitors are allowed to visit individual prisoners in Tartarus?”

“I’m assuming one at a time.”

“Infinite. Sure, plenty of villains don’t exactly have a ma or pa to come and see their little sonny behind bars, but any hero, no matter the rank, can visit whatever villain they want, pending a case. You ever been to Tartarus since the upgrade? Maximum security. Maximum gun count. Maximum number of guards, which means a lot of eyes. Not an easy place to hide a body.”

Hawks pressed his finger into the desk, tracing shapes. “Now, as I said, prisoners don’t really have an approved visitor list—I mean they do, can’t have no villain walking into the place to annihilate it. Not again. But you get the picture. The system works out fine. The longer a prisoner has been in jail, the less useful they are. The fewer visitors they get. The fewer heroes remember them ever being a bad guy, to begin with. 

“There is an exception to this rule, however,” Hawks said, lifting his finger from three drying box. “If a villain is noteworthy, especially heinous. Well, people kind of take to picking their brains every once and awhile. Let me tell you, there are plenty of nut jobs down there. All willing to talk to whoever will lend an ear. Save for one. One who was not silent while on the outside," Hawks pressed his finger outside the square, "so it’s extra peculiar that he never speaks while in a cage." Inside it. "Or rather, it’s extra odd because unlike everyone else behind bars, he is not allowed to be seen.”

Izuku picked up the glass of water if only to have something in his hands. Clearwater was just as apathetic as its darker counterpart. His reflection just as murky. 

“The Hero Commission must have their reasons,” Izuku said. His voice was wooden. “When All for One was in jail, only certain people could see him too, and the other League of Villain members—they’ve been known to spread false information, leading detectives and heroes astray.”

“But information is still information,” Hawks said, “even if it is wrong. A hero can use that to their advantage in the future. Create a whole profile on a villain so that the next time they are spoken to, it is easier to figure out what is false and what is not. So yes, this villain is certainly known for lying. I wouldn’t trust half of what he says to be true, but unlike most other villains, this particular one’s code has already been cracked. It’s how I knew he was telling the truth when he called himself Touya for the first time. It’s why we thought we had to take him down with absolute certainty before we tackled All for One. It’s not the lies that Dabi tells that fill our veins with poison, but how willing he was to give up the truth.

“You don’t think it’s a little odd that since his capture, he has said nothing to his greatest success, killing his baby brother?”

Izuku gritted his teeth. “Dabi might not see it that way. Shouto took his own life.”

“At the behest of the devil’s tongue. Two dead Todorokis,” Hawks brought his pointer fingers together, “still equal Dabi’s win scenario, no matter how they came to be dead.”

It was the assumption of many by those that knew him that Shouto had indeed taken his life because of what Touya had said to him. Not in the pouring rain after patricide, but sometime later. When the villain caught back up to his prey. He threatened Shouto so that Shouto’s only option was to obey his brother's command or (and) die to his own fire.

Izuku knew better. Twofold. Shouto hadn’t obeyed. He sought refuge with a vigilante turned underground hero, who protected him. Touya lived to see his brother dead on every headline and asked if he was not allowed to mourn too.

“That still doesn’t answer my question. Why would Kacchan want to talk to him now? It’s been over five years. Did he tell you?”

Hawks’ eyes flashed. “I dunno, why don’t you go and ask him yourself?”

“Kacchan won’t tell me. He’s keeping it close to his chest, that is what I’m trying to figure out.”

“He’s not who I’m talking about. Bakugou made quite a compelling argument to me when he asked me to talk to the Hero Commission. At first, I thought it was crazy, but the longer I sat on it, the more it intrigued me. So, I took a visit to my old bosses. They denied my entry. I did a little more digging—not all of us have to be underground hero’s to do menial spy work—and it turns out the only person who is allowed to speak to Dabi is you.”

Izuku squeezed the glass. The top of it fissured, forcing him to set it down.

“So why, Deku, have you not spoken to him since? I have my own theories, but I’m assuming Bakugou’s are the most pressing for you and your partner.”

“Ghost has nothing to do with this.”

Hawks pressed on. “I met Dabi when I was fourteen. I was honing my skills by infiltrating fight clubs. Only he didn’t go by Dabi then, he went by Yokai, and Yokai wasn’t a villain, but a vigilante. Touya wanted to be a hero. A fiery death didn’t nullify that. But the longer he played in the dark, the more that future escaped him so that when the time came to unveil the curtain on the Todoroki household, Dabi was the very image of what heroes were supposed to destroy. 

“But lo and behold, after Endeavor’s death, Dabi leaves the Paranormal Liberation Front, abandoning them for his own righteous mission even when they were stronger than ever. He needs cash and what better place to go, then to where he used to win thousands. Yokai is reborn but better.”

Hawks leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk. His hands pressed together.

“Now, Dabi has to lie low because the villains are searching for him, betrayal even without the act, is still betrayal, so he adopts a mask. A persona. He needs extra cash, so he bums some extra stings with some vigilantes. It reminds him of what he used to be, what he wanted to be. But what’s a hero without something to push them into grandeur? A mistake paid in blood. Touya sees his brother's death and knows it is his fault, even miles away. He’s already damned, so what’s risking his life for a couple of unsolved cases? What’s becoming a hero when no one is there to recognize it? Why wear a mask if you have nothing to hide?

“Touya created Ghost to repent—

“Shut up.”

“—but that doesn’t mean his grievances have been forgiven. If anyone knows the burden of surviving Shouto-kun’s death, it’s you. Bakugou doesn’t want to involve you because he knows—

“I said shut up!” 

The chair clattered to the ground behind Izuku, as he stood. 

“You know nothing.”

Hawks regarded him, unbothered at the quirk that threatened to explode or the righteous anger before him. 

He said, “It might be hard to hear, Touya coming to you, seeking out your forgiveness by working on this case with you. I know Bakugou said you were close, but seething, I don’t think I’ve been this upset since we fought Shigaraki together. Face it Midoriya, we were played. Touya got away. He got to live freely for almost a decade while the rest of us grieved. He got to act out his dream of being a hero. He got too

“Touya’s dead!” 

Izuku didn’t mean to scream. His hand stung where it slapped against the desk. It got Hawks to back off, his wings expanding as they moved to attack next, pressed against the cushion of his chair. He opened his mouth to question him, but Izuku didn’t give him the chance.

“I killed him. I—” 

Izuku retreated from the desk, running his hand through his hair, tugging on it. Unable to stop the words that stumbled out of his mouth. 

“He asked me for forgiveness, and I denied him. He didn’t deserve my pity or remorse because he killed Shouto, and I hated him. I hated him enough that I wanted him gone. It didn’t matter if Shouto wanted to forgive him, wanted to save him, because Shouto was kind and good, and he took that away because when he saw Shouto, he saw a monster, and if Dabi wanted to fight a monster, then he did.”

Hawks' hand crept over his mouth, holding it there, but it did little mask how wide his eyes had gotten. The way he regarded Izuku as a stranger. At the mercy of what he had to say next. Izuku’s worst secret to his least favorite hero all because he blamed him for not saving a Todoroki child but when it was Izuku’s turn to do so, he pulled his hand away.

He hated himself more than he hated any other. 

“The Hero Commission covered it up. I was supposed to be the Symbol of Peace. They couldn’t have his blood on my hands. So they told everybody I arrested him then they sent his body to Tartarus for no one to find. If anyone’s a villain, it’s me. Not Ghost. He has nothing to do with this.”

Hawks was slow as he got up from his chair. Izuku couldn’t run from him, though the admission coated his mouth in bile. Never before was he allowed that. Six months ago he couldn’t even fathom the thought. No matter what happened that allowed Izuku to get Shouto back in his life, this would always be true. He had done an inexcusable act and as a consequence, he was as he was. Pitiful. Ghost might have been able to make him breathe again, but even he didn’t know the true extent of Izuku’s misgivings. Izuku never wanted anyone to know, and with it, his first true deal with his employers.  

Hawks came around the desk. 

“Deku, we’ve all lost people in fights before.”

Izuku shook his head before he finished. “We are told that death is a last resort. I went into that fight wanting him dead. It’s murder plain and simple.”

Hawks sighed. “The Commission would have executed Dabi regardless of what you did. It doesn’t make what happened okay, but there was a kill order on him far longer than that night. They just gave you the gun and asked you to pull.”

“I still pulled. I could have done something different. Something a real hero would have done in that position. I could have at least tried to save him no matter what came of me.”

“Possibly, but take it from someone who knows what it feels like to be the Commissions puppet, when they want someone dead, they kill them. There was nothing you could have done to stop it. If anything, you were far kinder to him than any firing squad or poison.”

Hawks might have been right. Touya wouldn’t have been the person Izuku would have chosen to hide from the Hero Commission had he caught him. He would have given him up to Tartarus properly and stood in the execution chamber as Touya said his last words. Either way, the man would be dead. The Hero Commission proud behind him, celebrating Izuku's success. 

But that thought alone could never erase the possibility that had Izuku told the Hero Commission he couldn’t take the case, Touya could still be alive today. In a jail cell but still breathing, facing the consequences of his action through a life behind bars.

Hawks backed away from, patting his sides. His previous anxiety back. But not for Izuku. 

"Shit,” Hawks said, searching his pockets. “Shit.”

“What?”

He pulled out his phone, typing quickly before putting it to his ear. It was clear it didn’t go through by his next string of profanities. 

“Bakugou’s mission. He said he had a lead and was going to go through with closing the case.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“You have to do better than that. Kacchan think’s Ghost is Dabi, while he might not kill him, he sure as hell isn’t going to treat him gently.”

Hawks was back to his computer, typing while calling again. Outside the rain fell harder. On the horizon, lightning flashed.

“Please tell me you know how to find him,” Izuku asked. “Ghost doesn’t deserve to get hurt for my mistakes.”

“I know,” Hawks said, “I know.”

Thundered cracked. The rain hit sharper against the window. Izuku didn’t wait to stick around to see if Hawks would wear the same despair.

Chapter Text

When Katsuki was six, he was the greatest hero that there would ever be. It didn’t matter that he was only as tall as his mother’s waist. It didn’t matter that his, at the time, hero partner was quirkless. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t actively be a hero for many years to come. It was a fact. 

Bakugou Katsuki was the best.

When Katsuki was sixteen, he wasn’t the greatest. He was barely remarkable in a room of twenty. Lesser men would have fallen victim to that realization. Lesser men would have forfeited their dreams. Katsuki was not one of those men, but he was forced to contend with the fact what he wasn’t. Not the best, at least. Not then.

However, where Katsuki fell short, he could grow. He could become victory itself and prove to those who ever doubted him that they were wrong. That he wasn’t someone to mess with. He wasn’t weak. Naive. Useless. 

Katsuki might not have been the best, anymore, but he was still great.

He was still a hero. He still saved. 

He stood tall before confrontation and didn’t hide from the inevitable. He had always been destructive. Prone to fights. A matchstick that burned too fast. 

But he was patient, calculative. He took his time, scouting out the best location for this meeting to take place. He took his time gathering his evidence, creating ammunition in what he could accuse. He double checked and then double checked again that there could be no doubts. That he had all the information he needed. Even his bird brain boss had been swayed by it, finding a chair in Katsuki’s office and hiding his mouth behind his hand as he read everything he had provided him.

Katsuki hadn’t wanted to let anyone know his secret. He wanted to find the answers himself, and maybe he would have done that when he was still 16, but Katsuki was another ten years beyond that age, and he knew the benefit of seeing something with the freshest set of eyes. If there was any doubt, any string Katsuki hadn't tugged, or blindspot he hadn't considered, the other hero would have caught it. Despite all of Hawks’ shortcomings, he was still frighteningly good at his job. He wasn’t like Izuku or Katsuki when it came down to fighting villains. In a way, he was almost like Ghost, and because of that, it was important that he knew before Katsuki went out. The one and only confirmation that Katsuki needed. 

Hawks had agreed. Katsuki knew there was nothing in his evidence that suggested he wouldn’t. 

Ghost was a Todoroki. A phoenix birthed in flames, still came from the ashes of somebody else already dead. He was Dabi. 

Katsuki had walked out the door before Hawks could take it back, before Katsuki recognized how ill the other hero got. Katsuki already had Shouto in his pocket, printed and saved, he didn’t need fresher memories of pain to finish this. 

Katsuki’s message to the demon was short and to the point. He wanted to talk. It was Ghost who had to infer what it meant. When he responded to Katsuki’s request, there were no clarifying questions, no follow up, no surprise. It was an affirmative and then a request of when and where Katsuki wanted to see him.

Katsuki got to their destination first. He climbed rusted ladders, passing broken windows until he reached the rooftops just as the rain began picking up around him. The location was supposed to bring false comfort to his opponent hero, the one who toted how invisible he became once up high, but it’s service was greater to Katsuki. Ghost didn’t use his quirk. In protection of his secret, it would be harder for him to run away and hide in a set arena, and if he did decide to unleash his full potential, showing his true colors in an attempt to defeat Katsuki, Katsuki would unleash hell. 

The warehouse below him was set for demolition within the week. A perfect place to unleash mayhem with little consequence. The safest place to guarantee that when this conversation came to a brawl, that no one else would get hurt in the crossfire. 

The rain soaked the pebbles beneath his boots as he surveyed the distant city beyond him. He wondered how Shouto felt when rain took him to his own rooftop, obscuring his senses. If he had thought it was only a quick moment of rest before the rest of the fight would carry on somewhere else, not knowing that he had arrived at the climax of the battle itself. 

Katsuki was relieved Shouto didn’t have to relive it again, too. That he was gone and would never know what came of his brother, how close the man had gotten to Izuku of all people, lying his way into his life. The Shouto he remembered would have been furious. But it wouldn’t have been fury like Katsuki’s. There was a somberness to Shouto. A stubbornness too. Like Ghost, and Katsuki now, Shouto would have been patient. 

However, whereas Katsuki’s patience led him here, ultimately, Shouto’s would have only ever led to self-mutilating himself. It was what set them apart. When Shouto sought revenge, he didn’t do so with blazed fists or icicles to the chest, which he had all the power to do, rather, Shouto internalized. He took on the mistakes of others and held them close to his heart. It was why he wasn’t like his eldest brother, cursed on a stupid revenge plot. The only revenge Shouto had ever manifested was holding himself back, which hurt him more than it hurt Endeavor when it still got him a child into UA.

It was why Shouto was the one dead and not Dabi. Because Shouto said he couldn’t kill him, and in facing that failure, he couldn’t survive. The consequences in which  Shouto should have never had to bear on his own. 

So, yes, Katsuki was going to defeat the lone Todoroki son who met him on the roof. He was going to exert his revenge on Shouto’s behalf even if it wasn’t what Shouto would have done in the same place as him.

He was going to win. 

The ghost materialized to his left, opposite of the stairwell Katsuki used because he was a show off. A jester in a mask. Katsuki didn’t immediately turn to greet his guest, past a flicker of his eyes, letting the other hero know Katsuki knew he was here, that he wasn’t surprised by his gimmicks and theatrics in dark, cloudy rain. 

“People generally hold important conversations inside. Is your office too stuffy this time of the year?”

It was a cheap jab. Katsuki relaxed his shoulder, reminding himself that he was the one in charge tonight. Ghost was not a god. He could not know everything. He expected Katsuki to rise to the bait, to go along with a quick back and forth that ended this all the same. 

They could talk. He could give Ghost the opportunity to confess to his sins before Katsuki pressed the weight of his sole on his jaw and then tore the pieces of that unnerving mask off to be met with the last bit of proof he needed. Undeniable proof. The true meaning behind why monsters wore masks. The exposure of a cruel man’s face. 

However, and, again, Katsuki was not Shouto. He wasn’t Izuku. He didn’t see the merit in giving his opponent time to spin fanciful lies and stories that attempted to distract him from his goal. He had all the information he needed. What use was sitting in an office when outcome would have just been throwing one another against the opposite walls? This arena was perfect for what needed to be done. He backed away from the edge, turning fully to meet his guest.

Ghost’s arms were crossed over his chest. He stood to his full fight. Taller than Katsuki, but not by anything imposing. Cold.

Katsuki didn’t know the last time he saw the hero without Izuku by his side. How by just having Izuku there, he seemed more approachable. Less rigid. But then again, Ghost probably surmised how this conversation was going to pan out. He was treating Katsuki like he’d treat a villain in the street. 

Katsuki hoped he would underestimate him too. 

Katsuki’s only falter in that night that needed to be perfect—he needed to end this, needed to win—was Izuku. Izuku, who was probably home by now and was waiting for his non-hero non-boyfriend to appear and charm Izuku with his niceties. How remarkable a hero looked when he wasn’t shouldered with the same responsibilities as everyone else.

Katsuki would go through this entire night, booking and all, before he ended up at Izuku’s house. He hadn’t worked this plan out so far ahead that he knew what he would say to Izuku about this. Katsuki didn’t know if he had any words that were good enough either. 

At least, he would say that he was sorry, and while Katsuki knew he could never fill the hole Shouto left, he was still here with him. That Izuku didn’t need to look so far beyond him to find a place to call home. Katsuki wasn’t going anywhere. No matter how often the people around Katsuki did leave. 

He hoped Izuku could forgive him. He wasn’t like Katsuki. He didn’t hold grudges or seek vengeance. Not, at least, without trying to see the point of view from the villain first. He could come to understand where others could not, and he would understand—the real reason Katsuki hadn’t gone to Izuku first with this. Despite all their horrors, there was still a chance that Izuku would forgive Dabi, and Katsuki, he was too selfish to stand and let that happen. 

So, in his nearing thirty years of life, Katsuki hadn’t changed. It was bitter to see oneself still so much the same. All the trials and tribulations to make the exact same choice he would have made then. Katsuki was okay playing the bad guy tonight. He was okay with doing it alone—no one else understood. He was okay in knowing that had it been two others in place tonight, they would not come here at all. 

Katsuki said, “I know your secret.” 

A demon with no face frowned, easy to tell in the involuntary tightening of his hand over his forearm, still crossed at his chest. 

“I have lots of secrets,” the ghost feigned, “you’ll have to be more specific if you’re looking for an exact response.” 

“I know why you hide behind that mask.” Katsuki took a step forward. He didn’t outwardly walk toward Ghost, though. “I know why you have to. I know what you did and what that makes you. I know you’re not a hero.”

“What do you want?"

“What makes you think I want something from you?” 

Ghost lowered his arms. He walked forward with eased steps. He was like a dancer when he walked. Careful and light at all times. As if coming down any harder would break something.

Like Katsuki, he didn’t approach him, he only left the ledge he had been at to circle left, keeping Katsuki at bay, appraising him. 

“You called me here, after all. You want me to admit something,” he said, “you’re not as confident as you think you are.”

Katsuki flexed his hands. It would take him 0.3 seconds to grab his first stun grenade. 0.7 seconds to toss it and explode. At it’s impact, he would be atop the hero. In three minutes, he would have him defeated. 

But Ghost was an opponent not to be trifled with lightly. His aloof nature was good at hiding his true intentions with each movement. Despite the initial flaw, Ghost’s words did not waver. This was a game. Ghost was trying to figure out all the information he could before it came to a brawl. 

Katsuki wouldn’t give him the time to get a read on the situation. As it was, Katsuki wouldn’t get satisfaction over Dabi admitting who he was before darting away, possibly escaping. No, the only resolution had to be one hundred percent victory. Dabi to be captured, and Katsuki to peel off his mask himself. Only then, would Katsuki feel as though he deserved the win, leering over the other’s defeated form and taunting him for his loss. 

It wasn’t as if Dabi deserved kindness at this moment. It wasn’t as if Katsuki was the hero that could give it to him. 

“Nah,” Katsuki said, “I was just waiting for you to get where I wanted you to be.”

Ghost was the closest he would get. Furthest from any wall edge that he could dive off of. Katsuki pulled the spring on the trigger of the first stun grenade. It flashed between them as Katsuki dove into the light.

When the rain took back over, and Katsuki had to stand again, he found Ghost to his right, out of reach.

“Must we fight,” Ghost asked, “is there really no other way to handle this?”

Ghost moved in tandem with Katsuki’s approaching figure, who grabbed at the air and ready to swing again.

“I don’t want to fight you Bakugou,” he said. 

“I don’t care what you want.” 

Ghost kept himself on the backpedal, reading Katsuki’s movements, and avoiding lazy swings to his face and body, which was fine. Katsuki didn’t attempt to be cunning. He just needed to keep the hero distracted. Keep him in front of him where he could see him. 

Katsuki said, “if you didn’t want to fight, you wouldn't have come here, or you would have already left when you had the chance. Actually fucking  left, instead of staying here and lying to everybody. Do you really think anyone forgives you for what you did? That they will?”

“No.” 

The blatant truth of it caught Katsuki off guard. The other man sounded sincere. Sounded too sincere for a vigilante turned villain turned liar in sheepskin. It was almost enough to make Katsuki doubt what he was doing here. 

Did he really have all the facts?

It seemed so obvious before. So easy to follow once he started looking.

Was Ghost only acting like he didn’t want to fight to save face or because what he believed Katsuki knew was different from what Katsuki did?

Or was Ghost buying himself time, looking for an opportunity to run or looking for a chance to figure out Katsuki’s information and deal with him accordingly after that? He knew Dabi had no qualms with killing, and he was certain Ghost had enough assets that he could make a body disappear if he so wished. 

Regardless, Katsuki said, “good, it’s not something you deserve.” He unclipped another stun grenade from his belt. “This is what you deserve.” 

Ghost didn’t move as fast as he had before. It gave Katsuki the chance to catch up to him and hit him with a barrage of short punches. Wherever Ghost moved, he followed, attacking all the same. 

However, no matter how far they moved, back and forth, in and out, no matter how much Katsuki put into each punch, each swing, Ghost didn’t attack back. He kept parrying and avoiding. Katsuki was quicker. He didn’t let Ghost catch his breath, catching him with a punch to his side before Ghost and his footwork and his experience gave him the opportunity to spin around him. 

He was trying to run. 

Katsuki wouldn’t have it. 

“You killed your father.” Katsuki said at Ghost's back. The Dabi he knew wouldn't care about those words. It was exactly what he wanted. However, the person who put the light back in Izuku’s eyes did. They would especially care about this, “and then you murdered your brother. Shouto was good. He was kind. He was my friend, and you think you can just walk away from me now? You think I’ll let you?”

For whatever reason, Ghost did turn back to him.

“You know my secret,” Ghost said. Soft as snowfall. A statement more for Ghost to work out than anything Katsuki was supposed to hear. He lifted his head to Katsuki, scrutinizing him but not in any way he had before. Whatever he was searching for, Katsuki wouldn’t give it to him. 

“Damn fucking right I know your stupid secret. I’m going to expose you.”

“No,” Ghost had the gall to say, looking as a defeated man before him. “You’re not.” Then, before Katsuki could reinitiate the fight the demon said, with such simple cadence, “And he was not your friend.” 

Katsuki in face of what he had planned and the sure footedness that came from acting like Ghost, being patient, having all answers to whatever questions he needed to ask, he ignited. He abandoned it all for the power he held himself. It propelled him to Ghost, who didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen, though he was taken off guard because Katsuki managed to clip him with an explosion off his left palm to the side of his chest. 

“You take that back” 

“He hurt you. What kind of friend is that.”

“You fucking  take that back!”

Katsuki had fought enough people to know he was good at it. He might not have years of fight clubs, decades of it, to know how to fight expertly against each opponent, but he did fight. He fought villains and thugs and other heroes when they got too cocky. But Ghost was infuriating. He hadn’t had time to prepare for how Katsuki would fight here. Katsuki wasn’t even fighting as he normally would. It was part madness. Insanity. Vengeance. It made him crueler with his attacks, jabs, and explosions. Dirtier. 

But Ghost matched—no, he didn’t attack, the infuriating bastard—each punch. He got around Katsuki and blocked the worst of any of Katsuki’s attacks that were meant for only damage, and those that did get through were lessened due to his costume and mouth piece. 

If Katsuki could just rip off that infuriating mask, he would win. Whatever Ghost said, would pale in the actual truth of what he saw. 

However, until that point, Ghost was winning. He wasn’t comfortable. He wasn’t cocky about it. He was simply good at doing this, which pissed Katsuki off even more. Why did he get to become a hero? After everything, why grant him an affinity for this sort of thing when it could have gone to anyone else. Should have gone to someone else. 

Katsuki should have been allowed to compare himself next to two others instead of just one. Two people that always managed to outshine the class. They were going to be great. All three of them. Together. 

But they weren’t. 

They never got the chance. 

Shouto was dead. 

A part of Katsuki wanted Touya to be too. 

Ghost’s one and only attack came in the form of an open palm, slamming Katsuki in the back, sending him to his knees. 

“Let it go,” Ghost said as lightning flashed, haloing his shadow as he stood above him. “All I’ve ever wanted was for you to be able to let it go.” 

The wraith activated as he spoke. It buzzed until finished. The shadow stepped back. 

“I am sorry for any hurt I’ve caused, intentionally or not. But it would be better for everyone if you just stopped.”

Katsuki studied the shifting pebbles below him, swelling with passing water. His gloves did little to keep his hands from the rain’s coolness nor did he reach up to stop the way the rain dripped off his hair. Ghost walked away behind him. 

Step after step. 

He went. 

“In a few months, you won’t have to see me again. I swear. But I can’t leave Izuku. Not at this moment. Not tonight. I hope you understand.”

Katsuki did not. But he wasn’t trying to either. 

“Hey fucker.” 

Ghost stopped when Katsuki spoke, partially spinning around to see him, putting too much weight on his back leg. 

Surprised. 

“What made you think I’d let you leave here tonight?” 

The nighttime air erupted into flames. The short life of an explosion from Katsuki's own hands. It shook the building they were on. It halted the fall of rain and made the thunder rolling in the distance hesitate it’s journey toward them. It was enough to cause Katsuki to slide back in his crouched state, staying in that position until the smoke cleared and the rain retook them. 

Opposite him, pushed all the way to the short wall on the very edge of the roof, Ghost laid crumpled. 

Katsuki had over a hundred different techniques for leveling villains with his quirk. He didn’t make a habit of wasting large ones on useless enemies. This attack itself hadn’t been used since his days in high school.

Katsuki wasn’t losing to Ghost. He was dead set on that. 

And for it, his victory. 

Katsuki put his legs underneath him. Ghost raised his left hand. The glove there was ripped. He leaned over himself, hugging his stomach where the majority of the damage was. 

“You learn to depend too much on toys, you miss how weak you are.” Katsuki said in no hurry to trail the other hero. “Though, I will say, this suit, it’s remarkable. Impervious to damage. Well, almost impervious. Took some long nights figuring out what things can actually break it. I had faith fire would do the trick.

“As for your ‘ultimate’ move, I figured you wouldn’t risk accidentally electrocuting yourself. I know heroes often go to one another if they’re going to borrow pieces of their costume, but you don’t actually call yourself a hero, do you?”

Ghost had managed to put one of his arms behind him, trying to stand with the wall's help for support. He didn’t get far. Weak. Pathetic. One of his red eyes was out—red like Katsuki’s. Red because he was a copycat, nothing more—Good. Damage was damage. Katsuki’s ultimate victory, in the wound at his side. His costume was ripped around it in the shape of a star. A terrible, ugly burn. The rain must have made the it sting. 

Katsuki kept his gait slow. Now that their fight was over, he had all the time in the world to reach Ghost. Even if Ghost tried to fight him, he was in no place to. The only thing he could hope for was escape, but even while he was trying, any weight he managed to put on his body, crippled, and he fell again. 

Katsuki focused all his attention on the swell of victory that had to be present in his chest. Burning and bright. He did not focus on the bits of doubt on the rooftop thus far. He did not focus on the question of if this was what it felt like to get what he wanted. He could not hear anything passed the buzzing in his ears. He refused any thoughts of questions for the boy he had lost. He saw nothing past the dark shadow in the rain, not begging yet, but Katsuki didn’t need it to. 

He had won. 

(perhaps if he had listened, he would have heard the sound rain made when it came to ice. the way the temperature shifted from warm to something not. the moment that roof top turned cold.)

Katsuki thought his victim ahead of him was defeated. 

He was not. 

“Fuck you,” Ghost said when Katsuki stepped before him. His shadow to be illuminated in lightning now. “Whatever you with to see, isn’t going to change anything. It’s not going to make any of this better.” 

“I know,” Katsuki said. Because this wasn’t about Katsuki. It wasn’t about making things right in his own head. It was about others. Saving others. What might actually be the only heroic part of his journey tonight. “But I don’t care. It’s time for the world to see exactly who you are.”

Ghost tensed. He kicked back, bruising himself more against stone. Desperate. 

“ Please .” 

Katsuki ignored him, crouching down. Ghost didn’t let Katsuki so easily grab the underside of the mouthguard. His right hand darted up from the burn wound to clutch Katsuki’s right. Katsuki only grinned, snarled. Ghost wouldn’t make for a good opponent if he just let Katsuki do what he wanted. When he grabbed his left wrist, Katsuki’s zeal only grew, shoving into the man to reach his ultimate goal. Katsuki applied more force, kept pushing, kept going. There was no reason to hold back. No reason to stop. He wasn’t going to lose to a man, beaten and bleeding. 

At the moment of give, Katsuki pounced, able to get rid of both of Ghost’s hands. Katsuki might have once expected fire in retaliation, but when it came, he could not have been prepared for what it was accompanied with.

The second great explosion that rooftop faced was not deafening. It was not powerful—not in the way Katsuki’s was made to be. But it was enough to send Katsuki back, tumbling all the way from where he had come, rolling and rolling until he stopped. 

“Shit.” 

Katsuki coughed, his vision blurred. The rain pounded harder. The sky above them grew angrier, scorning who? Katsuki could not say. He checked his hands, trying to figure out how Ghost managed to light his residual sweat when he was wearing gloves because that was the most reasonable answer. It had to be the answer. Because if he acknowledged the feeling of cold when frigid, then—there was ice on his palms, swirling fractals up his wrist that melted into the rest of his costume where more coldness might have been until it met warmth again.

“What the fuck?” 

He searched out Ghost. The man was still dazed. Weak. Katsuki’s momentary distraction here had given the time to find his knees, only second longer to find his legs proper. He would stand. He would escape. 

Katsuki’s head pounded. His limbs heavy and sore. 

It couldn’t matter. 

“How’d you do that?”

Ghost stood. He was up before Katsuki. Katsuki hadn’t even tried, gripping rocks and watching the last of the crystals disappear fully as if he was insane. As if it couldn’t be real. 

It couldn’t. 

It could not. 

Ghost shook his head, heaving. He spoke, but it got lost in the storm. Katsuki figured it wasn’t much of an answer anyways.

Katsuki knew Ghost had a fire quirk because Ghost was a villain. He was a villain who killed twenty other fire-quirk users in his effort to become stronger. In his effort to destroy his abuser, which he did. Done in a fit of rage, and then tossed over a building because Endeavor didn’t deserve better than that. Then with fire in his palms, he chased his brother and made him give up his livelihood. When that wasn’t enough, he killed him plain and simple. Ghost was Dabi, but Dabi never attacked with ice.

“Stay away from me,” Ghost said, and Katsuki listened, faltering on two legs. The only strength Katsuki had managed. 

Why? Why. Why. Why. His feet were heavy. 

Dabi was a villain. He destroyed their class far worse than anything Shigaraki or All for One ever did. 

Move Katsuki. 

Get him. 

He had to get him. He made a promise. He promised Shouto. He had promised to keep Izuku safe. If Izuku kept working with Ghost, kept believing the lie that he was a good person, he’d end up hurt. Or worse.

Katsuki already had too many dead friends.

“Who are you?”

Ghost didn’t respond. Not good enough.

“Who are you!” He roared. 

“It doesn’t change anything,” Ghost spoke. “You were right before. I’m not good. It’s no good. I concede, you won. You’re the better hero. You’ve always been the better hero.” 

Katsuki didn’t come here for concessions. He came here for proof. Proof Ghost couldn’t give him because—

No. 

That was impossible. 

Katsuki came here with all the answers. He would’ve known. He couldn’t have missed this. 

Impossible. 

“Who are you!”

Ghost didn’t get the chance to say, saved by the way thunder cracked the sky, though it was not of this storm. A sonic boom, made from an object moving too fast, a hero, landing between them.

Deku. 

He stood, letting One for All race up his body as a second skin. 

“Don’t you dare take another step,” he said. Wind and rain whipped around him. His eyes glowed. “It’s over.”

" Get up! You think a villain is going to let you grovel at their feet because what? A little pain? I’ve dealt with forces ten times this. Move!” His father’s boot came hard into his side where his hand had just branded him. His father sneered, shouted,

“Who are you!”

“I am—

Ghost—he was Ghost. 

There was no one else besides that, even if burns hurt the same way decades later. 

His vision swam. He ignored it. He needed to get off the roof. There was a maintenance ladder two meters to his left. That wasn’t far. He just needed to get to it, swing his body over the ledge, and drop. The shadows would do the rest. 

He tried taking a step and his knee buckled, forcing him back down. His head fell forward, almost pressed into the ground where he tried to catch his breath against the screaming at his side. 

Distantly he heard voices. Dynamight’s and Midoriya’s—he had missed when Midoriya appeared. 

“You don’t know what you’re saying, Deku. He’s a criminal. He deserves to rot in jail for what he’s done.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Midoriya said. When Ghost could lift his head, twist it to where the voices were coming from, he could see Midoriya’s boots, standing between him and Dynamight, protecting him. It hurt worse than the burn wound. He shouldn’t have needed Midoriya to protect him. He shoved his hands against the ground and push himself back to be standing. 

“He’s a hero, and a friend. Whatever you think he’s done, he hasn’t, and if you’re too blinded by that because of jealousy—that’s not his to overcome.”

“Jealousy?” Dynamight laughed. “He threw me across a roof from an explosion of his own making. Come on Deku, we aren’t stupid. Something’s not right here.”

“No,” Midoriya said. “He’s a good hero. He’s saved me countless times, and together we’re going to stop this villain. I believe in him.”

“Over me?”

Ghost’s head hurt. The ladder was only a few more steps away. Get down the ladder. Hide. He was good at hiding. He spent a decade hiding. 

A shiver racked his body. He was cold. He was so fucking cold. His suit must have malfunctioned when Dynamight hit him with his explosion. Hit him because Ghost was stupid and didn’t see anger for what it was and thought that he could have both. Be a ghost and be a friend. Work with Midoriya and Bakugou and solve the case. 

He should have known. He should have—fire warmed his veins. The ice that had been hitting him, turned back to rain.

“Yes,” Midoriya said. “Don’t force my hand Kacchan because if I fight you, I will win, and neither of us need that type of sour victory tonight. But I won’t hold back. If you want someone to fight, you fight me.” 

Midoriya’s voice sounded different then it had been. He sounded sure. Strong. A Midoriya kept to the tapes from a play fight long ago. Maybe that’s why Ghost stopped trying to move. Midoriya sounded a bit like himself.

Bakugou heard it too. His expression was wide in his eyes and fallen mouth, which he quickly snapped shut. Betrayed. He caught Ghost staring at him, and instead of facing Midoriya, he chose to face him instead.

“Who are you,” he demanded again, bitter and broken. “What are you?”

What. Ghost was a what. A thing. A myth that made criminals double think before they acted, halting at white ghouls engraved in stone. Signs that stated that even the most powerful could be made to bend. People needed Ghost. They needed someone to use when the task was too hard for regular heroes to bear themselves. Ghost was that. He was a hero for the shadows. Nothing else. 

No one else. 

But phantoms carried the memories of those they haunted. Stuck walking through revolving doors, unable to escape the net of their past. Bakugou wiped his face and the anger in his eyes put Ghost back at the school of UA. In a dorm room, crying over a letter that hadn’t said goodbye.

The brief image of an angered blond boy, barging into a forgotten room and slamming the door open so hard it had left a dent. He had a letter crumpled in his hand. The person he had come for rubbed their face, finding it dry. Broken humans didn’t cry wet tears. Bakugou did, had, matching the irritated redness on his face. 

“We are going to bring that fucker back,” he had said. “Mark my words. Deku is coming back.”

The tearless boy believed him. Bakugou was easy to follow too. 

But never, never , did Ghost want him to chase after him too. Bakugou worried over heroes, the villains who wanted them dead, and Midoriya, the boy most in danger for Ghost’s crimes. Bakugou had never even said the word friend, not with that person in mind.

Not until now. Not until tonight.

Ghost pulled his hand away from his stomach. His glove was ripped. His palms were scratched from the initial fall. They were also wet. Red. Ghost hoped it was from superficial wounds rather than the actual burn at his side. He probably had a concussion too, considering he couldn’t regulate his quirk.

 Aizawa could help. Only his home was far across the city. He wasn’t sure how he’d manage to get there before his body shut down.

“Hey.” 

Midoriya was ahead of him. Water dripped from his hair, hitting his nose. 

“I’m going to get you out of here, okay? It’s alright. Everything is alright now.”

Ghost wanted to believe him. Overtop Midoriya’s shoulder, Bakugou paced, glaring at him. But he didn’t attack, whatever Midoriya had said, kept him at bay. But anger rolled off him. Anguish. And maybe, too, just a flicker of confusion. Ghost’s fault for what he was. What he did. He wanted to apologize but knew it would cause another outburst then heal any still bleeding wounds.

“I’m going to lift you up now,” Midoriya said, “lean all of your weight on me, okay? I’m stronger than I look.”

Midoriya smiled. There was a time when Ghost used to be able to catalog what his different smiles meant. If this one meant sad, what to do to make it better. 

Ghost did as he was told. He was lifted from the roof edge. He thought his legs would be more helpful, but he fell into Midoriya’s side.

It was okay. 

Midoriya had him. 

He was careful not to aggravate the wound. 

A part of Ghost wanted to bury his head into Midoriya’s neck and close his eyes. Wake up in a different body where he wasn’t haunted by his past and could tell Bakugou truthfully what he wanted to know.

But that was impossible.

Todoroki could be alive but—

Everything just really hurt right now.