Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

ROOK & KING

♖♔

“Avoid the crowd. Do your own thinking independently. Be the chess player, not the chess piece.”

- Ralph Charell

“The chessboard is the world; the pieces are the phenomena of the universe; the rules of the game are what we call the laws of nature.”

- Thomas Huxley

PART ONE 

THE OPENING 

♖♔

i.

Every time the nightmare ends, Izuku jolts awake with the song—one he has not heard in a long time—still echoing through his head. The man who used to sing it has been dead for years, killed in the same mine explosion that took his father when he was ten-years-old. It feels like a lifetime ago, and also like it was only yesterday, all at once. 

Whenever Izuku has nightmares, he dreams of wolfish monsters chasing him down, born out of the fear instilled within him by the vast wilderness that surrounds the borders of District 12. That was the worst thing that could come for him now in his dreams; back when his father was alive, the nightmares bled into his waking hours. It’s not much better even now that he’s gone, but his mother has always been a bit easier for Izuku to navigate. Unlike his father, who had been stoic and aloof, his mother is an open book, and Izuku has had a lifetime to learn how to interpret her emotions and analyze her next move, and stay forty moves ahead of it. 

As Izuku waits for his heartbeat to slow down, he stares across the room, out at the dark gray sky of early morning, estimating it to be around three-thirty. Far too early to rise for most, especially today. With it being a public holiday, most people try to sleep in. Although, like Izuku, many of the children will also be haunted by the monsters chasing them down in their dreams. While they may be gently shushed and coaxed back into a somewhat fitful slumber, Izuku pulls the sheets off his body and drags himself out of bed. He gets dressed and slips downstairs on feet as quiet as he can make them (though three of the steps creak no matter what he does) and at the foot of the stairs, he cautiously opens the door of the bakery. 

The coast is clear; the door to his mother’s office is open, and still empty, and the kitchen which adjoins the office is equally deserted. Inko is under no obligation to work today, after all, but Izuku has always found it foolish not to. While buying food might be the last thing on people’s minds this morning, things will reverse by late afternoon, for most of them, and there will be a spike in demand for bread, cake, and pie as the dread of the Reaping turns into the celebration of its passing. It’s one of the Midoriya family’s best days for business, one of the few days it’s easy for him and his mother to meet their quotas, even though they don’t even open for customers until the afternoon. 

Securing an apron around his waist, Izuku gets started on tearing open sacks of flour, preparing bowls of dough, mixing and rolling and kneading until, two hours later, he has a tray of sugar cookies which he sticks in the fridge to cool, and several bowls of bread dough covered with damp cloths to rise. With the prep done, Izuku washes the flour from his hands and arms, removes his apron, and slips out of the house through the back door. He stands for a moment in the tiny square of their yard, with its rickety pig sty (empty since last year), and the gnarled old apple tree, leafy and familiar. Izuku stares at the tree for a time before he walks around the corner to the front of the bakery and towards the west side of the town square, which will be the heart of today's so-called festivities. The Capitol crews haven’t arrived yet, so the square is nearly deserted, just a lone labourer sweeping the steps of the Justice Building on the north side of the square. 

Izuku passes by the shops, then through the neighbourhoods, up towards the school, going behind to the field in the back where he starts to run laps along the track there at a slow, steady pace. Running has always helped him clear his mind of any thoughts of the day, and for now works to empty his brain of the remnants of the nightmares. Somewhat, anyway. Since the track passes within the side of the northernmost fence of District 12, Izuku can see the outskirts of the thick woods. The place, they have been told, is so dangerous that their borders exist not to imprison but to protect them. There’s not only natural predators to be wary of—wild dogs and bears and the like—but also the mutts; genetically-enhanced creatures left behind from the Dark Days, bred specifically to contain, capture, and kill them, now roaming wild through the trees. 

Yet it is also a lush place, fertile in the fall with apple trees near the edge of the woods, close enough that some people do go, furtively, to pick the fruit. Further in are berries, herbs, and wild vegetables, which Izuku knows from his own excursions in the past. Though he only ever dares to venture out to pick apples these days, because one of the most popular items they sell at the bakery is the apple and goat cheese tart—and it’s better to get the apples fresh and for free rather than get the ones from the vendor in the market, which are costly, or the cheap ones from the Capitol store, which are always sour. He is also unwilling to go past the edge of the woods because of what happened there three years ago. 

But despite all restrictions, there were a few who did frequently venture deep into the wilderness, hunting game and gathering edible and medicinal plants to bring back to town to trade with shopkeepers, with Peacekeepers—who turn a blind eye to this illegal activity for the prospect of fresh meat or fruit—and quietly with Mayor Aizawa, which Izuku only knows because his daughter has told him so. One of these bold souls had been the man who always sang in Izuku’s dreams, Masaru Bakugou. These days, it’s Masaru’s son, Kacchan—well, Katsuki, actually—and his best friend, Eijirou Kirishima, who brave the woods together. Both of them were in Izuku’s class, and fatherless, but unlike Izuku, came from the Seam, so they had no choice in the matter but to face the twin dangers of the monsters and the law in order to survive. 

Izuku leaves the track and walks over to the sagging chain link fence at the back of the school, gripping the metal rungs as he looks out at the woods, his feelings all twisted up in complicated strands of dread and longing, fear and curiosity. But the propaganda has worked on him all too well, as does the memory of what he witnessed that day, three years ago. He is terrified of the woods, and the creatures that stalk them. And the things that can apparate out of the clouds, making the birds fall silent, before— 

“Are you thinking about running?” 

Izuku startles from his thoughts and turns around. It’s Tsuyu Asui, one of his friends from school. A town kid, like him, who also comes from a family of merchants—the Asuis own the cobbler shop just a few doors down from the bakery.

“Hey, Tsu,” Izuku says, a little breathlessly. 

Tsu tilts her head at him. “You only have six entries this year, the same as me,” she says, “So I don’t think you need to worry about running away. It’s not likely that you’re going to be reaped.” 

She’s right of course, and while she’s blunt, she isn’t mean spirited about it, the way a lot of the other merchant children could be. 

The silvery dawn has started to slowly illuminate the morning as the two of them head back towards the school and across the playing fields.

“It could be one of us,” Izuku says eventually, “What about when Ida’s older brother got picked?” 

“That was fourteen years ago,” Tsu tells him. It still puts a damper on the conversation, though. Ida was a classmate of theirs, and a good friend. Even though they had all only been three when Ida’s big brother Tensei was reaped, it was still a looming shadow that Ida carried with him throughout his life, trying to live up to the memory of the brother he never got to know. 

“There was Mineta, too,” Izuku continues, “Three or four years ago?” 

“Five years,” Tsu clarifies, “Also very unexpected. And the last town kid who’s been picked since.” 

It’s true that most of the kids picked are from the Seam, the neighbourhood on the east side of the district made up of rough shacks that line the road leading up to the coal mine that is the heart of District 12’s industry. Izuku and Tsu go to school with them, the sons and daughters of those miners, but live very separate lives from them. Not that there aren’t friendships—romances, even—between them, but those were rare, and marriages between the two groups even rarer. Not forbidden, just not exactly approved, similarly to those who were in same-sex relationships. Those were more so frowned upon, not out of taboo—though back in the day it used to get people fired from jobs, or even arrested—but because it didn’t result in children. And the Capitol cared far more about that than coal; and Izuku has a feeling it’s less about adding to their scarce population, but just about having more names to be entered into the Reaping, more children to be sent off to the Capitol each year. 

And the Seam kids have the worst odds. The miners live on sparse wages, and in lean years when the coal quotas aren’t met and wages get withheld, people will literally drop dead of starvation. Izuku has watched it happen, the thin kids in school who turn gaunt and then simply disappear. Later, they hear of their passing, attend their funerals. It happens all the time. To them, anyway. 

Which is why most Seam kids take out tesserae, which allows them a monthly allowance of grain and oil, for themselves and each member of their family, if they take out the maximum amount. In order to do so, they must add more chances into the Reaping. Most of the kids have one entry per year of eligibility, from ages 12 to 18, which goes up by one each year, which is how Izuku has six entries now at seventeen. Depending on the size of their families, the kids who take out tesserae can have much, much more. Take Kirishima for example, also seventeen but from the Seam, and with his mother, two younger brothers, and a little sister to feed. Izuku has watched him wheel home his rations each year, which earns him an additional six slips on top of his mandatory entry. 

And this is how Izuku—and Tsu, and the other kids from town—know themselves to be safe. When someone like Kirishima has so many entries, the odds are definitely not in his favour. Every once in a while, a townie will beat the odds and be chosen. It is a random process, after all, left entirely up to chance. But Seam or town, winners of the Hunger Games don’t come from District 12—their participants barely last past the first few days. Five years ago, Mineta hid from the fighting for a couple of nights before he was killed by a pack of kids hunting together, and they slit his throat. And Izuku watched him die, just like he did for countless kids before, and since. 

There’s always additional outrage among the merchants whenever a child from town is picked. They’ll start ranting about the unfairness of it all, the sport that was being made of all of them for the sake of keeping the Capitol entertained. How the Reaping must be rigged to have a townie get chosen occasionally, just to remind them all that even they are the playthings of the Capitol. Inko doesn’t allow for such treasonous talk under her roof, of course, so Izuku would never be stupid enough to say as much out loud, even if he did agree, somewhat. It was an unfair system, and maybe the Reaping was rigged, sometimes—an awful lot of children from the families of existing victors get chosen, after all—but what use was it to voice such dangerous ideas? It would either earn him a slap from his mother, or a bullet in the head from a Peacekeeper, at worst. So it was best to just keep his mouth shut. Besides, he was far too privileged to have any right to complain about how life in general is just kind of terrible for all of them. 

“Well, I just hope it’s not Kirishima,” Izuku says, “And I’m sure plenty of the girls in our grade are thinking the same thing.” 

“I think they’ll have to keep dreaming no matter what,” Tsu remarks, “He’s pretty exclusive to Bakugou.” 

Izuku bristles a little. “What? No, they’re not—are they?” 

“Well, the girls might have taken notice of Kirishima, but it certainly hasn’t gone both ways.” Tsu gives him a knowing look, and Izuku feels his cheeks burn. “Much like you. You could have had your pick of anyone to take to last year’s harvest dance, you know.” 

Nearly anyone, Izuku thinks. 

“Especially since you joined the wrestling team,” Tsu goes on, “Yet I practically had to beg you to go with Pony-chan.” 

“You did not beg me,” Izuku retorts, “I said I would be happy to go with Tsunotori and I had a nice time.” 

Tsu raises an eyebrow at him. “But you would have been thrilled and would have had a wonderful time if you’d gone with someone else.” 

Izuku opens his mouth to retort, but they’ve reached the town square. There’s a few Capitol crew members occupying the square now, looking at clipboards and speaking into earpieces as they get started on preparations for that afternoon’s ceremony. The Justice Building is getting washed down, banners hung up, and there’s an equipment truck parked nearby being unloaded with supplies to set up the stage and screens and speakers. Izuku and Tsu make their way quietly through the square until they reach the front door of the cobbler shop.

“Some of the kids are going to the Victor’s Village tonight, while everyone is watching the recap,” Tsu says.

Curfew will be suspended tonight, at least for as long as the opening commentary of the Games is on. Half the district will be crowded in the town square, watching on the large screens set up there. Not enjoying the program itself, but rather the rare opportunity to be out in a crowd long after dark. And the Victor’s Village will be abandoned, with its sole occupant, Toshinori Yagi, on his way to the Capitol for the duration of the Games to serve as a mentor to the two poor kids who lose today’s lottery. 

“Sero is bringing moonshine,” Tsu adds. 

“Of course he is,” Izuku says with a sigh. “Are you going?” 

“Only if you do.”

“I’ll think about it,” Izuku says, though it’s mostly a lie. 

He really can’t think about tonight with the looming horror of the Reaping approaching. 

Izuku is just pulling the first batch of rolls out of the oven when he hears the soft knock at the back door. He sets down the tray and heads over to the door to reveal Kirishima, who is holding a skinned squirrel. The open door lets out a waft of the scent of flour, fresh bread, and the sugar cookies Izuku currently has in the oven. Kirishima’s dark lashes flutter as the aroma strikes him in the face. Seeing him now reminds Izuku of the conversation he had earlier with Tsu. He hadn’t really given it much notice, but it was unquestionable that Kirishima was a good-looking boy—one of those guys who had matured early and was full of self-assurance. He had jet black hair that fell into his wide, piercing red eyes. He was tall and well-built—not muscular, per se, but sinewy and easy-limbed. Easy of expression, too—despite his hardships, he always carried a toothy grin on his face, as if he knew some secret the rest of them didn’t. Izuku supposes he could understand the appeal. 

“Burnin’ the midnight oil, Midoriya?” Kirishima asks. 

Izuku smiles a little. “Not exactly,” he says. He eyes the squirrel. “I’m sure you’ve been up much longer than me.” 

“You could say that,” Kirishima says. And then, in a softer voice, he asks. “Your ma still sleepin’?” 

Izuku nods. “Wait here.” 

Izuku leaves the door somewhat ajar, allowing for the scent of the freshly-baked bread to still reach Kirishima as he heads to the counter and takes one of the fresh loaves of bread and wraps it up in some white cloth. He goes back to the door, and hands Kirishima the package, and Kirishima passes over the skinned squirrel. Fresh bread for a single squirrel is hardly an equitable trade, by any normal measure. But Izuku likes squirrel, and he’s known to be more of a pushover on Reaping Day. At least while Inko is still asleep and is none the wiser. 

“Thanks very much. This will be great in a stew,” Izuku says, “Are you going back out again before the ceremony?” 

“Yep. Got a few hours before showtime,” Kirishima says, “You were my last stop before I head out.” And then, in a tone of forced normalcy, he adds, “You, uh, got any plans this afternoon?” 

Izuku nods. “Once I get the baking done, I’m going to visit Eri.” 

A flicker of pain crosses Kirishima’s face. “Right,” he says, in a low voice, “The first year is always the hardest. But also the easiest. She’ll be alright.”

“Yeah,” Izuku says, “And so will you. Good luck today, Kirishima.” 

“You, too,” he says, even though both of them know that out of the two of them, Izuku hardly needs it to get through today. 

Kirishima heads off, and Izuku watches him go, then stays by the back door for a time to let in a bit of the summer breeze. He looks out to the east, where the sun is steadily climbing up the sky. The Seam is in that direction, and the meadow, which runs along a huge section of the fence. It’s been a wet enough spring that the wildflowers are still in full bloom there, the air fresh and fragrant. 

Izuku takes in a deep pull of breath, trying to see if he can catch a whiff of it on the wind, but all he smells is the cookies, which seem like they’re just about done. He turns around and heads back inside. 

Around lunchtime, Izuku heads over to Mayor Aizawa’s house with a basket of fresh rolls and a small white bag filled with sugar cookies. Under his arm is the latest of his sketchbooks, and tucked in his back pocket is a thin plastic box filled with pencils. These last two items are typically nobody’s business but Izuku’s own, but he always makes a special exception when it comes to Eri. They could certainly both use the distraction. 

Mayor Aizawa accepts the bread with a muttered thanks and Izuku’s payment, flat-out cash that can be used in the Capitol store and merchant shops, instead of trading with goods. Then Izuku sits down with Eri at the table in the dining room, and lets her flip through his sketchbook. When Izuku was younger, he used to sketch animals, the coal train, the odd car that rolled in from the Capitol. Lately, though, he’s been making a more careful study of things; like trying to capture the delicate veins of a blade of grass, or the variegated shading of a snail shell. He’ll also occasionally draw people he knows—teammates and friends, his favourite teachers. But as Eri looks through the pages, the frequent subject of his studies becomes crystal clear. 

“You draw Kacchan-san a lot,” Eri comments. 

Izuku rubs his neck, which is feeling very warm. “I was…trying to get his eyes right.” 

What was handsome on Kirishima’s face was also handsome on Kacchan’s, but it’s also more than that. Some folks from the Seam had that look about them, sure, a surface similarity of features: the shape of the eyes, the turn of the mouth. But Kacchan has an arresting quality that goes beyond that—intriguingly elusive, difficult to pin down. His cool self-possession, his natural grace, and his expressive eyes. They were the hardest part of Kacchan to draw. One line out of place, and suddenly it just wasn’t him anymore. They were at such a specific angle, had a certain sharpness to them, and a fire that was difficult to put down on paper. He still hasn’t been able to truly capture his essence. 

Eri analyzes a recent sketch of the blond boy, where Izuku had captured him sitting in the grass in the school field during their lunch period. “He’s scowling in nearly every one of these,” she says. 

“I think the sun was in his eyes,” Izuku supplies. 

Izuku makes a mental note to bury his sketchbooks deep in his sock and underwear drawer when he gets back home. On the off chance that he’s reaped today, no one should be able to disturb the memories of his rapidly-disappearing childhood captured in these rough, often embarrassing drawings. 

Just then, there’s a knock at the back door, the same familiar pattern Izuku had heard at his own back door earlier that morning. Mayor Aizawa heads over to greet the visitor, and Izuku listens to the sound of a distant, muted conversation. Then, Aizawa appears in the dining room. “Eri, we have some visitors. They’ve brought you a present. Come and say hello.” 

Eri gets up and follows her father to the back door. After a minute or so, she returns, carrying a basket full of juicy red strawberries. Izuku makes an appreciative sound as Eri sets them on the table. 

“Wow, Eri, who brought you those?” 

“Kirishima-san and Kacchan-san did,” Eri says softly, staring at her strawberries. “They know they’re my favourite.” 

Izuku smiles. “That was very nice of them. They sure picked a lot! Do you want to have some with the cookies I brought? Maybe with some tea?” 

Eri’s eyes shimmer a little at the prospect of a tea party, an innocent and fun activity that Izuku wished didn’t have to be preceded by the grim festival that was awaiting them out in the square. But if it took her mind off of it for a few more minutes, that was fine by Izuku. They get up and head into the kitchen, where Izuku brings the basket of strawberries to the sink to rinse them off. In the window, he can see that the grim festival in question is in a flurry of activity, as engineers put the final touches on the lights and cameras and speakers, and workers mount the large screen above the front of the Justice Building. The camera crew runs checks on their sound systems and ensures they are able to capture every angle of the town square, so as not to miss a moment of the misery.  

Izuku catches a glimpse of two retreating backs moving down the streets of the town centre. A telltale shock of ash blond hair catches the sunlight, and Izuku stares until the two figures have turned the corner and are out of sight. 

An hour before the ceremony, Izuku heads home to freshen up and put on his best clothes, where he manages a few moments alone in his bedroom, a prey to the quiet panic unique to this dreadful holiday. He says a mental goodbye to his possessions, just in case. Not that he has a lot—old toys he’s outgrown but hasn’t yet passed down to the younger kids in town. Ribbons from school—mostly for gym and wrestling, although one year he won an essay contest and another time a teacher liked one of his sketches so much she had it framed. Speaking of which…Izuku pulls up his mattress, digs out his other sketchbooks, stacks them up with the one he brought to the Aizawas earlier, and then scribbles out a note on a scrap of paper. He sticks the note in the first book, puts them together in the top drawer of his dresser, buried under threadbare socks and boxer briefs. 

Izuku is just closing the drawer when his mother walks into the room. The two of them share an initial moment of eye contact, and then avert their gaze. Izuku collects the money that Mayor Aizawa gave him earlier from his other pants, and hands it to Inko while mumbling out that he’ll see her after the ceremony, and then leaves the room. 

Outside in the square, it’s hard to pinpoint where one emotion begins and the other ends—they all run together, like madness. There is a crowd shuffling in—the kids of District 12—all dressed in their best. The adults stake their positions in a ring around the square; parents with blank faces, neighbours shaking their heads, gamblers making bets in the shaded corners of shop awnings. The voices are despairing of indifferent, excited or stressed, and all blend together in a single, anxious cacophony. Izuku takes his place in the shuffling line to sign in, getting his finger pricked and his blood dotted onto a slip of paper with his name and district number. Then he finds his way to the roped-off line of seventeen-year-old boys, thinking about how close the stage seems this year. If he makes it through this Reaping, next year he’ll have a front row seat. 

In the front row this year is Kacchan, since he turned eighteen back in April. That makes this his final year of eligibility for the Reaping. After today, if his name is not chosen, he’ll be safe. Izuku looks around and catches a glimpse of him, at the end of the front row of boys, right by the rope partition. His spikey blond hair and tall stature allows him to be picked out easily among the crowd. He’s wearing the same dark button-down that he wears every year to the Reaping. He probably smells like rosemary and lavender, too, the same way he always does today. If Izuku is lucky, maybe he’ll be able to pass by Kacchan as he makes his way back towards the Seam, and catch a trace of the scent he’ll leave in his trail. Then Izuku realizes how horrendously creepy that sounds, and hurls the thought right out of his brain. 

Good luck, Kacchan, Izuku thinks to himself. This is an annual ritual of his. Because Kacchan needs it much more than he does, even though he would scoff at Izuku for saying as much. Not that he lets Izuku say so much as two words to him these days. 

There’s a few rich kids around him, looking almost bored with the proceedings. They seem so relaxed, thinking nothing of the other kids with less favourable odds, kids who they have known to some degree for their entire lives, be it as friends, neighbours, classmates, or practically strangers. Sometimes, despite himself, Izuku has to admire the efficiency of this system that has so thoroughly cowed them. It is designed to discourage cooperation. Certainly, it is difficult to think in terms of anyone in the crowd besides himself—even Kacchan. Izuku just wants to be spared, and that is also what the Capitol wants, for him to hunger for his own life at the expense of all the other kids around him. It’s awful, and inescapable. And he might just be the only person to have these thoughts. And since they can’t go anywhere, they go nowhere, and trouble only him.

Then, all too soon, it’s 2 o’clock and the Reaping ceremony begins. Mayor Aizawa rises from his chair, and Izuku can see the sheer exhaustion and stress on his face. This is difficult for him under any circumstances, but with his daughter in the crowd this year, it must be weighing on him even harder. 

He begins his usual speech, straight out of the history books. There was once a vast landmass—many times larger than their current country—that was known as Japan. Their ancestor’s greed for resources, short-sightedness and descent into barbarism doomed the land and its people to waste and ruin—along with the rest of the world, as far as they all knew. The air was choked with smoke, the icy seas melted and caused the oceans to rise up and engulf much of the land. Droughts choked rivers and farmland, massive storms wiped out the encampments where survivors gathered, and disease ran rampant. Old territorial disputes couldn’t be resolved peacefully, and multiple wars broke out. 

Upon the resolution, the greatly-reduced population regrouped and formed a government, calling this new country Panem. Thirteen districts were formed, each one specializing in a single industry that would be needed by the Capitol, the seat of government located in a great city in the east, encircled by mountains. With all the power and wealth consolidated in the Capitol, district trade discrepancies and disagreements led into resentment. 

The official story was that District 13, the northernmost district, grew greedy of its resources, wanted to collect on the profits of its graphite, and felt it should hold power over the other districts. Finally, 13 challenged the Capitol, involved the other 12 districts in a war known now as the Dark Days, and eventually, was destroyed by the Capitol. The other districts surrendered and, under the terms of the peace agreement called the Treaty of Treason, here they all were today, their lives forfeit because of the long-ago actions of their dead ancestors. The children of rebels—not that there’s much of that left in evidence these days—perpetually serving out the terms of their punishment. Instead of large-scale death, like what 13 suffered, they have this slow-dripping horror spread out over generations, so they will never forget their ingratitude or the Capitol's mercy. 

“It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks,” Mayor Aizawa’s concluding words of the litany remind them, the same as every year. 

Up next steps the Capitol escort for District 12, a woman who goes by the name Midnight. She’s like a garish gemstone in this gray, gloomy setting with her typical provocative outfit that she tries to one-up every year with its outlandish lewdness. This year, it’s a skin-tight bodysuit that gives off the illusion she’s standing up on the stage wearing nothing but a corset around her waist, because it’s the exact colour as her skin. She has paired the corset with some matching lacy black underwear, black knee-high boots and elbow-length gloves made of the same stretchy, shiny material, and a red eye mask. She leans in close to the mic and slips into her usual, sultry greeting that doesn’t match the occasion at all. 

“Welcome, welcome, welcome~” she sighs, “Happy Hunger Games, and…may the odds be ever in your favour!” This, as usual, is met with the same silence from the crowd as always, but Midnight never wavers. “Before we begin, we have a—” 

Then Midnight is interrupted by the arrival of Toshinori, who stumbles out of the double doors of the Justice Building. He’s wearing the bright yellow pin-striped suit he typically wears for the Reaping, even though he’s swimming in it. Izuku isn’t sure if this suit had once fit a younger Toshinori at some point, but these days it hangs off his bony frame. He’s drunk, so much so that slowly staggering over to his seat seems to take everything he’s got. He was Izuku’s age when he won the 50th Hunger Games, which would make him forty-two now, but he looks like he could be twenty years older than that. There is a hollow look on his face, especially his sunken eyes, that never goes away no matter how drunk he gets. He always seems to be especially inebriated on Reaping Day. Izuku can’t say he blames him.

Midnight waits until Toshinori drops down into his seat before she returns to her speech. “...As I was saying, we have a very special film for all of you; a message straight from the Capitol and President Shigaraki himself!” 

She means, of course, the same pre-recorded propaganda they play for the crowd every year, where President Shigaraki, looking a few years younger but no less disturbing with his vacant, pale eyes and peculiar smile, sits at his polished desk and recites his spiel before they’re shown clips of war-torn wastelands and fires and soldiers. Izuku doesn’t even look at any of the big screens playing the footage, keeping his eyes up on the stage, watching as Midnight mouths every word to herself quietly before saying the last part into the mic alongside their president. 

“...’this is how we safeguard our future.’ Oh, I just love that part!” Midnight cries. 

There’s a final swell of trumpets from the speakers, then the video fades out to the Capitol logo before it goes black momentarily, then cuts back to three separate camera angles of the audience, none of whom look nearly as moved. 

“Now, without further ado, it is finally time to choose one courageous man and woman for the honour of representing District Twelve in the Seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games,” Midnight continues, “Now, I know the rule is typically ‘ladies first’, but…” She runs her tongue over her painted red lips before leaning into the mic. “How about I start with the men?” 

This is what their escort does every year, of course. While all the other districts call the girl before the boy, Midnight always starts with the male tribute. Her heels clack loudly as she moves across to the bowl on the right side of the stage, and dips one of her shiny black gloves in, shuffling around the papers as she buries her arm down deep. She comes away with a single piece of folded paper, and then struts back to the microphone. 

This is the moment, always the moment, when fear clutches at Izuku’s stomach. The entire square, the entire district, seems to choke on its own breath as they silently wait in this unbearable tension before Midnight calls out the name. Izuku looks to the boys around him, thinks of Kirishima a few bodies down, and then back to that shock of blond hair in the front row, and waits, and hopes, and prays that it’s not him, not Kirishima, and not Kacchan. He wishes it didn’t have to be any of them. 

“...Kota Izumi!” 

There’s a sharp gasp from over where the adults are gathered, no doubt from Kota’s parents, watching helplessly from the sidelines as their twelve-year-old son is reaped. It’s followed by a wail, a woman’s cry, most likely the boy’s mother. It’s Kota’s first reaping; he’s a Seam kid, who at most would have four slips in the bowl if he took out additional tesserae for himself and his mom and dad. Unless his parents were protective of him, in which case he would only have one. Of all the Seam kids who could possibly be picked, Kota was one of the few who was supposed to have the odds in his favour. But it didn't matter today. It only cemented Izuku’s point from before; it really could be any of them. 

He’s dead, Izuku thinks to himself. He’s dead, that little boy. And there isn’t a thing any of them can do to stop it. 

Except one thing. The one changeable thing about Reaping Day. One girl can volunteer for another girl, and one boy can do the same. There are districts where, although it’s technically against the rules, kids who have trained for the Games all their lives will volunteer when they turn eighteen, and one of them usually wins. But in District 12, this never happens. None of them, of course, will do it. 

But then, one of them does. 

Kota, his parents, Izuku, and the rest of District 12 barely have time to react to the news of the name that was called before there’s a flutter of movement from the front row of boys as someone ducks under the rope partition and out into the centre aisle. 

“Oi,” Kacchan says, in a low but clear voice, “I volunteer as tribute.” 

There’s a camera on Kacchan in an instant, broadcasting his image up on the big screen above the stage. He’s got his hands stuffed into his pockets, and his usual scowl on his face, though he looks uniquely determined in a way that Izuku has never seen before. 

“O-oh my!” Midnight exclaims, “It would appear we have a volunteer!” 

Izuku suddenly feels faint, as the events that are unfolding hit him all at once. He tries to remember what it feels like to breathe as his knees buckle, and he can feel a boy next to him grasp his arm to keep him upright. Everything recedes into the background as Izuku watches with blurry vision as Kacchan walks up to the stage and turns towards the crowd. Midnight asks for Kacchan to introduce himself, but even when hearing the sound of Kacchan’s voice amplified over the speakers as he says his name, Izuku’s mind refuses to accept what is happening. Not only did Kacchan not escape the net of the Capitol, he walked right into it. Willingly. On purpose. Izuku is filled with both incredible awe and unbearable heartache. 

“Well, Katsuki, it’s very nice to meet you,” Midnight croons, “Normally I’d move right on to the ladies…but since this is such a big moment, why don’t you say a few words as representative of District Twelve’s first ever volunteer!” 

Midnight steps back from the mic, giving Kacchan the stage. Kacchan takes a step close to the microphone stand, his hands still tucked away in his pockets. There’s an upturn to his chin, a set firmness to his jaw and mouth as he leans into the microphone and takes in a small breath. 

“I just wanna say,” Kacchan begins, his voice echoing across the square, “I’m gonna win.” 

The crowd is completely silent. Though Izuku doesn’t dare to tear his eyes away from Kacchan, he catches in his peripheral vision where the giant screen is showing some close-up reaction shots of the crowd. Some people’s mouths are hanging open in shock, other people look almost as devastated as Izuku feels. And with good reason. Kacchan is a pillar of the community. He and Kirishima have basically been keeping the Seam folk fed single-handedly for years. Even the people who found Kacchan to be abrasive still could not deny his tenacity, his bravery, his skill. And now it was all being torn away, by Kacchan’s own hand. Did he seriously not understand how integral he was to the people of 12, how much his loss would impact all of them? 

Then, from the back of the stage, Toshinori lets out a cackle and pulls himself unsteadily to his feet. Kacchan and Midnight both turn to watch Toshinori stagger across the stage towards them. Then he drops one of his large, bony hands on top of Kacchan’s head and ruffles his hair. From the way Kacchan’s shoulders hike up and his face screws into a glare that’s trying not to turn into a wince, it’s clear that Toshinori is a lot stronger than he looks. 

“Lookit this one! I like ‘im! He’s got…” Toshinori hiccups, and then he waggles a finger through the air, trying to come up with the word. Then he snaps his fingers. “Spunk! More’n you!” 

Maybe he thinks they should all be applauding? He seems to be pointing vaguely towards the crowd, though over their heads. Then Toshinori walks towards the front of the stage, and points directly towards one of the cameras. 

“More than you!” 

Izuku still isn’t sure if Toshinori is berating the crowd, or the Capitol itself, but he doesn’t get time to consider it before Toshinori falls right off the stage. There’s a brief ruckus as the eighteen-year-olds up front step back and let some Peacekeepers come over to make sure District 12’s only living victor hasn’t killed himself in a drunken spill. But when they determine he’s only knocked himself out, Toshinori is carried off on a stretcher. District 12 is going to have a lot of airtime tonight, Izuku thinks dizzily. 

Midnight is looking eager to move on, making her way over to the girl’s bowl as Kacchan moves off to the side. They’re probably already behind schedule as it is, and if Izuku knew anything about Midnight from her years on TV, it was that she worshiped punctuality. The crowd is still shuffling around, trying to get back its bearings when Midnight returns to the microphone with a slip of paper, calling out the name suddenly, almost as if it's an afterthought at this point. 

“...Eri Aizawa!” 

The words slowly detangle themselves in Izuku’s head and bounce around his skull as he watches Kacchan and the rest of District 12 simultaneously look towards the back of the stage, where Mayor Aizawa sits stiffly in his chair, looking utterly shell-shocked. Then, everyone turns to look as little Eri, clutching at the front of her red overall dress, steps out from the back row of the pen of girls, her large red eyes thick with tears. 

This can’t possibly be right. Eri was one slip of paper in thousands! Her chances of being chosen were so remote, that Izuku hadn’t even bothered to worry about her. One slip. One slip in thousands. 

None of the girls volunteer. And why would they? What Kacchan had done was radical, volunteering for a child who wasn’t even a younger sibling to him, which would be the only conceivable option for someone to volunteer, if it ever were to happen at all. Eri has no siblings to come to her aid, and no one else is saying anything. No one is coming to her rescue. It has to be the most unluckiest Reaping there’s ever been in Izuku’s known memory. Two twelve-year-olds called, and only one of them was spared. The other is doomed to die. She’s dead. If Eri goes into the arena, she is never coming out. It is an absolute certainty, as much as the sun rising in the east, as much as it rising on a Reaping. 

Midnight calls out to her, too chipper, too sweetly, and Eri remains rooted in place, trembling as two Peacekeepers make their way towards her. No matter how afraid she is, no matter how small, or how hard she cries or how loudly she screams, Eri will be brought up onto that stage. Already, Shouta Aizawa’s heart must be breaking into tiny, jagged little pieces. And still, nobody says anything. Nobody is going to volunteer. 

What is wrong with all of them? Why does no one in District 12 look out for each other? The only one who looked out for his own was Kacchan, feeding the district ever since he was twelve-years-old, and now volunteering for a boy he’s probably never even spoken to. He was the best of all of them, and there was nothing Izuku could do to prevent his fate. If Kacchan’s name had been called first, Izuku could have volunteered, sent himself into the arena knowing that next year, Kacchan would have slipped this noose. But now he can only watch helplessly as Kacchan and the little girl he’s loved like a sister are both taken away from him forever. 

Izuku’s legs move on their own, as though propelled by some unseen force, and suddenly he’s pushing his way through the lineup of seventeen-year-old boys and dipping under the rope partition. He darts for Eri just as the Peacekeepers draw near. They startle somewhat at his approach, and then lunge for him, grabbing Izuku by the arms before he can reach Eri. 

“I volunteer!” Izuku gasps out, struggling against the officer’s grip. And then, in a shout, “I VOLUNTEER!”

There’s some confusion from the Peacekeepers who grapple him. The rules state that only another eligible girl can volunteer if a girl’s name has been read. There hasn’t been a volunteer for District 12 in decades, until Kacchan volunteered for Kota, but even with protocol being as rusty as it is, what Izuku is trying to do right now is impossible. Undoubtedly, the Peacekeepers will simply drag him off, drive a baton into his gut, maybe even tase him, arrest him for causing a disturbance and delaying the ceremony, anything but allow him to do what he is trying to do. But when the officer’s hold on Izuku’s arms goes slightly slack, Izuku takes the opportunity to knock their hands away. His hands clench into fists at his sides as he looks up at the stage. 

“I volunteer as tribute!” 

He watches as Kacchan’s eyes go wide, and Midnight lets out a performative gasp. “Another volunteer!” she cries out, “And not only that, but a male volunteer, for a female tribute. I do believe that’s another Hunger Games first!” 

It would appear that Midnight is so delighted by these unorthodox turn of events that she is willing to overlook the rules of the Reaping if it means the dreary, coal-dust coated district that she’s been saddled with for years is finally giving her a little action. Izuku watches as Midnight brings a hand up to her ear, where someone from the film crew must be uttering directions. 

“In fact, we may need to deliberate on this for a brief moment,” Midnight says, “We’ll let you quiver in anticipation for just a moment, folks.” 

Suddenly, the double doors of the Justice Building open up and two men dressed in lavish suits walk over to Midnight. She steps away from the microphone and the three of them talk conspiratorially amongst themselves too quietly for the mic to pick up. Izuku’s gaze flickers to Kacchan, who is watching this exchange as raptly as the rest of the people in the square. 

Eventually, Midnight returns to the mic and her eyes land on Izuku. “Come on up, little boy…” 

But before Izuku can take a step, Eri lets out a hysterical scream and throws her arms around Izuku’s legs like a vice. She bursts into tears and Izuku feels his heart crumpling into a withered husk in his chest. 

“No, don’t go! Please don’t go!” 

Izuku crouches down and grasps onto Eri’s shoulders, trying to gently pull her hands free when she grabs onto any part of him that she can reach. In the back of his mind, he knows the two of them are undoubtedly on camera. He is suddenly as aware of this fact as he is of his own mortality. His and Eri’s miserable faces are being beamed live to the Capitol. If he really is being allowed to take Eri’s place, then he is now a tribute in the Hunger Games. Other tributes and their mentors and oddsmakers will be weighing his abilities based on this moment. What he should do is try to wipe everything off of his face, and try to mirror Kacchan’s determination. To make it to the stage without breaking down. But he is simply not that strong, and seeing Eri like this upsets him. So even though they will be televising the replay of the reapings tonight, and even though everyone will take note of his tears and mark him as an easy target, as a weakling, Izuku is powerless to keep them from falling. 

“Eri, I’m so sorry,” Izuku says, his voice trembling as he fights to keep it steady, “I’m sorry—” 

“You can’t, you can’t—” 

“E-Eri, please—” He’s fully sobbing now. “G-go find Togata, he’ll—” 

“Noo! No!” 

One of the Peacekeepers grabs Izuku by the elbow and tries to pull him away, but Eri throws herself at him again, only for the other Peacekeeper to grab her and pull her away. She’s lifted off the ground and thrashes in the Peacekeeper’s arms as she reaches out for Izuku. 

“No, no! Don’t go, don’t go! Noooo!” 

There’s a horrible, horrible moment where Izuku thinks he will have to watch helplessly as the little girl he tried to save is beaten by a Peacekeepers as Izuku is dragged up to the stage, but then there’s movement from the left and Mirio Togata comes running up to the officer and starts to plead with him to let him take Eri. The Peacekeeper hands the wailing girl over, and Togata spares Izuku the briefest of grief-stricken glances as he wraps his arms around Eri and carries her away. Eri continues to scream, tears rolling down her red cheeks as she looks back at Izuku. Izuku can only stare as the Peacekeeper takes him by the arm and starts to pull him towards the stage. 

Midnight meets Izuku at the top of the stairs and places a hand on his back as they walk over to the microphone together. Izuku tries to scrub away the tears on his face before he takes his place in front of the microphone stand. 

“Two volunteers in a single day!” Midnight exclaims excitedly, “District Twelve hasn’t given me this much excitement in…well, ever!” Izuku feels Midnight squeeze his shoulder, and she coaxes him closer towards the microphone. “Now, tell me, sweet thing. Who was that cute little girl to you?” 

Izuku stares out at the sea of faces—he knows them, all of these people—but none of them look familiar to him. Something is wrong with his vision, and everything looks unbalanced and faint. “...she’s my friend,” he whispers. 

“And what’s your name, dear?” 

Izuku wipes away more of his tears before he mumbles out, “Izuku. Izuku Midoriya.” 

“Izuku. Well, Izuku, I must say you really touched us all to the core today. Hasn’t he, ladies and gentlemen?” 

To the everlasting credit of the people of District 12, not one person claps. Not even the ones holding betting slips, the ones who are usually beyond caring. Possibly because they know him from the bakery, or have encountered Eri, who no one can help loving. So instead of acknowledging applause, Izuku stands there unmoving while they take part in the boldest form of dissent they can manage. Silence. It is not the same appalled, shocked silence as when Kacchan had volunteered. This one screams that they all do not agree. They do not condone. All of this is wrong. 

Then, at first one, then another, then almost every member of the crowd touches the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it out towards the stage. It is an old and rarely used gesture of their district, occasionally seen at funerals. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone you love. 

Izuku’s throat clenches tight, and he begins to openly weep again at this solemn and real gesture that is also a protest of sorts. He can feel it, the frisson in the silent air. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, our—first ever!—all male tributes from District Twelve!” Midnight announces, “Well, boys? Go ahead and shake hands!” 

Midnight spins Izuku around and grabs Kacchan by the arm and pulls him closer. Mayor Aizawa comes over to them, his expression still pained when he briefly catches Izuku’s eye. While his daughter has been spared, there is still the recognition of the two boys on the stage now. The boy who brings the strawberries. The boy who brings the bread and cookies, who has loved Eri like she was his own blood. The boys who both stood huddled with their grieving mothers as, eight years ago, he presented each of them with a medal of valor. A medal for their fathers, vaporized in the mines. 

Then Izuku looks to Kacchan, and is arrested by the fact that this may very well be the first time the two of them have made eye contact in years. In fact, he is certain of it. Izuku swallows the thick lump in his throat as he stares into those mesmerizing vermillion depths, suddenly awash in the strongest memory of Kacchan he has… 

The sun was glowing everywhere that day, as if the day before—with its relentless curtain of hard, cold rain—was a million years ago. Every colour of the universe was illuminated, the blue sky infused with light, the green grass reflecting it, and the little yellow flowers—the first ones of spring—like droplets of sunshine. Izuku breathed in the light, fresh air of early spring, heady and fine, and was alive with it. 

He looked across the blacktop to the playground, his eyes squinting against the brightness. The bruise on his face hurt, reminding him that he was not composed of light and springtime, but just an eleven-year-old boy, made of bones and flesh. And so was he—Kacchan. Too thin, too pale lately. Izuku had seen him the day before and the rain itself seemed close to beating his fragile body down into the earth. Both of their fathers died in January and when school finally let back in at the beginning of April, Kacchan seemed to be wasting away. Thin, yes, but more than that—something essential was draining from him. The light in his eyes, the strength in his gait. 

And then Kacchan looked at him from across the playground, and it was automatic, the way Izuku’s eyes flicked away, even when he desperately begged in his mind for their eyes to meet. Izuku felt like Kacchan could read what was in his head, both the shame and the interest, and Izuku wasn’t ready to deal with either. 

But in that second of eye contact, he noticed one thing: since yesterday, as if he had come back to life with the spring, Kacchan was surer-eyed, surer-footed. 

It was odd, what a little bit of bread could accomplish. 

Izuku glanced back, curiosity getting the better of him. Kacchan was no longer looking at him, but at one of the dandelions that had broken out of the ground. Izuku watched as Kacchan bent down and picked it, holding it up to his face. 

After that day, Izuku stopped even contemplating approaching Kacchan. For whatever reason or combination of reasons, it was impossible for him. Even though all he wanted was to be forgiven, he accepted in that moment that would be their final interaction, the last fateful time that their lives would intersect. One transition from rain to sun, winter to spring, starvation to survival. 

Kacchan certainly never looked back. It wasn’t too long after that when squirrels started appearing at the bakery. He had started hunting, the way his father had done when he had been alive. District 12’s malcontent spirit had moved beyond the fence. 

And now, here he was again, going even further afield.

Izuku extends his hand towards Kacchan, wondering if he is already thinking ahead, to the arena, wondering which nameless, faceless tribute is waiting out there to try and cut him dead. The thought alone makes Izuku feel faint. Technically, that tribute could be Izuku, but that will never happen. If he can kill anyone—and he’s not convinced of it by any means—it will certainly not be Kacchan. He was the boy Izuku tried to save. And is still trying to save, even now. 

Kacchan’s expression is hard, a model of stoicism and internal strength. Izuku is fairly certain he is a mess by comparison, all flushed cheeks and puffy red eyes. Kacchan still hasn’t accepted his hand, and for a moment Izuku thinks he isn’t going to, but when Midnight clears her throat loudly, Kacchan lets out a scoff of annoyance and reaches out to grasp Izuku’s hand. 

Kacchan’s hand is slender, with long, elegant fingers. It feels small in Izuku’s clasp—and softer than he had expected—but firm, and Izuku gives it a little squeeze; for encouragement, for luck. 

Then Kacchan jerks his hand away, and Izuku lets him go. 

Chapter Text

ii.

Izuku is escorted off the stage and into the Justice Building, where a pair of Peacekeepers lead Izuku down a long hallway in the opposite direction of Kacchan. Izuku is left alone in an elegant room with thick carpet and a plush couch and chairs arranged around an empty fireplace. He looks over to the window, which shows a view of the scrubby field and train tracks, and wildlands beyond. This morning, those mysterious woods had haunted Izuku in the waking world and in his nightmares. And now he was in for a far worse fate than anything he could have met out in the wild tangle of those trees.

The door abruptly opens and she arrives—his mother. Izuku knew this was coming, but there was no way to prepare himself for it. Inko looks sick with fury, but her eyes are also gleaming with unshed tears.

“What have you done?” she asks him in a near hiss.

Izuku had just been starting to ask himself that question. He opens his mouth to reply, but no words come out. He’s lost the ability to speak. So he does the only thing he can think to do, the only thing he wants to do at this moment, and he goes to his mother and holds her. And she holds him back. This last moment is all that she has left to love him, and Izuku is going to take every bit of it. Izuku has never felt her arms around him like this before. They are tense and tight, as if trapping him, and a sound escapes her, like a low, gasping cry. Her tears—even if they are partially from a place of rage—bring tears to Izuku’s eyes more than anyone else’s, for they are hard-won.

Even as they separate, Izuku can feel her parting from him. He can see her face closing up. She has no more family left. Husband killed in a coal mine fire, a fate he should have been spared as a baker. Her only son reaped, doomed to die in the arena in a matter of days. No hope of returning to her. One less mouth to feed, but fewer hands to help keep the bakery running.

How will she do it? Already she must be resenting him for abandoning her like this, and to have done so willingly by volunteering, something she had always told him never to do. There was no point to it, she would say. What good would it do, to spare one child, go off and die a pointless and painful death, and leave her to look after the bakery all on her own? The reapings would continue whether he volunteered or not. So there was no sense in throwing his life away, when all he was good for was free labour and hopefully some grandchildren to carry on the family business.

Izuku feels like they are running out of time and neither of them will have said anything, and he wants to leave her with something. Something that will make her think that he’s brave. So he swallows, and says, “I’m going to try…to make you proud.”

She nods, somewhat tersely. “District Twelve might actually get a winner this year,” Inko says, surprising Izuku for a moment. Then, she adds, “He’s a fighter, that one. A real fighter.”

Inko has always been pragmatic this way, and Izuku knows why. He knows her. It hurts, but it has always hurt, and today is no different. But it’s still painful, more painful than it should be, considering that Izuku is thinking the same thing.

Inko sighs, and holds out a package for him. Sugar cookies, the ones he had made that morning. They’re considered a luxury in 12, and he and his mother usually never got to eat them, unless they had gone very stale. How odd, Izuku thinks dully, as he stares down at the small white package, that his mother has chosen this as her parting gift to him. All it does is remind Izuku of how there will be a rush on food at the bakery this afternoon. Perhaps even more than usual, as people will feel sorry for Inko for her son being slated for death in the arena, but they will also be relieved, happy for their own. And Inko will have to bake and bake for them. Izuku should have gotten up earlier, should have skipped his morning run and stayed home to get more prep done so she wouldn’t have to work so hard. He’ll probably feel her resentment for him all the way from the Capitol.

“Are there any messages you want me to deliver for you?” Inko asks him.

Izuku ponders this bizarre question for a moment. A seventeen-year-old doesn’t exactly leave behind loose ends, they leave behind all the unfinished potential and unrealized dreams of a life that was only just starting. It’s even more bizarre, and also horribly wrong, that Izuku has never really thought this before about all the other kids he’s seen get reaped. How has this gone on for seventy-four years? How has no one ever found a way to make all of this stop? How cowardly are they all, compromising like this instead of fighting for their lives? Of course, Izuku knows the answer to that question for himself already. He’s so pathetic he can’t even take on trees.

But Kacchan…he had stated outright that he had every intention to win the Games. He had volunteered for a boy he didn’t even know, and was boldly walking into the arena and declaring his victory, manifesting his own reality, his own future. He was not just accepting his death, he was not being shipped off to the Capitol to be slaughtered. He wanted to win, and come home a victor, and spend the rest of his days in the comfort of the Victor’s Village with his pockets padded with money.

Inko is still watching him expectantly, lips pursed with barely contained annoyance as Izuku gets lost in his own head, something she’s never had any patience for. Izuku tries to think of something, but draws a blank. He considers the sketchbooks he tucked away, but can’t bring himself to give those instructions. More than anything, the distribution of his sketches feels far too final.

“I want—” Izuku starts, then immediately hesitates. What does he want? To be remembered? To be forgotten? Everything he can think of just feels inadequate.

Before he can come up with anything, the door opens again, and a Peacekeeper gestures for his mother to leave. Inko looks between the Peacekeeper and Izuku and, for a moment, something flashes across her face, an expression Izuku doesn’t have a name for. Something akin to panic, or maybe regret.

Then she gives him a final hug, and as she pulls away, she draws a breath that heaves in her chest, almost like a sob that doesn’t quite leave her body, or even make a sound. She touches his cheek, in the same place she’s left stinging before in equally terrible moments, but this time she’s all gentleness.

Then her hand leaves his face, and she’s gone, and tears spill from Izuku’s eyes as his knees give out and he drops down onto one of the velvet couches. He realises, then, that he never even told his mother that he loved her. And she hadn’t said it to him, either. And now it was too late. He supposes that sums the two of them right up.

He barely has time to wipe away his tears before the door opens again. This time it’s Togata, Eri, and Tsu. Izuku reaches out for Eri automatically and she climbs into his lap and wraps her arms around his neck, resting her head on his shoulder as she starts to weep quietly. Izuku just holds her tight while Togata and Tsu sit on either side of him. Togata rests a hand on his shoulder and starts to say stuff that Izuku can barely take in. How he’s so sorry for him, how brave he was to volunteer for Eri like that, and how he’s sure Izuku can win if he just puts his mind to it.

“I mean, you were almost wrestling champion after all, right?” Togata says, but his smile is strained.

“Is anyone else coming?” Izuku asks quietly. He’s really not sure how many more of these goodbyes he can handle.

“It’s just us,” Tsu says, “There were a lot of people who wanted to come see you, Midoriya. But they could only pick a few of us. But…everyone wanted you to know…we’re all going to be…we’ll—” Tsu chokes on a sob, and tears start to dribble out of her large, dark eyes. “I-I’m so sorry about what I said this morning, Midoriya. It was terrible…I feel awful…”

“Oh, Tsu,” Izuku murmurs.

He spares one of his arms and wraps it around Tsu’s shoulders, and draws her in close, letting the two girls’ tears soak through his shirt. It feels a bit strange, that he is obliged to comfort them, when they are both safe from harm. On the other hand, he supposes it’s gratifying, at least, to know that he’ll be missed.

“You guys all take care of each other, okay?” Izuku says, “And…no matter what happens, no matter what you see on the screen, just…” He trails off, not knowing how to possibly finish that sentence.

Eri suddenly sits up, and grasps Izuku’s face in her hands. “You have to take care, too,” she tells him, “You’re brave and strong. Maybe you can win.”

Izuku can’t win. Deep in her heart, Eri must know that. The competition will be far beyond his abilities. Kids from wealthier districts, where winning is a huge honour, who have trained their whole lives for this, are a far surer bet. Boys who are two to three times Izuku’s size. Girls that know twenty different ways to kill with a knife. Of course, there will be people like him, too, to weed out before the real fun begins.

“Maybe,” Izuku says, “I am pretty sturdy. You know me; I won’t go down without a fight.”

“Just try to win, if you can,” Eri pleads, her voice wobbling, “I just want you to come home. Promise me you’ll try. Really, really try?”

“Really, really try. I swear it,” Izuku says. And he knows, for Eri, that now he’ll have to.

“This must be rough for you. Going in with Bakugou, I mean,” Togata says.

Izuku offers him a partial shrug. It was intimidating, sure, but there were certainly plenty of other people who would have the chance to kill Izuku first. Not that he utters that out loud, with Eri here, after he just promised he would try his best to stay alive.

“We’ve all seen the way you look at him,” Togata says quietly, “Whenever he isn’t looking at you, that is.”

Izuku didn’t even think Kacchan spared him so much as a passing glance. Togata’s words drop like blows, and Izuku feels a peculiar anger well up within him to hear them, now of all times.

“So what?” he asks, his tone clipped and defensive.

Togata squeezes his shoulder. “One way or the other, you’ve got a limited amount of time left,” he says evenly, “I think you owe it to yourself to let him know, before it’s all over.”

As they ride towards the train station in the back of a Capitol car, Izuku glances over to Kacchan a few times and sees the same grimly determined expression on his face that’s been there more or less all afternoon. His red eyes glimmer, but with fire, not water. When they are gathered together before they board the train, Kacchan gives away nothing to the cameras, while Izuku is still red and puffy.

Then they’re on the train, which is fancier than anything Izuku has ever seen in person beyond the inside of the Justice Building. Plush chairs, ornate wall lamps, and even a glistening chandelier that dangles above a heavy mahogany table in the middle of the room. Over by the window is another table laden with silver platters. Cubes of meat and cheese on little toothpicks, tiny cakes the size of building blocks, and little glasses filled with some sort of bright liquid in reds and blues and greens.

“Where’s Toshinori?” Izuku asks, “What happened to him after he passed out at the Reaping?”

“Oh, they brought him straight to the station,” Midnight replies, “He arrived before you boys and has been resting in his chambers.”

Izuku hopes that tumble off the stage hadn’t given the man a concussion. It was already going to be hard enough to get Toshinori to properly mentor them, considering he was in a perpetual state of drunkenness. And Izuku is sure this fancy train is well-stocked with booze.

Midnight beckons Kacchan and Izuku to follow her into the next train car, where she stops before a door and turns to Izuku. “This is your room, Izuku,” she tells him, “I’ll collect you for dinner in an hour. In the meantime, go ahead and settle in.”

Izuku enters the room, and it is enormous. There is a huge bed on one side, covered by a thick red blanket. There’s also a dresser with a big mirror mounted to it, and the drawers are filled with clothes, all in his size. How was this already prepared in roughly the hour and a half or so that’s passed since the Reaping and their arrival to the train station? Was the train just stocked with a small wardrobe for each age group? He picks out a pair of dark pants and a sky blue crewneck. They look brand new, and feel both softer and firmer than the hand-me-downs that make up his own wardrobe.

Then, he tentatively opens the door to the bathroom, where there’s a full-size bathtub, and a shower that beckons to him. Izuku strips off his Reaping clothes and steps into the shower stall, eager to wash the day off himself. Around forty-five minutes later, after he’s cleaned and changed into his new clothes—which fit him so perfectly it’s as if they were tailor-made for him—he goes back out to the hallway. He’s probably meant to sit in his room until Midnight comes to escort him to dinner, but he’s far too antsy to stay still. He goes back to the dining car, and watches the blur of trees shooting by in the window. It feels like a living painting of his own mind, which is in a whirl of confusion. He spends several minutes staring out the window, until he feels dizzy and goes to sit down at the table, contemplating the panelled walls while random thoughts flit through his weary brain as fast as the trees go by. He’s too overstimulated to even feel sorry for himself.

Kacchan appears, dressed in a dark green button-down that suits him really well. He’s also wearing a gold pin on his lapel, and Izuku glances at it surreptitiously, not wanting Kacchan to think that he’s staring. It’s a bird in mid-flight, enclosed by a thin circle. Izuku vaguely recalls seeing it on Katsuki’s Reaping shirt back when they were on stage, but there had been so much else going on at the time he hadn’t given it much thought. It looks strangely expensive for the son of a miner, but then again, Kacchan is one of those true rarities—a product of both Seam and town. His mother had been the apothecary’s daughter, so perhaps it was a family heirloom on her side.

Kacchan crosses the room and takes a seat at the table. He glances over at Izuku, who realises in that moment he hasn’t stopped staring at Kacchan since he entered the room, and quickly drops his gaze. A few long minutes of quiet tick by. It’s nearly been an hour since they first arrived. Their supper would be getting served soon, and this may very well be the only moment the two of them will get to be alone. Izuku wastes a few more precious minutes contemplating what on earth he wants to say, to break this years-long silence between them, before settling on the first thing that comes to mind.

“Have you ever met him?” Izuku finally asks, staring down at his placemat. “Toshinori? Or, uh, maybe we’re supposed to call him All Might now…?”

All Might was the ‘victor name’ that had been given to Toshinori when he won the 50th Hunger Games, a now long-held tradition that began with his victory of the second Quarter Quell. Izuku hasn’t seen very much of Toshinori’s Games—they weren’t played as a re-run nearly as often as previous years, which was kind of strange, considering it was a milestone event that year—but he knew how the people in the Capitol had decided to call him All Might due to how impenetrable he had been during his time in the arena. It was like nothing the Gamemakers threw at him could take him down. Someone must have said something along the lines of, ‘he’s all-mighty’, or something, and eventually the name had stuck. Izuku isn’t sure what the standard practice is for the tributes Toshinori mentors, if they just continue to refer to him by his real name, or are expected—or perhaps even required—to use his victor name while in the Capitol. Maybe that was something to ask their mentor about—that is, if he bothered to show up.

“I guess nobody really has,” Izuku goes on, “He’s been a recluse ever since his Games. The only time he ever shows his face in public is for the Reaping ceremonies. And to get white liquor from the Hob, on occasion, I suppose. I heard he usually just gets casks sent in from the Capitol straight to his door in the Victor’s Village, though…”

Toshinori pays to have his bread delivered to his door in a similar fashion, which is a special service the bakery supplies. Izuku is always the one to do it, of course, and when he did, he would always leave the bread on Toshinori’s porch, since the man was usually too drunk to bother answering his door. All of Izuku’s attempts at knocking in the past had been fruitless, so he’s never even said a word to the man.

“We should use this chance to talk to him, shouldn’t we?” Izuku continues, “I mean, he is our mentor. And he won these Games before, after all, so despite what he’s like now, there must be something he can tell us.”

Izuku spares a glance upward, checking to see if Kacchan is even listening to him at this point. The blond boy has picked up one of the champagne flutes, and is curiously looking it over, as though it were far more fascinating to him than anything Izuku had to say. Izuku can’t help but feel a pang of annoyance. Here they were, riding off to the Capitol to be thrown into an arena, expected to fight to the death, and Kacchan still refuses to say a word to him.

Izuku’s not an idiot; he knows exactly why Kacchan has been keeping up this ice-cold shoulder against him. It’s been like this ever since their fathers were killed in that mining accident. Izuku’s father had been making a delivery to the miners when the mineshaft caved in. Katsuki’s father had known Izuku’s since they were boys, so when Hisashi got trapped, Masaru had tried to go back for him, and they had both gotten killed. So Izuku knew that Katsuki must blame Izuku in part for his father’s death.

And Izuku had been fine with that. He had hoped that, maybe, with time, as long as he didn’t push, if he gave him space, that Kacchan would eventually thaw, and perhaps even forgive him. But the weeks turned into months, and then the months turned into years. And even though they’re in the same class, see each other every day in school, and even though Kacchan sits right in front of him for their class seating plan, since they’re always arranged alphabetically, he’s managed to avoid uttering a word to Izuku in all that time. Eventually, Izuku just gave up on the notion that the two of them could ever mend the rift between them, much less go back to being friends.

Maybe it’s pointless and foolish to hope for any kind of reconciliation now, when they’re about to go into the arena, where they will truly be adversaries. But, on the other hand, Togata’s words come back to him at this moment…

One way or the other, you’ve got a limited amount of time left. I think you owe it to yourself to let him know, before it’s all over.

Of course, this certainly isn’t the time or place for any type of confession; especially not when Izuku can’t even manage a real conversation with Kacchan.

Izuku sighs a little. “Look, if you don’t want to talk, that’s fine. But I really don’t think there’s any harm in asking for a little bit of help, Kacchan.”

That gets Kacchan’s attention, and his gaze snaps over to Izuku, looking incredulous. He sets down the champagne flute, and for a moment Izuku wonders if he might be about to speak, even if it’s just to yell at him, but then Midnight walks in.

“Where’s All Might?” she asks.

Izuku shrugs a little. “I haven’t seen him. I guess he’s still sleeping.”

Midnight joins them at the table, and supper begins to arrive, served to them one course at a time. It’s an extraordinary meal, like nothing Izuku has ever tasted before. No New Years’ or Harvest Festival meal could come close. Izuku is dazzled just by the colours of the food. The bright orange soup, the pink fruit, yellow vegetables, and snow-white potatoes. It’s so good, and so full of flavour, that Izuku can’t stop eating it, even past the point of fullness, even to the point of feeling sick. By the time he’s reached the chocolate cake, every bite threatens to trigger his gag reflex.

Izuku glances over to Kacchan to see that he, too, keeps refilling his plate. Izuku tries not to stare again, but there’s just something strangely appealing about Kacchan’s delight in his meal, eating it with such ferocity it’s like he expects to never see food again. A morbid thought occurs to Izuku that perhaps Kacchan really does see it that way. For him, he wouldn’t see food unless he brought it home himself.

All except for that one time, when Izuku had made sure that Katsuki got fed. And what did he do it for, if it was only to come to this, in the end? Of all the huge and heavy things Izuku has to grapple with at this moment, that is the largest and most upsetting. Not that he has to be in the Hunger Games, and face a short, abrupt, and no doubt brutal end. No, it’s the fact that not only will Izuku be dead soon, but so will Kacchan, despite everything Izuku did to prevent it. Although, maybe there was a way he still could. He just doesn’t know how to possibly achieve that just yet.

Midnight makes a comment about how good their table manners are, which surprises Izuku, because he feels like some kind of ravenous monster unable to control himself.

“The pair from last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages,” Midnight sighs.

There’s a considerable pause, during which both Izuku and Kacchan stop eating to stare at Midnight. Kacchan’s face curls up into a sneer. Last year, the two tributes were both Seam kids, like usual, and probably people that Kacchan knew; well enough to trade the odd squirrel or rabbit with, at least.

Suddenly, Kacchan drops his fork with a messy, loud clatter and finishes the rest of his meal by hand. Even the mashed potatoes and chocolate cake. Izuku nearly laughs out loud at this, but manages to keep his mirth concealed by taking large mouthfuls and chewing with his mouth wide open, his own form of retaliation against Midnight’s tasteless, tone-deaf words.

Needless to say, Midnight is in a slightly less chipper mood when they have finished their meal and head over to another train car, set up sort of like a parlor, complete with a TV built into the wall. They settle in to watch the recap of the day’s Reaping ceremonies. As the commentary begins, Izuku glances anxiously at the door, but Toshinori still doesn’t appear, so Izuku focuses his attention back on the screen and concentrates mostly on the Reapings from the Career districts—1, 2, and 4—because the person most likely to kill Izuku is probably in that first third of tributes.

During the recap for District 12, the commentators are as patronizing as always, and Izuku’s irritation grows as he watches. They chuckle at Kacchan’s determined declaration of victory, laugh out loud when Toshinori plummets off the stage, and coo at Izuku’s volunteering as though it were some kind of cute development. Although there is an intrigued hush from them when Midnight steps away to deliberate with the men in suits about Izuku’s eligibility to take Eri’s place. The commentators make a point to say that such a thing has never been done before in the history of The Hunger Games, but in the next moment are quick to play down the salute the people in the crowd gave to Izuku and Kacchan as ‘quaint’.

“You would think All Might would be able to conduct himself properly by now,” Midnight says peevishly, “He’s been mentoring for twenty-four years, but he still has a lot to learn about presentation and televised behaviour.”

Out of the blue, Kacchan lets out a scoff—it’s so unexpected, considering how quiet he’s been up until now, that it makes Izuku jump a little. “He was drunk. He’s drunk every year.”

“Every day,” Izuku says.

As if on cue, Toshinori appears at that moment, swaying in the doorway. He mumbles something about missing supper, and the look of puzzlement on his face is almost comical. And then he vomits a foul, bloody mess all over the carpet.

Midnight lets out an agonized squeal and darts out of the room, pinching her nose against the smell and dodging around the reeking puddle. Izuku gets up off the couch and side-steps the sick to take hold of one of Toshinori’s thin arms.

“Let’s get you back to your room, All Might,” Izuku says gently, “We’ll get you cleaned up.”

Izuku wraps Toshinori’s arm around his shoulder, and leads the grumbling, confused man out of the room. The smell of vomit causes Izuku’s own stuffed stomach to wobble dangerously, but he manages to lead Toshinori back to his sleeper car without further incident. He stops outside the door, readjusting Toshinori against him. He’s barely holding up his own weight, and seems to be nodding off to sleep. Glancing behind him, Izuku sees that Kacchan has trailed quietly behind them.

“Kacchan, could you get the door for us?”

Kacchan’s eyes narrow slightly, but after a moment he leans across them and slides open the door to Toshinori’s chambers. Izuku leads Toshinori into the room with an awkward hobble.

“Thanks, Kacchan,” Izuku says, “Don’t worry, I can take it from here.”

Izuku makes the executive decision to deposit Toshinori into the bathtub. He got some of his bloody sick down his shirt front, so Izuku fastidiously keeps his front side turned away from him as he carefully removes Toshinori’s shirt and and turns the shower on him until the residual vomit sloughs off his face and chest, where it dribbled underneath the collar of his shirt. Toshinori barely makes a sound of protest as Izuku shimmies off his pants, pats him down with a towel and pulls him to his bed. He positions Toshinori to lay on his side, just in case he’s sick again, and it’s then that Izuku sees the large scar splashed across Toshinori’s stomach, looking as angrily red as the day he got it. There’s also a pale white scar on his upper thigh that seems to gleam in the moonlight. He must have gotten them in the arena. Izuku thinks about what sort of fatal wounds he’ll be in for as he heads back to his own room.

He forgoes looking for anything to sleep in and instead flops down onto the bed fully-dressed. It’s the most comfortable thing that he’s ever set his head down on, objectively, but in context, the size and strangeness of the bed makes it hard for Izuku to settle in and sleep, even though he’s exhausted from the anxious whirlwind this day has been. He wants to sleep, he feels like crying, but he can do neither. He doesn’t know where to begin to think about what he’s supposed to do, how he’s supposed to behave, or how he’s even supposed to hope for himself. Eventually, his exhaustion wins over his anxiety, fear, and nausea, and when he finally closes his eyes, there’s strangely no monsters chasing him in his sleep. In fact, his dreams are good ones, though they leave him sad when he wakes up the following morning and remembers where he is.

Izuku changes out of the clothes he slept in into something new, walks past the sleeper cars and into the dining car, where Toshinori is lingering by the drink cart. He plucks the lid off an ice bucket, and looks inside. It must be empty, because Toshinori makes a sound of annoyance and slams the lid back down on the bucket with surprising force. Then he moves over to the table and drops down into his seat.

Izuku takes a seat across from him, and stares at the man’s gaunt face, taking in the greyish tint to the tan skin, the light wrinkles around his eyes, thick with shadows. Izuku finds himself idly wondering if Toshinori has any recollection of the previous evening as those blue eyes, glazed and glassy, look up and study Izuku deeply. Was he still drunk from the night before, or had he already gotten a head start on day drinking? With the way he’s frowning at Izuku, as though he’s trying to figure out who he is, Izuku has a feeling he doesn’t recall the teenager who stripped him down and washed the puke off him last night. He would probably be incoherent by the time they reach the Capitol.

“H-hi, All Might. Good morning,” Izuku begins, “Um, so, since you missed the recap of the Reapings from yesterday, I was thinking that—”

“Whoa, so eager,” Toshinori mumbles, cutting him off. “Most of you aren’t in such a...hurry.”

Izuku doesn’t back down. “Well, you’re our mentor,” he retorts, “You’re supposed to help us, to size up our opponents, help us get sponsors. Give us advice.”

“Ah,” Toshinori says, “Hm. Well, let’s see…here’s some advice:” He makes a show of looking up at the ceiling in contemplation. “Embrace the probability of your imminent death,” he says loftily. He looks back to Izuku to level him with his dark stare. “And know, in your heart, that there’s nothing that I can do to save you.”

Izuku frowns. “So then why are you even here?”

Toshinori takes out his flask and waggles it in front of him. “The refreshments,” he slurs out, and then takes a deep swig. Some of its contents dribbles out when he pulls away, and he curses under his breath. “Aw, damn. These’re brand new pants.”  

Izuku leans back in his seat, exhaling roughly. So what, Toshinori just saw these trips to the Capitol as a more interesting way to get drunk? For twenty-three years, District 12 kids have been dying under this man’s watch. How can Izuku get Toshinori more engaged? As Izuku mulls over how to formulate the words to address this, breakfast gets served. An enormous plate of eggs, ham and potatoes is placed in front of both him and Toshinori, though Toshinori seems much more preoccupied with spiking his cup of coffee with whatever is in his flask. An attendant asks Izuku if he would care for a cup, but Izuku shakes his head.

“No thanks, it makes me too jittery,” he says.

“Perhaps you’d like to try something else? Hot chocolate, maybe?” the attendant suggests.

“Hot chocolate? What’s that?”

The attendant seems rather amused by the fact that Izuku has no idea what this drink is supposed to be, and wordlessly brings over a silver pot and pours its contents into the empty mug. Izuku looks down into the brown liquid. It’s not as dark as coffee, and has the creamy, rich, sweet aroma of melted chocolate. Izuku picks up the mug and takes a small sip.

“Oh, wow,” Izuku says in awe, staring down into the mug. “That’s almost worth dying for.”

Toshinori suddenly lets out a bark of a laugh, and when Izuku looks up at him, he swears that the man’s blue eyes are glinting with approval. Dark humour seems to be right up his alley. Maybe Izuku can still make this work, and get Toshinori to come around.

Izuku decides to jump in with both feet. “So, how do I stay alive?” Izuku asks, “I know a bit about edible plants, but what about finding shelter? I’d hate to die of exposure. That’d be a pretty pathetic way to go out. Plus, if it were up to me, I’d rather go nice and quick, and hypothermia sounds so drawn out. Though I’ve heard it’s a bit like drowning, and there’s a peacefulness at the end, and that you feel a rush of warmth right before you—”

Toshinori cuts off his tirade. “Why don’t you eat your breakfast? One of the best things you can do over these next few days is try and put some extra meat on your bones. Build some muscle. Oughta help keep you warm on cool nights, too.”

Izuku perks up. That was more like it! One morbid joke, and already Toshinori was starting to give him some actual advice. Even though the rest of the meal beckons, Izuku ignores it until he’s drained his cup of hot chocolate. Then he starts to stuff down every mouthful he can hold, which is a substantial amount, though he’s careful to not overdo it on the richest stuff so he isn’t in danger of feeling as queasy as he did yesterday. The attendant returns and refills Izuku’s mug, and Izuku breaks off chunks from a roll of bread and dips them in the hot chocolate.

“Well, that’s a new one,” Toshinori remarks, “You oughta try it with marshmallows. Even makes the stale ones taste good.”

“Can’t think of a better remedy for stale food than this,” Izuku says, “Would’ve improved a lot of my meals back home."

Kacchan enters the scene then, joining Izuku and Toshinori at the table, where he is quickly served his own platter of food. The attendant offers him coffee, and he tries a sip, but then his nose crinkles up and he sets the mug down with clear disgust. Izuku hides his smile behind a large bite of potatoes, and then he looks back to Toshinori.

“What if I started a fire?” Izuku asks.

“Sure, you could do that,” Toshinori says around the rim of his mug, “If you’re looking for a good way to get killed, that is.”

“...What’s a good way to get killed?”

Izuku and Toshinori both look at Kacchan, who had asked the question, but isn’t looking at either of them, keeping himself preoccupied with slicing into his ham.

“Oh, I was just asking All Might how to find shelter,” Izuku says.

Kacchan looks over to their mentor. “How do you find shelter?”

Toshinori sighs heavily. Kacchan sets down his utensils, and watches Toshinori sharply as he knocks back his spiked coffee.

“...How do you find shelter?” Kacchan asks again, caustically.

“Give me a second to wake up,” Toshinori grunts out, refilling his mug. He only puts a splash of coffee in and fills it up the rest of the way with the liquor in his flask.

Then Toshinori reaches out for a small bowl of jam, and before Izuku can think twice about it, he shoots out his arm and snatches up the bowl, moving the jam out of his reach. Toshinori shoots Izuku a deadpan look, sighs deeply again, and then tries to reach for the bowl of marmalade across the table.

Just as Izuku is trying to consider countering this maneuver, there’s a quick flash of silver and Kacchan drives the tip of his knife into the table between the marmalade and Toshinori’s hand, barely missing his fingers.

Midnight, walking past with a cup of coffee, nearly spills it all over herself as she leaps back with an affronted gasp and cries out, “That is mahogany!”

All three of them ignore her, and Izuku watches tensely as Kacchan stares down Toshinori, who dumps himself back into his seat and looks between the two of them. Izuku waits for them to be reprimanded, or for Toshinori to shoot up out of his chair and try and deck one of them, or just take his flask and stagger back to his room, but instead he lets out a huff of a laugh.

“Well, well. Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?”

Izuku looks at Kacchan, meets his gaze, and then quickly averts it to look back at Toshinori, but Toshinori is looking firmly at Kacchan now.

“Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?”

Wordlessly, and without breaking eye contact, Kacchan jerks the knife out of the table and, with an effortless flourish, throws it clear across the room and into the wall, where it sticks dead between two panels and vibrates from the force of the impact. Izuku has never been more impressed by Kacchan, and that is saying a lot.

Then, Toshinori is out of his seat and ordering them both to stand in the middle of the room. Izuku and Kacchan do so, standing side by side while Toshinori circles them, pokes at them, pinches their upper arms, examines their faces. Then, he takes a step back.

“Well, you’re certainly not hopeless. Both seem fit. And attractive enough, once the stylists get a hold of you.”

It’s a depressing reminder that the Hunger Games are not just about skill, but a popularity contest. The rich citizens of the Capitol would sponsor the tributes they took a fancy to with gifts of food and weapons in the arena, and the best-looking tributes always seemed to pull more sponsors. Kacchan certainly wouldn’t have any trouble in that department, Izuku thinks, as he peeks over and takes in his side profile. Kacchan glances at him out of the corner of his eye, and Izuku quickly looks away, feeling his cheeks burn.

“Tell you what,” Toshinori says, “As long as you two agree not to interfere with my drinking, then I’ll make sure I stay sober enough to help you. But you have to do exactly what I say.”

It’s the sort of deal that could come back to bite them later, but it was better than what they had been working with before, which was nothing. When Izuku tries to talk strategy involving the Cornucopia, however, Toshinori once again cuts him off.

“One thing at a time. We’ll be pulling into the Capitol in a few minutes, anyway. From there you’ll be brought straight to the Remake Centre and put in the stylists’ custody for the rest of the day. Let them do their jobs,” Then he looks directly at Kacchan as he adds on, “And try not to bite them.”

Toshinori takes his mug and a bottle of spirits from the drink cart and leaves the dining car, so Izuku and Kacchan return to the table and finish the rest of their breakfast in silence. Towards the end of their meal, the car suddenly goes dark. There are still a few lights inside, but outside it’s as if night has fallen again. When the light finally returns, flooding into the compartment, Izuku and Kacchan both can’t help but run to the window. The grand city of the Capitol fills the horizon, the tall buildings clustered together in rows. The ones closest to them, that loom over the long, low train station they are slowly pulling into, are relatively short. Some of them seem to be made of clear glass, reflecting the bright blue sky, and some are made of stone and painted in electric-bright colours—pinks, yellows, and greens. Between the train tracks and the station, an enormous crowd has gathered, and they begin to point and wave eagerly when they spot the two of them in the train window.

Kacchan pulls away with a disgusted scowl, clearly sickened by their excitement, but Izuku stays where he is, looking out at the faces rendered like masks with thick makeup, false eyelashes, and skin tinted in varying shades of purple, green, blue, and pink. He begins to return the waves and smiles of the gawking crowd. Izuku doesn’t have any combat skills, and he isn’t beautiful, but maybe he can at least be likeable.

Izuku has decided not to simply accept his death. He will fight hard to stay alive for as long as he can, and ensure Kacchan’s well-being in the arena. In the middle of the Games, if Kacchan is starving, or thirsty, or freezing, then a knife, some water, or even some matches could mean the difference between life and death. And those things only came from sponsors. And if Kacchan’s looks or confidence weren’t enough to get people to put their money on him, then Izuku needed to do what he could on his end to get these people to like the both of them. To see this year’s District 12 tributes as ones worth backing.

The crowd disappears from view as they pull into the station. Izuku sighs and turns away from the window to find Kacchan staring at him with a confused frown on his face. Izuku shrugs his shoulders at him.

“Who knows? One of them might be rich.”

The beauty ritual had been as unpleasant as  Toshinori had made it sound like it would be, as Izuku was scrubbed down with three layers of exfoliating soaps, his hair thoroughly washed twice over, and then his skin smothered in sickly sweet lotions. But Izuku has made sure to heed his mentor’s advice and let the prep team do their job, even when they had groused to him about getting ‘stuck’ with District 12 again this year. They’re also quite disappointed that Izuku is not a girl—they had meant to be assigned the female tribute this year, and ended up instead with two boys.

As innocent as all this poking and prodding and plucking may seem, this is where the process the Capitol uses to start stripping Izuku of his identity truly begins. Izuku stares at the reflection in the mirror, oddly detached from the image. The person in the mirror could almost be any other young man in the world. And this one is completely naked and surrounded by three young women. It’s one unusual sight.

Izuku points at each reflection, aiming his finger first at the girl with her hair and skin dyed blue. She’s the most vividly altered of the three girls, and with the oddest Capitol name, making her the easiest to remember. “Bubble Girl,” he says.

He points next at the oldest of the three, a blonde woman with sapphires embedded in her cheeks, and even though her hands are altered into large white cat paws, she is somehow able to manage delicately painting a clear polish onto his recently buffed and cleaned fingernails. “Pixie-Bob.”

Finally, he points to the youngest of the girls, probably no older than Izuku, and the least altered. Her hair is in a jet black ponytail, and she wears a very skimpy red jumpsuit that leaves about as little to the imagination as Izuku does right now. But since she’s currently plucking stray bits of hair from his legs, her own body is the last thing on Izuku’s mind. “Creati.”

“You got it!” Pixie-Bob says, in that peculiar Capitol accent that lifts up at the end of every phrase.

Pixie-Bob wraps a towel around Izuku’s waist and Bubble Girl takes him by the chin, moving his face back and forth. “Hmm, maybe an earring? That could help. Add a little…?“

“Sir Nighteye said no alterations,” Creati says firmly, and Izuku nearly sighs in relief.

The three of them all begin to consider his hair, and Izuku remains quiet as they deliberate on what to do with it. By now he understands that his opinion is not being solicited. He’s got a thick mess of curls that they’ve manipulated into a ridiculous mound of ringlets. Creati scrunches them up with her fingers, loosening up the curls until they fall in a more natural-looking wave over his forehead. Pixie-Bob nods her approval, and then Bubble Girl sprays his head all over with something out of a can that makes Izuku’s eyes sting. When the girls turn away to pack up their equipment, Izuku scratches at his itching scalp, and finds that his hair feels weirdly stiff and kind of crunchy under his fingers.

“Okay, Izuku, you’re all set,” says Creati, “We’ll go and fetch Sir Nighteye.”

“Wait,” Izuku calls out to the girls, who pause in the doorway. Izuku steps over to where he had placed his belongings when he first arrived in the Remake Centre. “Here. This is for all of you.”

He picks up the little white bag and walks over to where the girls are waiting by the door, looking expectantly eager. Pixie-Bob clasps her paws together. “Ooh, a present? For us?”

“It’s nothing much,” Izuku says, holding out the bag. “Just some sugar cookies I baked yesterday morning.”

Creati reaches out and accepts the bag, and stares at it in awe for a moment before looking up at Izuku, her eyes glimmering. “You baked us cookies?”

Well, no, he certainly didn’t think he would be giving away these cookies to three Capitol women when he baked them yesterday, but Izuku forces a smile and nods at them. “Yeah. As thanks for all your hard work.”

The girls all croon affectionately, fawning over the cookies and Izuku. Pixie-Bob even plants a wet kiss right on his cheek. Maybe they will still make underhanded comments about his district, but perhaps they no longer cared that he isn’t a girl. Izuku has always been pretty plain-looking, so these ladies would have their work cut out for them over the next few days. It would benefit him to win them over while he can, and looks like it was as easy as a bag of cookies. The Capitol people sure weren’t hard to please.

After his prep team leaves, Izuku goes back to the full-length mirror and takes another look at himself. In a few minutes, he’ll be meeting his assigned stylist, Sir Nighteye, the person in charge of transforming him. He wonders what form this will take. Something to do with coal, no doubt, which has almost nothing to do with Izuku. District 12 tributes have typically paraded in coal miner outfits, ranging from authentically baggy to unnaturally skimpy. Either way, they’ve never been flattering, and are certainly self-defeating for the purpose of attracting sponsors.

Everything that Izuku really is—someone who draws in sketchbooks and frosts cakes and watches a red-eyed boy eat food with fervor—will be sacrificed to the ritual of the Games. This boy in the mirror will soon be dressed and presented to the world as a tribute, and that’s what he will remain until his death.

Izuku suddenly struggles to keep his breath steady, and is just about to give in to the temptation to chew on his newly-polished fingernails when the door opens and Sir Nighteye enters the room. He’s a tall, slender man, probably in his thirties or so. He’s wearing a slate gray suit, oddly simple for the Capitol, but he’s paired it with a tie that is bright candy red and covered in white polka dots. His hair is slicked back with copious amounts of gel, and is a dark green colour not too dissimilar to Izuku’s own, with bright yellow streaks through the front. He looks elegant and mysterious as he stands across the room from Izuku, adjusting his gold wire spectacles on the bridge of his long, thin nose. It’s then that Izuku notices that one of the man’s eyes has a pitch black sclera, and the iris is a vivid violet. Guess that explains the nickname.

“Hello,” Izuku says. He’s feeling incredibly awkward, standing here in nothing but a short towel around his waist, which he is suddenly painfully aware of as it shifts around his hips. “I’m—“

“Izuku Midoriya,” Sir Nighteye says. He strides across the room, his polished shoes clicking smartly on the tiled floor. “Yes, I know. And as I’m sure my prep team has already told you, my name is Sir Nighteye. I’ll be your stylist.”

Sir Nighteyes passes right by Izuku and over to a chair on the other side of the room. He picks up a gray robe that’s laid across it, and brings it over to Izuku. “Here. Go ahead and cover yourself up.”

“Oh. Thank you,” Izuku says, accepting the robe and quickly pulling it on, grateful to have some more coverage.

“Best Jeanist is the stylist for your district partner, Katsuki Bakugou,” Sir Nighteye explains. “He and I will be working together on each of your looks this week. We are aware we have to spotlight coal, but we want to do it in a less literal fashion this year.”

Izuku’s brow furrows, trying to understand what that could mean. Coal is pretty basic, after all; difficult to translate into anything more interesting. But that’s for the stylists to worry about, not him, Izuku supposes. In the past, some stylists have forgone costumes altogether and paraded the District 12 tributes out in nothing but black body glitter and headlamps. Izuku can only hope he will be spared such shame.

“Let’s have some lunch,” Sir Nighteye says.

Izuku is led into an adjoining room and sits across from Sir Nighteye on one of the red couches on either side of a table, which has some sort of button that Sir Nighteye pushes, causing the tabletop to split, rise, and reveal two trays of food, to Izuku’s astonishment. Leave it to the Capitol to have furniture that produces hot meals with the mere push of a button.

There’s roasted chicken smothered in creamy sauce with white rice, peas, and onions. There’s elaborate rolls of bread that are shaped like flowers, and a custard pudding topped with delicate orange slices. Izuku gorged himself at breakfast, but his mouth still waters as he looks over this luxurious fare.

As the two of them eat, Sir Nighteye surprises Izuku by not just jumping right into business, discussing his look for the evening, but instead asking Izuku about school, what he does back home, what kind of food he likes, and what he does for fun. It dawns on Izuku then just how badly he’s craved a real conversation, even if it had just been as mundane a topic as discussing the weather. Before he knows it, he’s told Sir Nighteye everything: about wrestling, baking, and sketching. This last one piques the stylist’s interest. Being a designer, he also works with a sketchbook, and he promises Izuku that he’ll be sure to show it to him sometime this week.

Izuku feels stunned by the end of their chat. The Capitol sends the district tributes to these Games like they are worth no more than cattle—less than that, even. They root for their deaths, bet on their lives. He had not been expecting to find any actual humanity in this place, and while he’s comforted, he also feels disturbed. What does it say about the human race that both friendliness and bloodlust can exist together in one person?

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Sir Nighteye asks suddenly.

Izuku feels himself blush, and tries to hide it by looking out the window. Directly up the avenue he can see the president’s mansion, a view he’s only seen on television. It’s weird to be so close.

“No,” Izuku mumbles.

“I see,” Sir Nighteye says, “A boyfriend, then?”

Izuku grows even hotter, shrinking in on himself. “N-no…”

Sir Nighteye, thankfully, doesn’t press the matter further.

After lunch, the prep team reappears and Izuku is put into a black unitard with matching, lace-up boots. Not literal, and also not skimpy, but definitely more plain than Izuku had expected. Izuku isn’t sure how it’s meant to make much of an impression. But then Sir Nighteye comes in carrying a bright cape made up of reds, oranges, and yellows, tying it around Izuku’s neck. He’s also given a matching headdress. And then the inspiration for the look finally starts to come together. Once the chariot is on the move, the cape and headdress will flutter in the wind and look like flickering flames.

But the look doesn’t stop there. “Just before your chariot leaves the stables, the cape is going to be lit on fire,” Sir Nighteye explains.

“What!” Izuku cries.

Sir Nighteye pushes up his glasses with the top of his finger. “The flames are synthetic; they shall give only the illusion of real fire. No harm should come to you.”

Izuku wishes he was a little more definitive with that last bit, but there’s no time to raise any objections. He’s led out into the hallway flanked by his prep team and Sir Nighteye where they join up with Kacchan and his team, all waiting in front of the elevator. Kacchan is dressed exactly like Izuku is, of course, since the tributes are always presented as a pair in matching costumes for the parade, but the sight of him knocks Izuku’s breath away all the same. Kacchan’s prep team has rimmed his eyes with black shadows, accentuating their sharpness and making them look even more intense. There’s also some red liner on his lower lids that matches the colour of his irises.

Izuku’s own prep team had been given similar instructions to keep his makeup minimal, too. Something about the audience being able to recognize them when they enter the arena. Izuku is just glad that Kacchan still looks like himself, with just his defining facial features highlighted to enhance their natural beauty, turning him into a creature that’s as elusive and mesmerizing as fire itself.

Next to Kacchan is a blond man dressed head-to-toe in blue denim, and his prep team, which consists of two men and one woman. One of the men has his entire face wrapped up in bandages, for some reason, like he was some kind of victim of horrendous facial burns. The other man has dark purple hair and wears a silver helmet with pointed horns. The woman has long hair that’s a bright electric-green. Kacchan gives the three of them the kind of pointed attention one might give a pesky fly as they fuss over his cape and headdress and ensure every spike of his hair is perfectly in place.

They head into the elevator and downstairs to the very bottom level of the Remake Centre, which is where the chariots and the horses that pull them are being held in the stables. Izuku decides to introduce himself to Kacchan’s prep team on the way down—he may as well spread himself out as much as he can. The bandaged man introduces himself as Kido, the man with the horned helmet is Onima, and the woman with electric-green hair is called Burnin.

They’re led over to their chariot, being pulled by four black horses that are already attached to it, and directed onto it. Their prep teams make final adjustments to their costumes as the opening music begins to resound through the room. The stable door opens up to reveal the bombastic crowd that lines the avenue their chariots will be going down, following a route that leads to the front of the president’s mansion, in the City Circle.

Izuku holds onto the bar in front of him for dear life. The horses are trained specifically for this parade, so they don’t have to worry about keeping them on course or anything, but Izuku still feels intimidated just feeling the power of them as they shift around in their harnesses. At the front of the line, the chariot for District 1 lurches forward and heads out the stable doors, followed by District 2, then 3, and so on. Just as District 11’s chariot goes into motion, Best Jeanist reappears with a lit torch, and ignites the bottom of their capes.

Izuku is unable to hold back the gasp that leaves him as the capes ignite and start to flutter in the breeze. He watches in fascination as the fire dances delicately on the strings of Kacchan’s cape, licking upward until his headdress is alight with flames, as well.

“Remember, heads high. Big smiles,” Best Jeanist tells both of them. “They’re going to love you.”

Then their chariot starts to move, bringing them out into the gray light of early evening. Away from the bright lights of the stable, the full effect of the flames comes to life. Izuku swallows another gasp as he looks at Kacchan, who is looking around at the cheering crowd. He has been transformed. The fire makes Kacchan’s eyes and skin and hair glow, and he is sparkling with every movement.

The crowd is screaming and frantic, and all the noise is like a shrill thunderstorm. But it all recedes into the background as Izuku catches a glimpse of their chariot coming into view on the screens set around the perimeter of the avenue. Izuku gapes at the image of the two of them, still barely recognizing himself, but he’s not thinking about himself, anyway. He is transfixed by the boy standing next to him in the chariot.

Izuku reaches out his hand, and grabs onto Kacchan’s wrist. He feels Kacchan start, and he watches as Kacchan looks down at his wrist, and then up at Izuku, his brows knitting together slightly. Izuku gestures towards the crowd with a subtle flick of his chin that only Kacchan should be able to notice, considering their close proximity.

“C’mon, they’ll love it!” Izuku’s shouts over the music.

To Izuku’s great surprise, Kacchan doesn’t put up any resistance as he intertwines their fingers and lifts their joined hands high into the air. The reaction from the crowd is immediate, the cheers and applause become nearly deafening.

“Big smile, Kacchan!” Izuku reminds him, and then he stretches his mouth into the widest grin he can muster as he begins to wave to the crowd with his other hand.

Izuku watches from one of the screens as Kacchan shows the crowd a confident flash of teeth. Somehow, all the intriguing, indefinable, fascinating parts of Kacchan—the lift of his chin, the moody light in his eyes—are the actual fuel to the fire that surrounds him. The glow of his costume seems almost ordinary by comparison.

As Kacchan warms to the crowd, the crowd warms to him. He smiles and waves, and it all seems so natural on his part. The energy of the crowd is flowing through him, and he’s responding to it. Perhaps it’s odd that this side of him is showing itself here, far away from home, in front of these despicable strangers, but it is also timely. Not just as a strategy, but as a living rebuke to the Capitol. Kacchan is something exciting, when they had expected dull. Something powerful, when they had expected weakness. Instead of being presented with another lump of coal, they have been shown a living flame.

The rest of the ceremony is a blur to Izuku as he struggles to process the thing that has transpired this evening, something that is larger than even the Games. It’s not just him and the way he has always admired Kacchan, and it’s not just the way Kacchan and the crowd responded to each other. It’s how Kacchan has come to represent more than just the Seam, more than District 12, maybe even more than Panem. He is like an elemental being, a spirit that represents how they were all supposed to be, before greed and pettiness ground them down into the ashy mess they have made of things. And it’s in this moment, as sharp and bright as lightning, that the thought strikes Izuku that Kacchan has to win this thing. For all of them. And if Izuku, a tribute whose death is necessary for such a thing to come to pass, has been moved to think of this with absolute, abundant certainty, then how has the crowd been moved?

At the City Circle, they leave the stands behind and move around the ring of buildings, which includes the president’s mansion. People in the windows hang out and gape down at them, but the noise here is less and the energy begins to ebb from Izuku’s body, and suddenly his arm feels immensely heavy. He carefully lowers his and Kacchan’s arms. Kacchan looks down at their linked hands, as though suddenly remembering that Izuku is here next to him, and tries to pull away, but Izuku grips his hand tight.

“W-wait, Kacchan, don’t let go of me,” Izuku forces out. Kacchan looks up at him, and their eyes meet, and for once Izuku doesn’t look away, his gaze open and pleading. “Please. I might fall out of this thing.”

To Izuku’s immense shock, this makes a laugh burst out of Kacchan, loud and sharp. Izuku stares at him in awe, not paying attention in the slightest when President Shigaraki comes out to his podium and intones his usual welcome to the tributes. He feels his mouth crack into a crooked smile as he lets out a little laugh of his own. It’s a relief to do so, as if all the weirdness and tension of the day has deflated into something almost normal, almost human. It leaves Izuku a bit breathless to think that this is the first time he’s ever seen Kacchan laugh. And better yet, it was Izuku that made him do so. Izuku has never seen this boy before, and he is left dumbstruck over how it's here of all places, in the most bizarre circumstances imaginable, that Izuku is falling for Kacchan all over again.

It’s just too bad, really, that it has to be tinged with his imminent and inevitable demise. Maybe falling in love was like freezing to death or drowning that way—there was a rush of warm bliss, just before the end.

Their chariot makes a final turn around the circle, then follows the rest to come to a stop within the bellows of the Training Centre, their new home for the days leading up to the Games. They’re swarmed by their prep teams, who babble out praise while helping Izuku and Kacchan down from the chariot and extinguishing their fake flames. Izuku still hasn’t let go of Kacchan’s hand, but when Kacchan notices this and looks up at him this time, Izuku quickly lets go. Even with the fire extinguished, Kacchan is still glowing, as though he’s lit from within.

“Kacchan, you looked amazing,” Izuku breathes. He can’t seem to stop smiling. “You should wear flames more often. They suit you.”

Kacchan blinks, and then Izuku watches as his gleaming skin alights with a flush that starts in the tips of his ears and spreads like watercolour paint across his cheeks, and the sight of it is as breathtaking as a sunset, the perfect blend of vibrant orange and sunny yellow and rosy pink. Izuku is left utterly arrested by it, and grins even wider.

And then, just as fleeting as the glow of a sunset, the vision is gone, and a peculiar look flickers across Kacchan’s face. Then he looks away quickly, his face contorting back into its classic annoyed scowl.

“Yeah, I looked fuckin’ incredible, obviously,” Katsuki snaps at him, sticking his nose into the air, “And I would’ve looked even better if I didn’t hafta have some damn nerd standin’ next to me spoilin’ the view.”

Izuku is truly in danger of his jaw hitting the floor now. He has to clench his back teeth together to keep it from happening. He blinks rapidly, his brows shooting upwards in shock, feeling like someone has just set off a firecracker in his face, he feels so warm and disoriented. Because Kacchan just talked to him. For the first time in years. The silence has finally been broken. The cold shoulder has been melted away by the flames.

A breathless chuckle escapes Izuku and he reaches up to rub at his hot neck. “Yeah,” he agrees, “You’re probably right.”

Chapter Text

iii.

The stylists and prep teams hand Izuku and Kacchan over to Midnight—since Toshinori doesn’t have a fellow mentor, being the only living victor from 12, Midnight will be helping him out as much as she can, in addition to her normal escort duties of keeping them on schedule. She leads them through the Training Centre and onto an elevator.

Izuku has ridden on an elevator a couple of times in the Justice Building back in District 12. Once to receive the medal for his father’s death, and then yesterday to say his final good-byes to his friends and mother. But that’s a dark and creaky thing that moves like a snail and smells like sour milk. The walls of this elevator are made of crystal glass that shoots up into the air. It’s so exhilarating that Izuku is tempted to ask Midnight if they can ride it again, but that would probably be pretty childish.

They ride up to the top of the building, to the penthouse suite on the 12th floor. Midnight talks excitedly the entire way up about how good the two of them looked, and how beautifully they conducted themselves. They are the first team she’s ever chaperoned that’s made such a splash at the opening ceremonies. She says she’s been talking them both up all day to every well-connected person that she knows. She hasn’t seen Toshinori since the train, so she has no idea what form their strategy will take, but nonetheless she has been laying the groundwork by telling everyone how much more fascinating Izuku and Kacchan are than the typical District 12 tributes, how they both were volunteers, and have successfully overcome the barbarism of their district.

Table manners really must mean a lot to her. Pretty ironic, coming from a woman who is helping to prepare them for slaughter.

“Everyone has their reservations, naturally, with you being from the coal district,” Midnight says, “But I said—and this was very clever of me—that if you put enough pressure on coal, it turns to pearls!”

Midnight beams at Izuku so brilliantly that he has no choice but to respond enthusiastically to her cleverness even though it’s wrong. Coal doesn’t turn to pearls. Even the kids from the most barbaric outreaches of District 12 know that pearls come from shellfish. It’s possible that Midnight meant to say that coal turns to diamonds, but that’s also untrue. Izuku can’t imagine that the people Midnight has been plugging them all day to know or even care, though.

“Unfortunately, I can’t seal the sponsor deals for you. Only All Might can do that,” Midnight says grimly, “But don’t worry, I’ll whip that man into shape. He should be joining us for dinner tonight, so we should hopefully get some forward progress in, regarding your strategy. I’ll get him to the table at gunpoint if necessary.”

Although lacking in many departments—especially regarding modest attire—Midnight has a certain determination that Izuku has to admire.

They enter their suite, which is a sight that doesn’t normally get shown on television. Perhaps the Capitol viewers would find it mundane, but Izuku can only gape at the size of the place. The room is divided into an enormous sitting room that could easily host a party of thirty people comfortably and a dining room with a table with seating for twelve. There are four bedrooms, and each one is almost as big as the apartment above the bakery Izuku and his mother live in, not including the large bathroom.

Izuku jumps right into the shower after peeling off his unitard and washes the hair spray and body gel off of him. Midnight had given him a quick tour of the features of his bedroom—the window that’s actually a screen that feeds to different views throughout the city, the food service device where he can order anything he wants from a menu and it arrives straight to his room, and the wardrobe full of clothes tailored just for him. But she neglected to give him a run-through of the controls in the shower, which is much more advanced than the one from the train. There’s so many buttons, it takes Izuku ten minutes just to figure out how to get the water running, and then another five to work out how to adjust the temperature.

Once he’s finally under the stream, he decides to fiddle around a bit more with the settings and ends up getting spritzed with pleasing scents of clover and pine. He steps out of the shower onto a mat that heat-blasts him dry, and instead of struggling with the knots in his wet hair, he merely has to place his hand on a box and it sends a current through his scalp, untangling, parting, and drying his hair almost instantly. His curls end up perfectly coiffed and glossy.

Izuku feels his skin, runs his fingers through his hair, and it all feels strange under his hands. He is already another person entirely. The thought leaves him feeling overwhelmed, and so after he dresses he goes back out to the main room and makes immediately for the sliding glass door at the back of the building that leads out to a balcony. He gets a few moments of solitude to look out across the buildings, which look like the pieces of hard candy on display in the Shimura’s sweetshop, before he is eventually joined by Best Jeanist and Sir Nighteye.

“Enjoying the view?” Sir Nighteye asks, “You should see it from the roof. It’s even better up there. Though it can get quite windy.”

“We’re allowed to go up there?” Izuku asks.

Best Jeanist nods. “A special privilege the District Twelve tributes receive, having the penthouse suite.”

Well, it’s a nice change of pace for District 12 to be taken into such consideration, Izuku thinks. But that might come off as rude to say out loud, so in the interest of making a good impression on his team, Izuku says, “I wanted to thank you both for the outfits tonight. I’ve never seen anything like them before.”

“I’m glad you approve,” Best Jeanist says, “You were both tributes of true consequence this evening. Nobody will forget either one of you.”

“Especially Kacchan,” Izuku says earnestly, looking directly at Best Jeanist now. “You managed to capture some—some essence of him, and have it show up on the outside. There’s an entire universe burning below the surface of his skin that I realised tonight that I know nothing about…”

Best Jeanist and Sir Nighteye exchange a furtive glance that Izuku catches, but finds that he doesn’t care. He doesn’t have enough time left for things like embarrassment.

“Are you and Bakugou…close friends?” Sir Nighteye asks delicately.

Izuku shakes his head. “Not exactly. I mean, we used to play together when we were younger. We’re not strangers or anything. We’re classmates, but, um…we haven’t really talked much to each other. Before tonight, that is,” he explains, “But everyone in Twelve knows Kacchan. He’s different. He’s—special.”

“That’s my impression, as well,” Best Jeanist says, looking back inside.

Izuku follows his gaze to see that Kacchan has walked into the dining room, and his breath catches at the sight of him. Kacchan is often seen around town wearing his father’s old brown leather hunting jacket, still a size too big on him, so it’s a rare sight to see so much of Kacchan’s skin exposed. He had incredible definition in his arms and shoulders thanks to years of wielding a bow, and it was on full display with the sleeveless top he was now wearing, which was nearly the exact shade of red as his eyes.

Best Jeanist pats Izuku on the shoulder, excusing himself from their conversation to go over and greet his tribute. Izuku watches in awe as Kacchan’s gaze seems to subtly soften a little when the stylist approaches him. It’s nothing like the contempt and disinterest he had for the Capitol people or his prep team. The two of them must have hit it off earlier.

“He’s amazing,” Izuku murmurs, “Everyone back home thinks so. And they all rely on him. He has people to protect. His family—he feeds them, makes sure they’re taken care of. He could definitely win this thing.”

“Let’s take it one day at a time, Midoriya,” Sir Nighteye says.

“I just wanted you to know,” Izuku says, “He’s…he’s a good bet. The best you’ve got.”

Sir Nighteye stares for a moment, then looks over into the dining room. “Ah, looks like dinner is being served. Let’s go inside.”

Izuku and Sir Nighteye join Kacchan, Best Jeanist, and Midnight at the table. A silent young man dressed in a white tunic offers them all stemmed glasses of wine. Izuku thinks about turning it down, but when he sees Kacchan accept a glass—much to his surprise—he decides to partake as well.

Toshinori shows up just as the first course arrives, and he looks more clean and sober than Izuku has ever seen him. He doesn’t refuse the wine, of course, but when he starts in on the mushroom soup that is served to them first, Izuku realizes it’s the first time he’s seen the man eat.

Despite the fact that Best Jeanist and Sir Nighteye seem to be new stylists, they apparently know Toshinori very well, and Izuku listens closely to their conversation, in which Toshinori seems to be checking up on people he knows in the Capitol. Even though it’s been just a year since his last visit, he seems to expect a number of them to have died or something.

“Have you heard from Ragdoll much lately?” Toshinori asks, “Is she doing okay? I forget, did either of you ever work with her?”

Izuku tries to pay attention to the conversation, but is suddenly distracted by one of the servers circling the table, refilling Toshinori’s glass of wine.. She has vivid blue eyes and blonde hair. Under different circumstances, she would probably catch Izuku’s interest. She was certainly very pretty. But there is also an uneasy feeling in the pit of Izuku’s stomach that he can’t quite shake, or make any sense of as he stares at her face. She disappears from the room for a bit, allowing Izuku to refocus on his roast beef before she reappears, carrying in a gorgeous-looking cake.

She places it on the table and deftly lights it. It blazes up and then the flames flicker around the edges for a while until it finally goes out.

“What makes it burn like that? Is it alcohol?” Izuku asks her, looking up at the blonde curiously.

The girl stares back at Izuku, and doesn’t say anything. Izuku frowns at the girl, wondering why she doesn’t respond. Now that he’s looked her in the eye, he could swear that the girl looks familiar somehow, though he’s having trouble placing her.

“Wait!” Izuku blurts out, pointing at the girl. “I know you!”

He can’t place a name or time to her face, and his brain is hazy from the wine, but he’s certain of it. But then Izuku feels his insides contract with anxiety and guilt, and while he still can’t quite pull it up, he knows some bad memory is associated with her. The expression of terror that crosses her face only adds to Izuku’s confusion and unease. She shakes her head at him and hurries away.

When Izuku looks back, the four adults at the table are watching him like hawks. Kacchan looks a tad lost, but is also watching him closely.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Izuku,” Midnight snaps, “How could you possibly know an Avox?”

“What’s an Avox?” Kacchan asks suddenly, and Izuku anxiously wonders if the wine has also gone to his head, because even though Izuku has never heard of an Avox before, either, surely Kacchan must be reading the unease in the room.

“Someone who committed a crime against the Capitol,” Toshinori tells him firmly, “Their tongues are cut out so they can’t speak.” He looks over to Izuku, his expression looking quite strained, and when he speaks his tone makes Izuku feel cold all over. “Not likely that you would know her, Young Midoriya.”

“And even if you did, you’re not to speak to them unless it’s to give an order,” Midnight says curtly, “But as I said, you couldn’t possibly know her.”

But Izuku does know her. And now that Toshinori has mentioned the word crime, Izuku remembers. But the disapproval on the adult’s faces is so high, and Toshinori’s warning so clear that Izuku could never admit it, but the wine is not helping him with his loose tongue. “But…”

“Tsuyu Asui,” Kacchan pipes up suddenly. Izuku looks up quickly and meets Kacchan’s eyes. “That’s who you’re probably thinkin’ of. I thought she looked familiar, too. Total dead ringer for Asui.”

Tsu has long dark green hair and wide-set, dark eyes and absolutely does not look a thing like the Avox girl, but Izuku understands quickly what Kacchan is trying to do for him, and jumps on the suggestion gratefully.

He makes a show of sitting upright and snapping his fingers in eureka. “You’re right! She does look like Tsu,” Izuku says, “Something about the eyes.”

The adults relax and Izuku does, too, able to breathe freely again. After they’ve all had some cake, they move to the seating area to watch the recap of the parade. Izuki is eager to see Kacchan again, bathed in flames. He expects to be keenly embarrassed to see himself, but he actually has to admit that the costume improves his own looks quite a bit, too.

“The hand-holding is an interesting touch,” Toshinori remarks, “Was that your idea, Jeanist?”

Izuku shrinks a little. “Oh, um…i-it was mine, actually.”

After his faux pas with the Avox girl during dinner, Izuku expects to be scolded for this, too, but is surprised when Toshinori suddenly breaks into a grin.

“The perfect touch of rebellion,” he says approvingly, raising his wine glass to Izuku. “Very nice.”

Rebellion?

This is puzzling. Quite the loaded word for Toshinori to say, especially when Izuku had thought that he was concerned about people listening in to their discussion about the Avox girl.

If he and Kacchan look like they’ll be going into the arena together, as a team, it will be in defiance of traditional gameplay. Most tributes don’t go into the Games as allies, unless they join a pack, like the Careers. It’s usually too awkward a situation, allying with someone from your own district. Maybe that’s what Toshinori means by rebellion? Still, rebellion is a strong word to use anywhere, but especially here. It’s why they’re all here in the first place, after all.  The idea of the girl with her maimed tongue has frightened Izuku, reminding him of this fact. And Izuku certainly isn’t trying to incite a rebellion; he just wants to give Kacchan the best shot at the crown that he possibly can with the limited time he has left.

Kacchan suddenly stands up from the couch. “I’m goin’ to sleep,” he mutters.

“But they haven’t gotten to President Shigaraki’s speech yet!” Midnight cries.

“Let him be,” Best Jeanist tells her, watching Kacchan storm out of the room, his hands shoved in his pockets, “They have their first day in the Training Centre tomorrow. He’ll need his rest.”

Toshinori looks at Izuku, pulling his attention from Kacchan’s retreating back. “Meet me for breakfast and I’ll tell you and Young Bakugou exactly how I want you to play your first training session,” he says, “Now go get some sleep while the grown-ups talk.”

Izuku nods as he gets up off the couch, not looking at any of them as he murmurs out a quick good night and hurries from the sitting room, breaking out into a run the moment he’s out of sight. He just manages to catch Kacchan before he goes into his room, reaching out to grab at the door frame to keep himself from slamming right into Kacchan in his haste.

Kacchan’s lips purse with annoyance as he watches Izuku catch his breath. “What the hell d’you want, Deku?”

Oh. Izuku hasn’t heard that old nickname in so long. Hearing it is so unexpected, it nearly bowls him over, but he didn’t just chase after Kacchan to wish him goodnight. They both know that Kacchan covered for him back at dinner, so now Izuku feels like he owes him one. Maybe if he tells him the truth about the Avox girl, somehow that might even things up. Even if Kacchan repeated the story, what hurt could it do, really? It was just something Izuku witnessed, after all. And Kacchan lied as much as Izuku did about Tsu.

Besides, Izuku realises that he does want to talk to someone about the girl, about what he saw happen to her that day. Someone who might be able to help him figure out her story. He’s unlikely to see any of his friends again, and maybe sharing a confidence with Kacchan will put them on a path to being friends again, too. Or at least it’ll show Kacchan that Izuku is willing for that to be the case, despite their current circumstances. The last thing Izuku wants Kacchan to think is that he will try to go after him in any way in the arena.

To tell or not to tell? Izuku’s brain still feels a bit slow from the wine, but his next words fall out of him in a rush of breath. “Have you been up to the roof yet? Sir Nighteye told me you can see the whole city up there.”

“Tell it to someone who cares.”

Kacchan tries to enter his room, but Izuku stops him, leaning further into the doorway. Not quite blocking him, not fully denying him entry. If Kacchan tells him to leave him alone, Izuku will do so. He doesn’t want it to seem like this is some sort of veiled threat.

“We should check it out,” Izuku says, “He said it can get pretty windy up there, though.”

Kacchan glances at him, and must see the implication in Izuku’s eyes, because a look of understanding falls over his face. Izuku lets out a relieved breath and steps away from the door.

“Come on,” he says quietly, “It’s this way.”

Izuku leads Kacchan up the stairs and to the dome on the roof. As they step outside, sure enough, the wind swirls around them, and the both of them gasp in unison at the view, because it is absolutely breathtaking. They are surrounded by a million lights in a sea of velvety black. They cross over to the railing and look down into the street.

“You’d think they wouldn’t allow tributes to be up here,” Kacchan comments, “Aren’t they worried some would try and jump?”

Izuku certainly hopes Kacchan isn’t considering it. But with how Kacchan had told everyone back home how he was going to win, Izuku doubts it. “You’re right,” Izuku says.

He reaches out tentatively, and suddenly a harsh jolt shoots up his arm. Izuku yelps, moving his hand away quickly and clutching it to his chest. Kacchan looks at Izuku, then at where he had gotten the nasty shock, and tilts his head, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

“Must be some kind of electric field,” Kacchan says, “Guess they thought of everything.”

Izuku shakes out the feeling of the buzzy tremors in his hand. “Yeah. Always worried about our safety.”

Kacchan scoffs, but it’s not the usual sound of annoyance he often makes, but softer, almost a breath of a laugh, but when Izuku looks at him, Kacchan’s expression is neutrally flat.

“Do you think they’re watching us right now?” Kacchan asks in a low voice, so quiet that Izuku can barely make out the words between the sound of the car horns and music coming from down below, not to mention the metallic tinkling sound he’s been hearing ever since they came up here.

“Maybe,” Izuku replies, turning his head in the direction of the strange noise. That’s when he spots the trees on the opposite end of the roof. “Kacchan, look. I think that’s a garden over there. Let’s go see.”

They walk over to the trees, where the sound of the tinkling grows louder, and the source quickly becomes clear. There’s wind chimes hanging from the branches, blowing steadily in the strong wind. Izuku turns to Kacchan, who has his hands stuck in his pockets, and gives Izuku an expectant look.

Izuku bites his lip, looks away, and pretends to examine one of the blossoms in the garden boxes. “I was out in the woods one day, gathering some wild onions,” he begins in a whisper, “Suddenly, all the birds stopped singing, except for one. It made this short, frantic cry. Almost like it was giving a warning call. That’s when I saw her. A man was with her, too. Her father, I think. Their clothes were tattered, they had dark circles under their eyes. And…they were running.”

“Were they from Twelve?” Kacchan asks. Izuku shakes his head. “What happened to them?”

For a moment Izuku is silent, as he remembers how the sight of the strange pair, clearly not from District 12, fleeing through the woods, had immobilized him. Later, he had wondered if he could have helped them both escape. Perhaps he could have concealed them, if he had moved quickly. But he didn’t. He didn’t need to have Kacchan’s keen hunting instincts to know that those two were in trouble, like animals at bay, the moment he saw them. But he only watched.

“A hovercraft appeared out of nowhere,” Izuku continues, “One moment the sky was empty, the next it was there. A net dropped down on the girl and carried her up. And…they shot some sort of spear through the man. It was attached to a cable and hauled him up, too. I heard the girl scream, and then…it was gone. The hovercraft just vanished into thin air, the same way it had appeared. And then, all the birds started to sing again, as if nothing had happened.”

“Did they see you?” Kacchan asks.

Izuku isn’t too sure if Kacchan means the girl and her father, or the people controlling the hovercraft, if it was being flown by a living person at all, that is. “I…think she did,” Izuku replies, “After the bird call, she locked eyes with me and…and called out to me. For help. But…but then the hovercraft appeared before I could respond, or do anything…”

Izuku trails off. The wind and the story has blown all the warmth from his body. The girl’s scream. Izuku wonders if it had been her last? He turns to look at Kacchan, and sees his shoulders are trembling.

“You’re shivering,” Izuku murmurs. He’s in danger of shivering himself, but he pulls off his jacket, and wraps it around Kacchan’s bare shoulders.

Kacchan doesn’t protest the gesture, even pulling the edges of the jacket closer around himself. The image is so precious that it helps warm Izuku back up, too. “You think they were from here?” Kacchan asks.

Izuku nods. “They, um…had that look about them, yeah.” They hadn’t been as altered as some of the extreme cases Izuku has seen in the Capitol. They had bordered on almost normal, kind of like Creati, where you could just tell from the clothes, even though they were tattered, that they clearly weren’t district-born.

Kacchan watches the wind chimes above their heads, his blond spikes dancing softly in the breeze along with them. “Wonder where they were trying to get to,” he muses, “Or why they left here in the first place.”

“I would leave here,” Izuku says, forgetting to whisper. Kacchan stares at him. Crap. “I would go home now if they let me,” he adds, forcing a laugh, “But you have to admit, the food is amazing.” There. Now he just sounds like a scared tribute sharing a brief moment of weakness. But they probably shouldn’t linger out here much longer. “It’s getting chilly, we should head back inside.”

As they walk back to the stairs, Izuku hesitates on what to say next. He wants to tell Kacchan again how beautiful he had looked tonight, how good it is to have someone to talk to. But his brain lingers on the question that is really worrying his mind. Even though Capitol traitors and sedition isn’t the kind of thing Izuku has the time left in his life to sort out, he can’t help himself.

He nervously licks his lips as they approach Kacchan’s room. “What do you think All Might meant earlier?” he asks in a hushed voice.

“About what?” Kacchan asks, shucking off Izuku’s jacket and handing it back to him.

Izuku tucks the jacket under his arm. “About…us holding hands,” he says, looking down at the floor. “During the parade.”

Kacchan doesn’t respond right away, and eventually Izuku braves a glance upwards and finds that he’s back to scowling. “Hell if I know,” he says tersely, “I’m goin’ to bed.”

“Oh, okay,” Izuku says, “Goodnight, Ka—”

But Kacchan has already slipped into his room and shuts the door firmly in Izuku’s face.

Izuku lets out a sigh. Well, so much for that. It feels like whatever small amount of progress he had made with Kacchan today was dashed with just a few clumsy words. Stupid. He should have known better than to speak about rebellion. Hadn’t he done everything just now to try and prove to Kacchan he wasn’t out to sabotage him?

Defeated, Izuku heads back to his room, holding his jacket against his chest. It’s picked up the scent of Kacchan, and he can’t help but duck his chin and breathe it deeper into his nose, and it soothes and stabs at him in equal measure. It’s not the rosemary and lavender scent that he carried on Reaping Day, but one Izuku couldn’t describe with anything that exists. It’s just a uniquely spiced scent that’s not quite cinnamon or clove or vanilla, but something that’s just…Kacchan. It’s nice.

He’s only just entered his room when the door opens behind him, and Izuku whirls around, his heart leaping, half-expecting it to be Kacchan, but instead it’s the blonde Avox girl. She startles at the sight of him just as much as he does for her, but then she averts her eyes and hurries past him, going into the bathroom. Izuku watches her go, confused, until she reappears holding his unitard and boots. Oh, right. He had left them on the floor before his shower.

“Oh, sorry,” Izuku says, “I was supposed to get those back to Sir Nighteye.” He wants to apologize, too, for possibly getting her into trouble earlier, but then he remembers that he’s not supposed to speak to her unless he’s giving her an order. Backpedaling, Izuku hastily tacks on, “Can—can you take them to him?”

The girl continues to avoid his eyes, but she gives a small nod, and heads for the door. Izuku watches her go, his tongue like lead in his throat as he chokes on his apology. He doesn’t just want to tell her sorry about dinner. His apology runs much deeper. He wants to tell her that he’s ashamed that he never tried to help her in the woods. That he let the Capitol kill that man, most likely her father, and mutilate her without lifting a finger.

Just like he was watching the Games.

But the door shuts with a finality behind her, and once again Izuku has said and done nothing.

Perhaps the girl doesn’t even remember him, but Izuku knows that she does. He finds that he’s started to shake. He kicks off his shoes and crawls under the covers, still in his clothes, still holding the jacket. He pulls the covers up over his head as if that will protect him from the blonde girl who can’t speak. But Izuku can feel her staring at him, piercing through the walls and the doors and the bedding.

Izuku’s death will probably be a welcome thing for her.

He holds the jacket against his face, and breathes in Kacchan’s spice-sweet scent, closing his eyes. If he could find some way to at least guarantee Kacchan’s safety in the arena…if he can do that…if he can save just one person…then he might just be able to accept his fate.

His dreams that night are ringed in fire, and the face of the blonde Avox, all intertwined with gory images from earlier Hunger Games, but the most vivid detail that Izuku can recall in the morning is the silhouette of the hunter, dark against the blazing sunset, his bow and arrow primed for release. When he wakes, Izuku tries to work out whether that final image was a nightmare or a good dream. He’s feeling a little better, though—a little nauseous, and he has a headache, but less anxious.

He drags himself out of bed and into the shower, arbitrarily punching buttons on the control board. Izuku ends up hopping from foot to foot as alternating jets of icy cold and steaming hot water assault him. Then he’s deluged in a foam that reeks like roses, which he tries to scrape off with a heavily bristled brush. At least it gets his blood flowing.

Once he’s dried off, he finds his training outfit has been laid out for him. It’s a blue tracksuit that consists of two pieces, with red and white accents down the front and back of the jacket and pants. He puts on a plain white t-shirt and underwear, then slips on the jacket and pants. He’s got no product in his hair, so it is as unruly as usual, and as Izuku takes in the sight of the boy in the full-length mirror next to the closet, he realizes it’s the first time since the morning of the reaping that he resembles himself. It calms him. He still may not have a clear plan as to how to accomplish his goal, but at least he has one at all, and now at least he feels like he can actually face the day.  

He meets Toshinori as he’s coming out of his room, and they walk into the dining room together. Kacchan is already there, serving himself at a buffet table. He’s wearing the same blue-white-and-red tracksuit as Izuku, which is kind of surprising. It wasn’t mandatory for the tributes to have matching outfits for training, only the Tribute Parade. Kacchan looks up as Toshinori and Izuku enter, and Izuku sees him eyeing up his outfit, his mouth twitching with a grimace.

“Morning, Kacchan,” Izuku says in greeting, but Kacchan says nothing in response as he takes his bowl of white rice smothered in beef stew back to his seat.

It’s palpable, the wall that Kacchan is putting up between them again. And Izuku gets it, he does, but it is also contrary to every last instinct in him. And besides, he doesn’t see Kacchan as his competitor. Izuku is wholly on Kacchan’s side when it comes to ensuring his victory. He just wishes there was a way to make Kacchan see that. Surely Kacchan had to know that it could never possibly come down to the two of them. But perhaps his true intentions won’t become clear—to Kacchan, or even Izuku himself—until they’re in the arena.

Izuku loads a plate with eggs, sausages, and rolls, and is delighted to find there’s hot chocolate being served once again, and next to it is a crystal dish full of fluffy white marshmallows. Izuku selects a cluster of them with a delicate pair of tongs, and drops them into his cup, where they float on top of the creamy beverage and instantly start to soak up the chocolate, melting down and turning into a thick, sugary foam. He takes a sip, and then greedily slurps up the marshmallow foam. He would like to go back to the buffet table and keep his drink topped with marshmallows, but that seems just as childish as his excitement regarding the elevator ride last night. Izuku sticks to ripping up his bread rolls and dipping them in the remains of his hot chocolate, the same way he did on the train. Then he inhales his eggs and sausages.

He starts to run out of steam a little by the time he’s gone back for his second helping, only picking a little at his pancakes and eggs as his mind starts to race with the possibilities of what he will be in for over the next few days. Three days of training, then the private evaluation in front of the Gamemakers, where they each get their individual training score. Then a televised interview the night before the Games, which is the last chance to earn some sponsors. Eventually, Izuku sets down his fork altogether and just turns a roll of bread over in his hands, frowning in contemplation.

His mind wanders to thoughts of home, to his friends. What did everyone think last night, about his and Kacchan’s fiery debut? Did it give them hope, or simply add to the terror when they saw the reality of the twenty-four tributes gathered together, knowing only one could live? The thought of meeting the other tributes face-to-face makes Izuku feel queasy, and just like that, his appetite is completely gone.

Toshinori finishes off his stew, and pushes back his plate with a sigh. He takes his flask from his pocket and takes a long pull on it. It’s impressive, really, how early he starts. But hopefully the rich stew would soak up most of the alcohol.

“Let’s get down to it,” Toshinori says, leaning his elbows on the table. “Training. If you want, I can coach the two of you separately. Decide what you’d prefer now.”

“Why would you coach us separately?” Izuku asks.

“Say you might have a secret skill that you don’t want the other to know about.”

Izuku’s frown deepens. “I don’t have any secret skills. But, I know Kacchan is good with a bow.”

“Deku is strong,” Kacchan says suddenly, pulling Izuku’s gaze, but he’s looking firmly at Toshinori. “He can carry one-hundred pound sacks of flour over his head and throw them around, I’ve seen him do it.”

Wait…what? Where is this coming from? “I-I don’t really think baking bread is gonna do me any good in the arena, Kacchan. Your archery is way more impressive. I’ve eaten enough of the squirrels you’ve shot. You always get them clean through the eye, so it never spoils any of the meat. Same goes for the rabbits you sell at the butcher.” Izuku turns to look at Toshinori. “He can even bring down a deer!”

“What the hell are you doing, Deku?”

Izuku looks back at Kacchan, perplexed by this response. Why did he sound so affronted by Izuku’s praise? Did he seriously not see how incredible he was?

“If All Might is going to help you, then he has to know what you’re capable of,” Izuku tells him, “Don’t underrate yourself, Kacchan.

Kacchan’s eyes narrow. “I’m not. I don’t need you to speak for me, Deku,” he mutters, “Worry about yourself, idiot. How about you tell him about when you came in second in our school wrestling competition last year?”

Suddenly, Izuku is back in that gym, his eyes sweeping the collection of the student body gathered on the bleachers, individual voices rising in chattering laughter. Everyone was divided into their cliques, making it easy to spot him. Sitting apart from the rest of their classmates, arms folded across his chest, and with Kirishima at his side, of course. Izuku had no idea, really, if Kacchan even cared about wrestling. If Kirishima had just dragged him there because he enjoyed the ‘manliness’ of the sport. According to Tsu, there were some girls who had taken notice and started to come to Izuku’s matches. But isn’t that how life is? The one person that you really show off for probably doesn’t even notice. Isn’t the least bit impressed. And no matter how many feats of athleticism he performed, he would probably still think of Izuku as a nerd, never a jock. And yet, despite himself, despite all reason or any rational pep talks Izuku might have given himself—he still put on a show every time. For him.

And now Kacchan has just told him that he had actually been watching.

“What use is that?” Izuku retorts, feeling his face burn, and his throat get tight all of a sudden. “Who cares if I can wrestle someone to the ground when they’ll have weapons to use against me? The only way I know how to handle a knife is in the kitchen, I wouldn’t know how to use it in hand-to-hand combat. Meanwhile you’ll be up in a tree eating squirrels, picking people off with arrows and—”

“Enough, both of you,” Toshinori interjects, “Decide, now.”

Kacchan, to Izuku’s great surprise, turns back to Toshinori and says, “You can coach us together.”

Izuku stares at Kacchan in stunned silence for a moment, eyelashes fluttering, but then he shakes it off and looks to their mentor and nods his approval at this decision.

“Glad we have that settled,” Toshinori says. He fixes his eyes on Kacchan. “Now, Young Bakugou, there’s no guarantee they’ll have bows and arrows in the arena—”

“Then I’ll make one,” Kacchan says instantly.

“Fine, fine. But during these next few days, I want you to steer clear of archery. You can show the Gamemakers what you can do during your private session, but don’t let the other tributes know about it. Are you any good at trapping?”

Kacchan seems annoyed by the question. “Obviously,” he snaps, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms.

“Good.” Then Toshinori turns his attention to Izuku, who perks up attentively. “As for you, Young Midoriya, I wouldn’t sell yourself short. Never underestimate strength in the arena. Physical power can surely tilt the advantage to a player. They’ll have weights in the Training Centre, but don’t reveal just how much you can truly lift in front of the other tributes.”

Wow. That was…surprisingly good advice. Izuku is liking slightly-less-drunk Toshinori more by the minute. “R-right! Yes, sir.”

“The plan is the same for the both of you,” Toshinori says, looking between the two of them. “I want you to both spend this time trying to learn some things you don’t know. Throw a spear, swing a mace. Learn to tie a decent knot. And save your best act until your private sessions. Are we clear?”

Izuku nods firmly, while Kacchan sighs. Seems he’s lost interest in this discussion and is now more concerned with watching the sunrise.

“One more thing,” Toshinori says, “When you’re in public, I want you two by each other’s side every minute.”

This regains Kacchan’s attention. “What—”

“Every minute. It’s not open for debate. You two agreed to do everything I said without question. So stay close to each other, and try not to look so put out by it. I’m looking at you, Young Bakugou.”

Kacchan sinks down into his chair miserably, looking back out the window. “Fine. Fuckin’ whatever.”

Toshinori takes another swig from his flask. All this mentoring must be taxing stuff. “Meet Midnight at the elevator at ten, she’ll take you both to the training room.”

Kacchan shoots up out of his chair, and Izuku winces at the sound of the chair legs dragging sharply across the marble floor. He walks stormily out of the room, shoulders hunched, and Izuku cringes again when he hears the very audible slam of his bedroom door down the hall, clearly making a point of doing so.

“Don’t take it too personally,” Toshinori tells him quietly, his tone surprisingly gentle. “It’s hard for some people to be around those they’re expected to kill.”

Izuku turns the bread roll over in his hands. “I don’t really think that matters much to him.”

Toshinori frowns. “Not on great terms, I take it?”

Izuku shrugs a little. “It…was a long time ago.”

Toshinori heaves a sigh. “Look, when I ask you something, assume it’s because I think you’ve got some information I can use,” he says, “I don’t need your whole life’s story, or anything. I’m not asking for every detail of your personal life. But the Games are personal. You’re a character on TV. So, you need a backstory.”

Izuku looks back down to the roll of bread still in his hands, staring at it for a time, and thinks back to the day he has rehashed in his head hundreds of times. He can hear the sheets of rain. He can see the frail boy, huddled under the apple tree, soaked to the bone, helpless. What Izuku did back then had seemed like the least he could do. Yes, he got in trouble for it, but that was nothing he wasn’t used to already. He likes to think he would have risked punishment for anyone in need, but, if he’s honest with himself, he’s not sure that’s true.

It hadn’t made much of a difference, in the end. If it had made any deep, lasting impression on Kacchan, it hadn’t been a favourable one. It hadn’t made them friends again. Izuku thought it was glaringly—almost embarrassingly—obvious how extraordinarily he cared for Kacchan. But maybe Kacchan had viewed the gesture as mere pity. Like Izuku was looking down from on high, tossing a hand-out to the lowly boy from the Seam.

There were words the two of them owed each other about that day, certainly. Their relationship to one another was totally screwed up. They’ve known each other for so long but they had never talked about how they really felt. But it’s probably far too late to exchange those words—especially now, with both of them slated for the arena.

But, it would be nice to get it off his chest, even if it’s not to the person who deserves to hear it the most. Who needs to understand that he doesn’t have to be ashamed of needing help. That Izuku has never looked down on him. He had so much going for him that Izuku didn’t have. It was Kacchan who was leagues above them all, resplendent and remarkable.

“Do you remember that really cold winter we had, almost a decade ago?” Izuku asks quietly, “There was an accident in the mines, and twelve people died. One of them was my father, who was making a bread delivery to the miners that day. And…one of the miners was Kacchan’s father.”

Izuku looks up to see if this is ringing any bells for Toshinori, but his mentor’s face is inexpressive.

“When school started again in April, Kacchan…he was so thin, so sick. One day, he came around the bakery, digging through our bins. He could barely even walk. My mother…yelled at him, tried to send him off, and I—I gave him some bread, that’s all.”

At this, Toshinori’s expression opens up a little bit. “He’s a proud boy,” he murmurs, “And…bread is awfully pricey.”

“Yeah. It wasn’t a popular move in my house.”

Toshinori’s mouth twitches a bit as he fills in the gaps on his own. “You were punished,” he surmises, “And he knows?”

“Well, it was pretty obvious,” Izuku says feebly, recalling the sting of his black eye, nearly swollen shut when he showed up for school the next day. It’s the hardest his mother had ever hit him. “We never talked about it. I…wanted to. But…the right moment just never seemed to come up. But I don’t see how any of this is relevant.”

“Everything personal is relevant,” Toshinori tells him, “The more personal, the more true the story is, the more the crowd will respond to you.”

“So, you want me to tell that story on TV?” Izuku asks nervously. Kacchan would kill him before they even got into the arena if Izuku did that.

“You will if I tell you to,” Toshinori says firmly, “But for now I’m just trying to figure you out. And him. Your motivations, your responses to things. When you’re in the arena, I won’t be there to tell you what to do or say, so I need to know enough to be able to anticipate what you’ll do next.”

This all seems like the talk of a mentor who has had some success getting their tributes through the Games, but Izuku isn’t sure that Toshinori has ever had a tribute even make it into the final eight. But that would be counter-productive to say, not to mention rude, so Izuku keeps his mouth shut.

“I’ll ask you this,” Toshinori goes on, when Izuku remains quiet. “What do you want?”

Izuku isn’t sure he understands the question. He looks up at Toshinori, who is fixing him with a hard stare, and opens his mouth, but no words manage to make it out.

“Not what you were expecting?” Toshinori says, “Maybe you’re thinking that the answer seems so obvious, so clearly I must be tricking you. You probably expect me to assume that you’re going to tell me you want to live, because clearly that’s what anyone going into the arena wants. But there’s desires beyond that. So I’ll ask you again, and don’t overthink it: what do you want?”

This time, Izuku’s answer is automatic. “I want Kacchan to win,” he says, “He has no idea. The effect he can have. I know he’s already set on winning this thing on his own, but…I want to help him. In any way I can. It’s not just about protecting him until someone cuts me down, leaving him alone in the arena with other tributes still in play. I want to ensure he makes it right to the endgame. My idea of victory is tied to the image of him in my head, so that’s why…he has to win.”

About a minute goes by where Toshinori just stares him down. Izuku starts to feel sheepish, and looks away, running his fingernail along the wood grain in the table, refusing to look Toshinori in the eye as his face goes hot.

“Well, then,” Toshinori says finally, “Well, well, well.”

Izuku looks up from the table to find Toshinori has his elbows back on the table, and his pointy chin resting on his intertwined fingers.

“There’s no bigger threat to one’s life than being in the arena,” Toshinori says, “And how people react to danger is when their true character is revealed. The arena is a living hell that reveals one’s innermost self, allowing it to rise to the surface. It creates an opportunity to show what you’re really made of.”

Toshinori’s mouth stretches into a wide grin, and his blue eyes catch the light of the sunrise, making them flash.

“And there’s nothing nobler than self-sacrifice.”

Five minutes before ten o’clock, Izuku meets Midnight and Kacchan at the elevator, where they ride down in silence to the basement level of the Training Centre. The doors open to reveal a vast room with racks of weapons, obstacle courses, weights, and survival skill stations. There’s also a balcony that runs along the room, where men in billowing violet robes mill about, talking amongst themselves and observing the activities of the tributes below. Gamemakers. Those are the people that Izuku will be getting evaluated by in the next few days, and also the ones who have designed the arena he will be entering, and will be orchestrating the Games from their control room in the Capitol.

He and Kacchan are the last to arrive; the rest of the tributes are already gathered around in a circle in the middle of the gym. They join the others, and hear about the rules and their schedule over the next few days.

Izuku half-listens to the trainer as he takes this opportunity, with all the tributes gathered in one place, to size up the competition. On a purely physical basis, Kacchan and Izuku are both in the middle of the pack. Kacchan is taller than Izuku by a few centimetres, but Izuku has a broader build. The Careers all look athletic and healthy, of course, and as soon as they're free to wander and visit whatever stations they wish, they quickly prove that they are clearly very skilled. The Careers all head straight for the weapon racks to start playing with swords and spears the moment they’re dismissed.

Izuku looks over to see that Kacchan has been keeping his eye on the Careers as well, and nudges his arm. “Should we try out some knot-tying, Kacchan?”

Kacchan keeps his eyes on the Careers, not saying anything, and for a moment Izuku thinks that Kacchan has decided to ignore Toshinori’s instructions and reestablish his cold shoulder again, by then he finally mutters out, “...Sure.”

Izuku plays catch-up for the next hour while Kacchan demonstrates his skill at basic knots and snares for the trainer, who is so impressed by him that he shows Kacchan a more advanced technique of a twitch-up snare that would leave an opponent dangling from a tree by their leg, which Kacchan is intrigued by. By the end of the hour, he’s mastered the trap.

Up next, they go over to the camouflage station, which has paints of all colours, as well as natural stuff like mud and berry juice to use as paint. While Kacchan takes little interest in this station, Izuku starts to swirl mud, berry juice and paint on his left arm until he has a combination of colours and textures that somewhat reminds Izuku of the interplay of light and shadow under a clump of tall grass. The instructor tells Izuku that it’s the best work he’s ever seen, and Izuku sheepishly laughs a little and thanks him before returning his attention to Kacchan, who has abandoned the paints altogether by now and is watching one of the Careers throw a spear at a dummy.

“I decorate the cakes,” Izuku says.

Kacchan looks away from the spear-throwing Career and looks at Izuku. “Cakes?”

“Yeah. The iced ones, for the bakery.”

Kacchan’s eyes flick down to examine Izuku’s painted arm. After a moment, his brows knit together slightly. “If only you could frost someone to death,” he says.

Izuku thinks back to what Toshinori said. About keeping things friendly between them, and also about the danger of the arena. “You can never tell what you’ll find in the arena,” Izuku says, “Say it’s actually a gigantic cake—”

The joke doesn’t land. Kacchan ignores him, getting to his feet. “Let’s move on.”

So the next three days pass with them going quietly from station to station. On day one, they throw knives, and, even though Toshinori said not to show their skills, and despite his own self-deprecation from before, Izuku actually does pretty well at hand-to-hand combat, as his instincts from wrestling kick in. To his surprise, he also finds medium-length knives fairly easy to use, and they work well in combination with defensive wrestling stances.

For knife-throwing, Kacchan continues to show great accuracy like he did on the train, and Izuku isn’t half bad himself. He sticks it more often than he misses, anyway. But neither of them come close to matching the speed of Himiko Toga, the female tribute from District 2. As far as fighting with an actual sword goes, it’s neither his skill nor Kacchan’s, who is more used to engaging with his prey at a distance, while Neito Monoma, the male tribute from 2, wields a sword like it’s a natural extension of his arm.

At lunchtime on the first day, they initially sit in uncomfortable silence, and Izuku racks his brain for something to talk about. That’s when he notices the breadbasket on their table and pulls it over, emptying all the rolls out onto the table.

“Look at this, Kacchan, I think they’ve included a piece of bread from each district,” Izuku says.

Kacchan finally pulls his eyes away from the Career’s and looks down at the bread scattered across the table, his chin resting in his hand.

“This one is ours,” Izuku goes on, holding up the simple drop biscuit. “I’ve made about a million of these over the years. And this one here, the crescent with the seeds, that’s District Eleven. This horseshoe one with the onions and green peppers is probably Ten…” And on he goes, picking up each piece of bread and associating it with a district. Some of them are obvious, like the fish-shaped loaf that’s tinted green with seaweed from District 4. It actually ends up being kind of fun, and once Izuku gets going, he can’t seem to get his mouth to stop moving. “And this one looks to be a leaf, so it’s probably for District Seven. They handle lumber but I guess making the bread look like a tree or a log would have been too hard or too boring so they went with a leaf. And this one is a lightning bolt, which could be District Five since they handle power…but it could also represent District Three, I suppose, since they handle electronics, and I don’t see anything else in here that looks like a piece of technology…”

“Uh-huh,” Kacchan says. It sounds like Izuku is putting him to sleep.

Izuku looks up, and sure enough, Kacchan is looking incredibly bored. Izuku isn’t exactly offended—he’s the outlier for finding bread interesting, after all—but he also can’t be the only one putting in the effort to appear amicable here.

“Okay, now laugh like I just said something really funny,” Izuku tells him.

Kacchan’s entire face twitches with the effort it takes for him not to scowl. “No.”

“Kacchan. All Might said we—”

“I’m not gonna start cackling like that idiot over there, Deku.”

He means, of course, Monoma. He really loves to hear himself talk, and apparently everything that comes out of his mouth is so hilarious, he throws his head back and laughs like a hyena every time.

Izuku sighs. “Okay, then just…make up a story or something.”

Kacchan puts it upon himself to clean up their table, putting all the district bread back into the basket. He hangs onto the District 11 roll, turning it over in his hands. “I’m not much of a storyteller,” he admits, “But I could just talk about somethin’ that really happened to me. Like the time I got chased by a bear.”

“Really?” Deku gasps, genuinely intrigued. “What happened?”

“It was five years ago. The hag needed honey for this thing she was making,” Kacchan begins, “I was out in the woods one day, found a beehive, and I had to fight over the rights for it with a black bear.”

“That sounds scary! Was he really fast?”

“Nah. It was late summer, so he was fat and lazy. I outran him pretty easily.”

Izuku laughs. “Have you ever had to shoot one?”

“No,” Kacchan says, “Their skin is tough for homemade arrows to pierce, so it would just piss ‘em off more than anything if I did manage to stick one.”

“What was the honey for, anyway?” Izuku asks.

“A bar of soap.”

“Oh. Those are pretty expensive. Was she making it to sell?”

“No. It was for me to use just for Reaping Day.”

Izuku perks up. “Oh, is that why you always smell like lavender and rosemary on Reaping Day?”

Kacchan squints at him. “How the hell d’you even know that? You been stalkin’ me or something?”

Before Izuku has a chance to defend himself, they’re told that their lunch break is over and are beckoned back into the gym, and Kacchan keeps him at as much of an arm’s length as possible for the rest of their training while still following Toshinori’s advice to stay by each other’s side.

For day two, they try fire starting, which Izuku also picks up pretty quickly. He’s no stranger to fire, of course, working in close proximity to the large oven at the bakery, and he’s got the burns on his hands and arms to prove it, so it doesn’t intimidate him. The conversation at lunchtime is more strained, however. It’s still not easy to find a topic. Talking of home is painful, discussing the present is unbearable. Izuku gives up and starts to talk about the weather, about what a wet summer it’s been so far, and Kacchan gives the occasional grunt between bites of food to let Izuku know he’s still sort of paying attention. It’s wearing them both out, Toshinori’s direction to be friendly. But they have their orders.

After lunch, they learn about making shelters, and spear-throwing, where a little girl with her hair in two short ponytails, delicate and tiny like a little bird, begins to follow them from station to station for the rest of the day. Her name is Mahoro Shimano, from District 11. She looks younger than her twelve-years, and is the youngest tribute in the group, as well as the smallest, dwarfed even further by her massive district partner, Inasa Yoarashi, who is huge and boisterous but not exactly scary. In fact, he’s quite the social butterfly, whipping through the gym like a strong gale, moving from station to station and chatting up every tribute that isn’t a Career.

Dinner that night is an emotional chore as Toshinori starts on them before the bread basket has hit the table.

“What did you talk about today?”

“The weather,” Izuku says. Toshinori gives him a flat look, assuming that Izuku is being sarcastic—and, well, he is, but it’s not like he’s telling a lie. “What are we supposed to talk about, All Might? It’s all a little depressing.”

“You can keep talking about the weather for all I care. You two are supposed to be the Wonder Duo. So the point is to act like friends.”

“Why the fuck should we?” Kacchan snaps.

Toshinori slams his hand down on the table. “Because I said so!”

Kacchan rolls his eyes. “Someone oughta get you a drink,” he grumbles.

Izuku makes a sound that’s somewhere between a snort and a laugh. Kacchan peers over at him, his brows raised a moment, but the moment passes as Toshinori continues to grind them about every other moment of the day. Izuku tries to respond without any more sass so Toshinori won’t have a total conniption, but Kacchan cares little about staying on their mentor’s good side, so he is all piss and vinegar.

After dinner, as Kacchan is escaping to his room, Izuku trots over to him. “Hey, Kacchan, did you wanna go up to the roof again tonight?” Izuku offers. For a guy who spent as much time as possible out in the woods, he had to be getting antsy, cooped up inside all day and night for the past two days. And Izuku certainly wouldn’t mind some fresh air, himself. “It’s not as cold, there’s no cloud cover, so we could—“

“Knock it off, Deku,” Kacchan mutters, “No need for us to pretend to be friends when there’s nobody around.”

Izuku instantly wilts. “Okay, Kacchan.”

Back in his room, Izuku sits on the edge of his bed and tries to fight back tears, but they escape anyway. He can’t help it. He just feels so lonely. All conversation here is either arena business or forced small talk, and Izuku would give anything just to have a genuine conversation with someone, even if it was still just about the weather. And above all, he is crushed under the weight of confronting his own mortality, and planning his death to the benefit of someone who is oblivious to it.

He wakes up for the final day of training feeling like he hasn’t slept a wink. He’s cranky and exhausted as he and Kacchan head down to the training floor, the silence between them thunderous.

They go over to the edible plants section, which Kacchan is predictably good at, while Izuku is awful, basically guessing as he presses the buttons on the screen.

Since they’re only talking now when they’re around other people, Kacchan offers up some advice as they run through the quiz again, since the combination of answers randomizes each time. “If you’re starving, a lot of the nutrients in plants are in the roots,” Kacchan tells him, his voice a low rumble, “If there’s fir or evergreen, you can get nutrients outta the bark, too.”

“I’m still holding out hope for that cake arena,” Izuku replies.

Next they learn about water purification, and how to splint broken bones, and then it’s time for lunch, where the tributes are called back out to the gym to have their private sessions with the Gamemakers.

They’re called district by district, first the boy, then the girl tribute. Izuku isn’t sure which one they’ll decide to go first when they eventually get to District 12. Maybe they’ll do it alphabetically? Rock, paper, scissors? Drawing straws? Pull a name out of a glass ball, like the Reaping?

“Izuku Midoriya,” a voice calls over an intercom.

Well, guess that answers that. Izuku rises up from the bench, and starts to walk towards the doors. He comes to a stop when he makes it halfway, and then turns to look back at Kacchan, who’s leaning back on the bench, his elbows propped up on the table behind him. “Good luck, Kacchan,” he says, “Shoot straight.”

Kacchan doesn’t even look at him. “Yeah.”

Back in the gymnasium, the Gamemakers are gathered at one side of the room. They’re all eating lunch and chatting with each other, like this is just another party for them or something. None of them even acknowledge Izuku until he clears his throat loudly, and then one of them waves him on to start.

Izuku looks around the room, and finds the rack of hand weights and medicine balls. He starts off with the 70lb medicine ball, carrying it back over to the stand, and then he throws it overhead across the room. He moves on to the 80lb, then 90lb, then 100lb ball. His arm is throbbing by the time he’s hauling over the 120lb medicine ball. It’s a pain to lift it but he manages to get it up over his head and then he chucks it a few solid metres away from himself.

One look at the Gamemakers and Izuku can tell they’ve barely noticed him. They’ve started on some sort of drinking song, and that’s when the frustration and annoyance and dejection of the last three days finally hits its crescendo. His clenched fists quaking with anger, Izuku storms over to one of the canvas practice dummies and starts to wail on it. His thick blows reverberate across the room, along with his loud grunts of exertion. He grinds his teeth, reels his arm back, and lets out a holler and sends a punch into the dummy’s stomach with everything he’s got. A seam down the side of the dummy pops a stitch and stuffing pops out.

“Time’s up,” one of the Gamemakers calls out to him.

Izuku steps away from the practice dummy, his chest heaving and sweat rolling down his brow. Even if the Gamemakers didn’t pay him any mind, Izuku finds he doesn’t care much anymore. It just felt good to get that out of his system.

On his way towards the elevator, Izuku takes a glance back at the door to the dining room. If the Gamemakers' clear disinterest had managed to set off Izuku, who was usually as calm as a millpond, then Izuku wonders how Kacchan will handle it.

Knowing Kacchan, though, he’s probably got something really spectacular in mind for his demonstration.

Chapter Text

iv.

When Izuku arrives back upstairs in the penthouse, he wearily greets the grownups, who—by the way they all look up tensely when he enters—have clearly been waiting anxiously for his and Kacchan’s return. He manages to give them a faint smile as he takes a seat, and offers a muted thanks when Midnight brings him a glass of water. He sits in silence as they all wait for Kacchan to return, using this time not to wallow in anxiety but to synthesize everything he’s learned during his training.

He’s learned what weapon he’s most comfortable with, so if he wants to be able to defend himself, he’ll need to find a large knife. Alternatively, he’s also good at concealment, and that’s a tempting strategy. He’s also a decent firestarter, but that’s a mixed bag. Fire could draw unwanted attention of all sorts in the arena.

And…that about does it for his useful skills, which is depressing. None of them seem adequate to keeping Kacchan safe, unless Izuku managed to get Kacchan to agree to team up and hide out with him, which he seriously doubts he could.

What was Kacchan’s plan for the arena, Izuku wonders? Obviously to get a bow, if he can. If he managed to get one, he would certainly be a formidable opponent for the Careers. But that could be up to six on one, if all the Careers from 1, 2, and 4 teamed up. And with how tightly-knit they had been during their training, that looked like it was going to be the case. Not great odds, even for Kacchan. If Izuku has any hope of being useful and ensuring Kacchan’s victory, then there’s only one thing Izuku can do to help.

He has to thin out the Careers.

This revelation of his is well-timed with the bright ping as the elevator reaches the 12th floor, signalling Kacchan’s return. As soon as the elevator doors slide open, it’s clear that he’s absolutely fuming. He stomps into the sitting room and throws himself down into one of the empty seats, looking like a black thundercloud.

“Young Bakugou, how did it go?” Toshinori asks carefully.

“Horrible!” Kacchan bites out, “I was fucking incredible and those bastards were too preoccupied with a dead pig to watch me!”

Toshinori looks regretful. “I should have warned you. They do tend to get pretty bored by the end of the private sessions. So what happened?”

“Dunno, I stormed outta there before they could do anything,” Kacchan mutters, “But it’ll probably be any minute now that they’ll be up here to arrest me. Cut out my tongue, maybe. Might even blow my brains out in front of all of you. Who knows!”

Izuku’s heart plummets, and suddenly he’s on his feet, the half-full glass of water falling out of his hands and to the floor, where thankfully the plush carpet prevents the glass from shattering to bits, and he, Midnight, and Toshinori all start to speak at once, asking what on earth happened, what did Kacchan even do.

Kacchan drags a hand down his face, irritated by the barrage of questions. “Look, I just got mad, alright? Those fuckers weren’t payin’ attention, so I made ‘em! I shot an arrow at them.”

Izuku’s draw drops. “Kacchan…”

Midnight looks absolutely appalled. “What could have possibly possessed you to do such a thing?! This is completely unbecoming behaviour. Oh, they’re going to be furious…”

But Toshinori seems to have regained a little bit of colour back to his face. “If they had really wanted to arrest or even kill Young Bakugou, it would have happened already. He never would have made it back up here. It would be a pain to replace him at this stage, and they can’t exactly punish him for it without revealing what he did, which they can’t because the private sessions are kept a secret. So it would be a waste of effort.”

This actually manages to release some of the tension in Izuku’s shoulders.

Toshinori looks at Kacchan directly. “I don’t know what this will mean for your score, exactly. But I don’t believe your life is in any danger. Well, no more than it already is, at least.”

Izuku can tell by the way the tight line of Kacchan’s mouth softens into a neutral frown that this has put him a little more at ease, too.

But Midnight is still completely beside herself. “This is no time for jokes, All Might! This is going to cost him sponsors for sure! The Gamemakers won’t just give him an abysmal score for this, they’ll make his time in the arena even more difficult. He can kiss his chance of seeing a bow and arrow in the Cornucopia goodbye!”

Kacchan huffs with exasperation. “Who gives a fuck? I’ll just make my own! Their bows suck, anyway. The string tension was way too tight, and it was too heavy. If I wasn’t so amazing I would have missed.”

“You should have missed!” Midnight snaps “Shooting at the Gamemakers…the very thought! Unbelievable!”

“I didn’t shoot at the Gamemakers!” Kacchan fires back, “I shot at the damn pig. Shot the apple right outta its mouth.”

The silence that follows this admission is even more intense than the night Izuku had spoken to the Avox girl. Izuki didn’t know what he had been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that. He’s not sure whether he should be filled with admiration or horror, but he also wishes he could have seen it. There’s no way—absolutely no way—that anyone has ever done something like that before. Kacchan really is something else.

Finally, Toshinori breaks the tension by sticking out a thumbs-up. “Nice shooting, kiddo,” he says with a grin.

Midnight is still spitting mad. “This is not funny, All Might!”

But Toshinori ignores her, and turns his attention to Izuku. “Young Midoriya, how did you do back there?”

Izuku shrugs. “It’s like Kacchan said. By the time they had gotten to us, they were pretty bored. They were singing some kind of drinking song when it was my turn. I threw around some heavy objects and punched the stuffing out of a practice dummy until they told me I could go. I’m sure my score won’t be very good.”

“Don’t worry so much about the score,” Toshinori tells him, “Most of the time, the ones with the highest scores get picked off early, since they’re seen as the biggest threat. Honestly, most people don’t put much stock in the evaluation scores, since tributes will aim to score low on purpose so they don’t paint a target on their backs.”

Well, that’s good news. Hopefully that’s how people will interpret the four that Izuku is likely to get, if that. He can’t imagine anything less impressive than someone boxing with a dummy and picking up a heavy ball and throwing it. One had almost landed on his foot.

The mood at dinner is the lightest it’s been since they arrived. Kacchan regales them all with the Gamemakers’ reactions, describing their mixed expressions that ranged from shocked to ridiculous. When he mentions how one of them tripped backwards into a bowl of punch, everyone at the table bursts out laughing, and even Midnight seems to have trouble holding back a smile.

Kacchan breaks into a wide, sharp grin, and Izuku is struck by the fact that this is the first time Izuku has seen Kacchan genuinely smile in years. It transformed him, turning him from someone menacing into—okay, well, it was still sort of a scary smile. But it was nice to see him in better spirits, at least.

They move into the sitting room to watch the scores get announced. Monoma and Toga both score a ten, which doesn’t surprise Izuku. The rest of the Careers are mostly eights. After District 4, the scores drop down, averaging around a five, but the District 11 tributes, Yoarashi and Mahoro, are both above average, with a ten and a seven respectively. Then Izuku’s rather embarrassing headshot appears on the screen, and even though Toshinori told him not to worry about it, it’s still awful to wait for his low score to be broadcast throughout the country. What will his mother think? His friends?

But to his immense surprise, Izuku scores an eight. Well above average, within the Career range.

Midnight cheers and claps her gloved hands together with glee, and Toshinori thumps Izuku on the shoulder. A sound bubbles out of Izuku that’s caught between a chortle and a squeak. He barely has a chance to feel relieved, and he refuses to meet Kacchan’s gaze, because what if this means he’s somehow managed to score higher than Kacchan? Surely that couldn’t be possible. Even if the Gamemakers were angry, they would have to admit that Kacchan’s incredible shooting didn’t deserve a low score.

Kacchan’s scowling photo appears next, and Midnight clicks her tongue. “Oh, Katsuki, I do wish you wouldn’t spoil your handsome features—“

“Shush!” Toshinori hisses.

Kacchan’s score appears. And it’s an eleven.

“Eleven! An eleven!” Midnight gasps.

 Kacchan has an unexpected reaction. Instead of being righteous, he quietly stares at the number on the screen as if he’s worried he must be seeing double, and that surely the Gamemakers had decided to punish him with a one, which Izuku doesn’t think anyone in the history of the Hunger Games has ever gotten. Toshinori slaps Kacchan on the back, and it seems to snap him out of his trance somewhat. Toshinori is guffawing hard, a grin splitting his face, but something about it makes Izuku uneasy, but he forces himself to match it.

“That’s amazing, Kacchan!” Izuku tells him heartily. Too heartily. But thankfully Kacchan seems to still be too dazed by the news to take notice. “I guess they liked your temper, after all.”

Their stylists offer their congratulations and Toshinori praises them for all their hard work during training, and playing up the ‘Wonder Duo’ act. This puts a sour look back on Kacchan’s face. After Best Jeanist talks about the grand finale he has in mind for his interview look, Kacchan is quick to retire to his room when Toshinori tells them both to get some rest.

Sir Nighteye approaches Izuku before he leaves for the evening. “Good job. Tomorrow you’ll spend most of your day with All Might and Midnight, preparing for your interview. If you finish up early, I’ll stop by with my sketchbook, as promised.”

Izuku blinks, realising in that moment that Sir Nighteye will be the final friend that he’ll ever make in his life. Impulsively, riding on the inertia of the emotions of the day, Izuku gives him a quick hug, and chokes out a thank you.

The stylists take their leave, Midnight gives Izuku a parting pinch on the cheek before she heads for bed, and then it’s just Izuku and Toshinori left in the sitting room. Izuku watches as Toshinori pours himself another drink, and finds that he is actually going to miss the sight.

“We need to talk,” Izuku says.

Toshinori turns to him with a strained expression that’s hard to interpret. He sits down on a chair opposite to Izuku, frowning into his glass. “You know, kid, if I could read the Gamemakers’ minds, this whole mentoring gig would be a hell of a lot more simple.”

“You said it yourself, that a high score would paint a target on his back,” Izuku says, “I think their message is loud and clear. They did this to punish him.”

“It’s a balancing act,” Toshinori says, “It singles him out to the Careers, but it will also help Young Bakugou attract some sponsors at the outset. You both made an impact with the reaping, and your opening ceremony, but the boy on fire is all anyone is talking about. It’s why I pushed for the Wonder Duo, so you could benefit from his popularity, but that’s as far as I can stretch it, I’m afraid. Sorry, kid.”

Izuku smiles a little, and shakes his head. “You don’t have to apologize,” Izuku says, “I knew going into this that Kacchan was the sure bet. You and I both know I’m not going home. You’ve been doing this long enough to know that, eventually, you have to choose one of us to try and keep alive.”

Toshinori frowns. “What are you saying, kid?”

“That all the sponsor gifts should go to Kacchan,” Izuku says, “Right from the start. I don’t want anything being sent to me, unless Kacchan is with me. You said it’s a balancing act, so let’s tip the scales. Kacchan will have six Careers hunting him down, so he’ll need all the backup he can get. And I’m sure Kacchan won’t want to stick with me in the arena, so…the only way to make sure he gets extra help is to not let any sponsor gifts come to me. Make sure they all go to him. No matter what.”

Toshinori sighs gratingly. “Look, I know I said all that stuff about self-sacrifice and whatnot, and it’s very chivalrous of you to want to protect your district partner. I get it. But you need to worry about yourself, too, kid. You can’t do a very good job keeping Young Bakugou alive if you drop dead because you refused a parachute of food, water, or medicine. So unless you figure out another way to keep yourself alive long enough to help keep him alive, then as your mentor, I can’t just prioritize one of you over the other before the gong even sounds.”

Izuku clutches at his knees. “Well, I do have one thing in mind, actually,” he says quietly, “But I’m going to need your help to get it started.”

A flicker of intrigue crosses Toshinori’s face. “What do you need?”

Izuku takes a deep breath. He feels self-assured, but there’s anxiety creeping at the edges of it. Once he says these words, there’s no going back. He knows what he must do, but it means that Izuku will die with Kacchan loathing him. But this strategy will hopefully be evident to the audience. And maybe, when Kacchan watches the recap of the Games during his victor presentation ceremony, he’ll finally understand, too.

“I need you to get me in with the Careers.”

The next morning over breakfast, Toshinori and Izuku relay their plan with Midnight, all of them shutting up as soon as Kacchan comes into the room, not paying any of them any mind as he focuses on piling a plate high with rice and spicy lamb curry, which he starts wolfing down as soon as he’s seated. Kacchan doesn’t even break a sweat, like the spice doesn’t affect him whatsoever. Kacchan is enjoying it so thoroughly that it’s not until he’s nearly finished that he finally realizes how silent everyone else is.

“So, what’s up?” Kacchan asks, “You said you’d be coaching us about our interviews, yeah?”

“That’s right,” Toshinori says.

“Well, get on with it. I can listen and eat at the same time.”

Midnight is looking at a clipboard, absently tapping her pencil against it and chewing on her bottom lip. Toshinori shuffles in his chair a little. They’re clearly as anxious about Kacchan’s explosive reaction to this announcement as Izuku is. He is not going to be happy.

“…the fuck is goin’ on with all of you?” Kacchan mutters suspiciously.

“There’s been a change of plans,” Toshinori says tentatively.

Izuku can feel Toshinori’s eyes on him, but he really wishes that he would just get on with it already. This man survived the arena against double the amount of tributes, yet was somehow nervous to deliver bad news to a teenage boy. Izuku chances a peek at Kacchan before Toshinori finishes driving the knife into Kacchan’s back.

“Young Midoriya has asked to be coached separately.”

Kacchan can’t quite hide the betrayed look on his face before he manages to cover it with a mask of indifference. Izuku looks away before Kacchan can look at him, and braces himself. For impact, for an implosion, something. But he actually gets off pretty easy.

“Good,” Kacchan says flatly, “So, what’s the plan?”

“Today you’ll each be coached on presentation and content. Since we’ll be splitting the two of you up from now on, you’ll be doing presentation with Midnight for four hours, and then content with me for another four. Young Bakugou, you’ll be starting with Midnight,” Toshinori turns to Izuku. “Young Midoriya, you’ll be with me.”

After everyone finishes breakfast, Izuku watches wistfully as Midnight and Kacchan disappear down the hall. He knows this is all part of the plan, but it still sucks to be back to not speaking with Kacchan anymore.

He joins Toshinori in the sitting room, sinking down into a chair with a long sigh. When he looks over at Toshinori, he finds that his blue eyes are glinting with amusement.

Izuku squirms in his seat. “What?” he asks nervously.

“You have it bad,” Toshinori says.

Izuku darts his gaze down to the floor. It’s nothing his friends back home haven’t relentlessly teased him about his entire life, but it’s especially embarrassing for a grown adult to take notice of it. “W-well—I—um…”

“I just hope you know what you’re doing,” Toshinori says, “Don’t just throw your life away because of some crush.”

Izuku shrugs. “Seems as good a reason as any,” he says. He was dead either way, after all.

Toshinori doesn’t seem the sentimental type, but he doesn’t bother to argue with Izuku further, and gets right down to business. “I know the mentors from District Four pretty well, and I’ve put in a good word that you’d like to join them,” he says, “The Careers from Four aren’t like One or Two. They’re still well-trained, but haven’t established the same ruthless reputation, so the Capitol doesn’t favour them as much, especially with the whole fiasco with Endeavour’s family.”

Izuku knows it well. Endeavour was a victor from District 4, who, in his determination to have a whole family of Hunger Games victors, sent all his children into the arena. His only daughter and two of his sons all died, and only his youngest child, Shoto Todoroki, had managed to bring home the crown and end the Todoroki family curse. Todoroki was Izuku’s age, and was a Capitol favourite as the youngest victor in history, winning his Games at just twelve-years-old.

“It’s been five years since Four has had a winner, so they’re pretty tired of losing to One and Two,” Toshinori goes on, “So they’ll likely consider taking you as an ally, if it’ll help them break off from the rest of the Career pack when the time comes. After that, though, you’d be on your own.”

“And do you think we can persuade One and Two to take me as an ally?”

“If they can be convinced you can lead them to Young Bakugou,” Toshinori says, “They’re wary of him after he scored that eleven, and since he won’t join them, they’ll want to take him out as soon as possible.”

Izuku nods stiffly. “So what do I have to do?”

“When the gong sounds, get yourself a weapon from the Cornucopia. Anything you can get your hands on. And make sure to show the Careers what you can do with it.”

Izuku feels his stomach twist, and is suddenly glad he barely touched his breakfast. “You mean, kill someone?”

Toshinori grimaces. “If you’re killed in that bloodbath, then Young Bakugou will have the entire Career pack as well as the rest of the tributes who survive it to worry about,” he says, “If you want to make this happen, you must defend yourself, and get through that bloodbath alive. Whatever it takes.”

Izuku swallows thickly. “So…if I get that far, then what? How do I get rid of the Careers? At least One and Two. Should I…kill them in their sleep, or…?”

“I doubt you’d get that kind of opportunity,” Toshinori says, “The point of getting in with the Career pack isn’t just to take them out. It’s to get to Young Bakugou. The Careers will be hunting him, so you’ll hunt with them. You’ll turn on them once they find him, not before. They’ll kill you the minute they sense something is up, so you’re going to put up two acts at once. You’ll have to convince the Careers that you’ve turned on Young Bakugou, but also find a way to convince the audience that it’s a double deal. That you’re doing it to keep Young Bakugou safe.”

“How can I do that?”

Toshinori shrugs. “It might sound a bit silly, but with all those cameras on you, you should be able to find an opportunity to—I don’t know—pretend to whisper his name in your sleep, step away from the Career pack to look at the sky and wonder out loud about him, or something. If you make it obvious to the audience that you’re trying to protect Young Bakugou, that you’re even willing to risk your life to do it, trust me, they will eat that up.”

Izuku leans back in his chair, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully. “So the Careers will think I turned on Kacchan, the audience will figure out as they’re watching that I’m just keeping my enemies closer, and Kacchan…what about him? If I can manage to accomplish all of that and reunite with him in the arena…he’ll just see me as a two-faced backstabber. He’ll think I could as easily turn on him as I did the Careers. For him, I pretty much already did that today. It doesn’t look good on my part, asking to be coached separately right after he got that eleven. He’ll think I view him as a threat. He’ll never believe that I’ve always been on his side.”

Toshinori hums. “Yeah. He’s managed to turn a blind eye to the fact you’re sweet on him all this time, after all, and you’re about as subtle as a brick. Kid can’t see the forest for the trees. At least when it comes to you. It’ll probably take a lot of convincing.”

Izuku pinches at his bottom lip, staring down at the tabletop as he tries to think. “He has to hear it from me,” he mutters, “Before the arena. Before I’m with the Careers. He needs to find out about how I feel about him. Otherwise it’ll all be out of context. I need to provide the context. And the only way to do that between now and the Games is to—“

Toshinori clears his throat. “Strategizing all by yourself over there, Young Midoriya?”

Izuku looks up quickly. “The interview,” he says, “I’ll admit how I feel during tomorrow night’s interview. Kacchan will be right up there on the stage, so he’ll hear the whole thing.”

Toshinori’s eyes go wide. And then, he breaks into a grin. “That’s genius,” he says, “Genius, kid. And it won’t raise any suspicions with the Careers, either. They know the interviews are bullshit, so they won't believe you no matter what you say. All they want is for you to be useful in flushing out Young Bakugou.”

Izuku nods. “Should we tell Kacchan about the plan, then?”

Toshinori shakes his head. “No. That kid can’t act to save his life—literally. He can barely hide his contempt for the Capitol, and he’ll be lucky if he can make it out of the arena without being blasted by the Gamemakers.”

Izuku chews his lip for a moment. “He might get pretty mad. He won’t want to show any weakness.”

“I know. But with all this fire and shooting at the Gamemakers, I’ve got to try and soften Young Bakugou’s image,” Toshinori says, “It’ll be like pulling teeth to get that kid to show any sort of vulnerability—to Panem, and certainly not to the Careers—during his own interview. So, it has to come from you. He’ll certainly object if we warn him ahead of time. We can’t predict what his reaction will be, but genuine surprise is the best thing we can hope for.”

It’ll be a miracle if Kacchan doesn’t attack him right there on stage. “Right. We can fill him in after the interview, then.”

“Do you need to practice?” Toshinori asks, “There are ways to make the transition, and Present Mic is damn good at picking up on cues.”

“Sure. Let’s do it.”

So, they spend the rest of the morning working with various prompts, figuring out how to turn a conversation to Izuku’s benefit. It’s actually pretty easy. When they’re wrapping up, Toshinori is visibly pleased with him, and is downright chipper as they make their way back into the dining room when lunch is served. Kacchan reappears, looking particularly grouchy as he noisily crams more lamb curry into his mouth. Clearly the morning had continued badly for him. And with interview prep with Toshinori up next, his bad mood isn’t likely to improve. It makes Izuku very uneasy about the latest part of his plan.

He meets up with Midnight back in his room, and finds she’s also not in the best mood, but she heaves a sigh of relief when she sees him. “Thank goodness. There’s much less work to do with you.”

They spend the next hour making sure Izuku’s handshake is firm and his posture is upright. She has him run through some elocution exercises and is pleased with his voice.

“All of you from Twelve have the same accent, of course, but yours isn’t nearly as gruff as Katsuki’s,” Midnight laments, “And it’s certainly not improved by all that cursing he does. So uncouth.”

Izuku really hopes she didn’t try that line on Kacchan.

Afterwards, as promised, Sir Nighteye arrives and he and Izuku sit together out on the balcony while Izuku thumbs through his sketchbook, a beautiful leather-bound book filled with coloured sketches and pinned with different swatches of fabric. He gets to see a preview of his outfit for tomorrow, an elegant black suit with flame accents made out of gemstones.

Sir Nighteye pulls out some pens, brushes, and sheets of paper from his bag. “I was thinking you might like to draw something,” he says.

“Oh, I’m definitely not as good as you.”

“Show me what you’ve got.”

Izuku accepts the art supplies, and after thinking about a subject, decides to draw the fence line of District 12. The meadow in the foreground, which Izuku regrets not going to stand in one last time that morning, to inhale the heady blooms. The forest in the back, which was abundant with opportunity for Kacchan, and danger for Izuku. Kacchan doesn’t keep himself safe and confined. He kicks down fences, demands attention, and fights. And for his sake, so must Izuku.

When he’s finished, he hands the page over to Sir Nighteye, who examines it for a long time before he looks up at Izuku, and hands it back. “Would you sign it for me?”

“Sign it?” Izuku asks incredulously, “Why?”

“Don’t you understand how famous you’re about to be?”

Izuku blinks in surprise, then lets out a small laugh and takes back the paper. He scrawls his name out at the bottom of the page, and Sir Nighteye tucks it away in his sketchbook. It’s odd, really. If Izuku had passed him in the street, just by his looks alone—his altered eye like a badge of his Capitol identity—Izuku would have loathed him. But he’s not loathsome.

Sir Nighteye leaves him a few sheets of paper and a pack of pencils. “You have a true talent as an artist,” he tells Izuku, “If you’re crowned, you could easily make it your victor talent.” He pats Izuku on the shoulder. “I do hope you get to gift this world with many more of your creations.”

Izuku doesn’t have the heart to tell him he has no intention of becoming the victor, but he accepts the paper and pencils. It would be nice to draw a little, before he never gets the chance again.

When Izuku heads back inside, Kacchan is speeding across the penthouse, looking stormy, and Izuku frowns at the slamming door that signals his retreat into his bedroom. There should still be another hour left of his content training session with Toshinori, but when Izuku sees their mentor walking out of the sitting room, he’s looking just as agitated as Kacchan did. He beelines it for the bar and pours himself a very full glass.

Izuku approaches him tentatively. “Bad session with Kacchan?”

“Let me put it this way, kid,” Toshinori says sourly, “That boy’s reputation is entirely up to you.”

Izuku decides to just order his dinner straight to his room that night, unwilling to deal with a roaring drunk Toshinori and peevish Midnight for company. He eats in his bed, something his mother never allowed him to do, and then sits at the writing desk tucked away in the corner of the room (was it there in case tribute wanted to write a will, Izuku wonders?) and starts to sketch with the paper and pencils Sir Nighteye gifted to him.

His hand moves across the page as though he doesn’t even control it, and within a few minutes he’s looking down at a drawing of the blonde Avox. He’s given her a smile, and he has no idea if it’s even what her real smile would look like, considering he’s never once seen her do so. But he likes to imagine that, if life had been fair to her, in a better world, this is what it would have looked like.

He’s surprised when his door suddenly opens to reveal none other than the blonde Avox girl, but then he realises it’s part of her duties to collect his dirty laundry and change out his bedding each night. From the look on her face, she’s just as surprised to see him here—she must have been hoping to get this done while he was in the dining room so as to avoid another encounter.

“You can just leave it,” Izuku says. He supposes that it counted enough as an order. “Please. Just come back tomorrow.”

The girl shakes her head, and walks into the room. She comes over to the bed and starts to gather up the dishes, keeping her eyes down as she sets them all in a neat stack on the tray and goes over to a panel in the wall, which collects the tray and takes it who-knows-where. Then she gestures towards his bed and Izuku shakes his head.

“No, really, it’s okay,” Izuku insists, “The sheets aren’t that dirty. You really don’t have to change them every night. Just do it tomorrow.”

She shakes her head and points at the bed again. Izuku sighs and gets up. He tries to move to the other side to help her as she begins to strip the bed, but that makes her stop altogether and shake her head frantically at him, looking panicked.

Izuku hastily steps away, waving his hands around. “S-sorry!”

The girl doesn’t meet his eye, and Izuku watches in silence as she gathers up the sheets, dumps them down another panel in the wall—a laundry chute, Izuku supposes—and then she collects a new set of sheets from the closet and makes the bed.

“…I’m sorry,” Izuku says, softer.

The girl still doesn’t look at him. She finishes making the bed and turns to leave.

“I should have tried to save you.”

He said it in just a whisper, but she definitely heard him. She freezes, and turns slowly to look at him, her blue eyes wide. The girl shakes her head. What does that mean? No, he doesn’t have to be sorry? No, he shouldn’t have tried to save her? That he was right to stand by?

“No, I should have,” Izuku says. He rounds the bed to stand and she steps back, flinching, so he stays rooted in place. “B-But I was useless. And I’m sorry.”

She deserves so much more than that, but Izuku doesn’t know what else to say. If there was any justice in this world, she would be able to curse him out like he deserved to be. Call him a coward, a monster, a puppet of the Capitol, both now and then. But, Izuku supposes that she would get her justice soon. At least Izuku’s death will help pay for the life of her father.

The girl taps her lips with her fingers, and then points to Izuku’s chest. It takes a moment to understand her meaning, but he thinks she’s trying to tell him that if he had tried to do anything that day in the woods, he would have ended up just like her. Either that, or dead. Deku offers her a small nod, his eyes welling up with tears.

He looks over at the door, noticing that it’s been left slightly ajar. The girl must have forgotten to shut it in her initial surprise earlier. Izuku goes over to the door and quietly shuts it. Then he crosses over to his desk, and beckons the girl to follow him. She hesitates, blue eyes flickering to the door, but after a moment she walks over to the desk.

He points to the sketch of her on the desk, and the girl inspects the page curiously for a moment. She frowns a little, perplexed, and then her eyes widen with recognition. She looks at him and points to the page, and then herself.

Izuku nods. He picks up the pencil and, beneath the drawing, writes down a single word, and then points to the paper. Name?

He holds out the pencil in a silent offering. She can accept it if she wishes, or flee from the room. The choice is hers. It would just be nice to know her name, instead of thinking of her as ‘the blonde Avox girl’  in his mind. Because she had a life and a name before she was an Avox, and Izuku wishes she could tell him all about it. But he would settle for just her name.

With shaky fingers, the girl reaches out and takes the pencil from Izuku, and Izuku steps aside so she can write on the paper, which she does very quickly, and then stands back. Izuku looks down at the paper. Her penmanship is pretty, if a little bit wobbly from her haste.

“Melissa,” he murmurs, reading it out loud.

The girl lets out a gasp, and Izuku looks up quickly. Tears have filled her eyes. It’s probably the first time she has heard her name in a long, long time. Too long. Izuku may just be the first one to say it in years, and perhaps be the last one who ever does. Izuku hopes, for her sake, he’s not. But then, that’s not the world they live in.

Melissa puts her fingers to her mouth, and then points to Izuku. Is she asking for his name? Does she already know it? Or maybe he wants her to say her own name again?

“Melissa,” he echoes, “You have a very pretty name.”

Melissa presses her hand to mouth again, and then, she points to Izuku again, but differently than before. She keeps her hand flat, and doesn’t fully extend her arm or use her index finger to point at Izuku’s chest when she does it. Izuku’s confusion must be plain, because she repeats the gesture again and then her mouth moves, and Izuku reads her lips. Thank you.

Izuku smiles, and when Melissa smiles back, it looks exactly the way he drew it.

Technically, Izuku could sleep in until his prep team came to collect him for his makeover before the interviews took place that evening, but instead he wakes up at the usual time and slips out to the dining room, where he finds Toshinori. He’s looking a little green, and is holding a cup of coffee in both hands. Izuku says good morning, but he only gets a low grunt in response.

Izuku serves himself breakfast and takes a seat across from Toshinori at the table. He’s only gotten a few bites in when Toshinori abruptly says, “You’re in. District Four accepted. And Two is on board, as well.”

His heart starts thumping erratically, and he swallows his bite roughly before asking, “What about One?”

“One will follow Two. Two are the ones to beat this year. They’re head and shoulders above everyone else in terms of capability,” Toshinori says, “If my contact for Four did his job, they’ll have some idea about what is going down tonight, too.”

Izuku nearly drops his glass of orange juice. “What?”

“They think you’re just as intimidated by Young Bakugou as they are, and that you’re using tonight to try and fool him into thinking you’re on his side.”

Izuku feels the headache that has been plaguing him on and off since the Reaping making a comeback. “Okay. Got it.”

After breakfast, his prep team arrives, and it’s mostly a repeat of parade day. He’s directed to shower with specific bottles of shampoo and soap, which leave him smelling kind of sweet and buttery. He sits with a towel around his waist as his face and neck get slathered with creams and gels. His fingernails are re-buffed and painted with a clear polish again, only this one has flecks of silvery glitter. His hair is gelled and curled and spritzed with more spray, and Izuku is allowed to draw for this part, as his skin and hair take on a shiny, glittery quality that his prep team has assured him will look magical under the stage lights.

When the prep team is finished, Izuku thanks them once again for their work, and presents each of them with yet another gift. A piece of paper where he has drawn the three of them. The ladies are just as enthusiastic about this as they were about the cookies—in fact, they’re even more ecstatic, and tell Izuku that, should he win, he would make a killing selling his art in the Capitol.

Sir Nighteye enters with his suit. At the sleeves of the jacket and the cuffs of the pants is an homage to the flames from the opening ceremonies, drawn out with flat red, yellow, orange, white, and blue gemstones that flash in the light.

As they wait by the elevators for Kacchan and his team, Izuku is jittery with nerves, and the sight of Kacchan certainly doesn’t help. He looks absolutely stunning, in a bright red suit that’s covered with large gems, not tiny pinpricks of glitter like the accents on Izuku’s suit, but faceted, multi-colour beauties that form a pattern of flames. As Kacchan moves, he captures the light at every possible angle, and his skin is glowing like candlelight.

Izuku has barely seen Kacchan for the better part of two days, and he knows Kacchan is still mad at him, but it’s admittedly still good to see him, to feel that familiar fluttery feeling in his gut again. To remind himself why he’s going through with all of this.

Kacchan does a quick once-over of Izuku’s outfit, and there’s clear contempt on his face. He’s obviously unhappy about the fact they’re still being put in matching looks. Izuku really doesn’t know why they keep up the whole fire thing with him at all—it suited Kacchan far better. But he supposes, if tonight goes well, then looking like a matched set can only be beneficial to both of them.

They’re joined by Toshinori and Midnight, and when they get in the elevator, Izuku quietly asks Toshinori, “Will the interviews be done in the same order we did our private sessions?”

“You’ll be the final interview tonight,” Toshinori tells him. He holds Izuku’s gaze for an extra moment, and it’s plain to Izuku that this was something that Toshinori had arranged on purpose for their plan.

Izuku’s confession of love will close out the show.

No pressure.

They reach the ground floor, and take their place in the back of the line of tributes waiting to file out onto the stage outside. Just as the doors open and the tributes start to file out, Toshinori appears, and grabs each of them by the shoulder.

“Remember, you’re still a happy pair. So act like it.”

What does Toshinori want Izuku to do? Touch Kacchan’s back as they enter the stage? He wouldn’t dare.

Instead, Toshinori gives them both a rough shove, and Izuku lets out a yelp as he slips on the smooth floor on his patent leather shoes, nearly slamming right into Yoarashi’s massive back. Yoarashi turns around and lifts an eyebrow at Izuku.

“All good, Twelve?” Yoarashi booms, and his incredibly loud voice makes Izuku jump.

“Y-yes, I’m sorry,” Izuku stammers, “I’m still not used to these shoes.”

Yoarashi throws his head back laughing, even though what Izuku says wasn’t all that funny. “Good thing they don’t stuff us in monkey suits and clown shoes in the arena! Or shit, maybe they will, who knows! That might be pretty funny!”

“Uh, yeah, that’d be a new one.”

They walk out into an evening sky that is completely overwhelmed by the bright lights surrounding the stage. It’s completely unnerving, seeing this all from the viewpoint of a tribute. From home, Izuku never saw the scaffolding, the cords, the fresh cuts on the plywood. The cameras add glamour through subtraction. Izuku can only wonder what other things must get omitted.

Izuku thinks about the town square back home, where there will be screens set up for mandatory viewing, and it will be thick with people, just like the City Circle is now, as the avenue fills with people. Izuku used to be able to watch from his bedroom window. He wonders if his mother will join the others in the square tonight, or watch from their apartment, too. Better not think about that now. He can’t afford to lose his nerve.

Before Izuku knows it, Present Mic bounces onto the stage, looking exactly the same as he has Izuku’s entire life. His hairstyle, piled high on his head, and his outfit, are the same every year, but he dyes his hair a different colour each year. This time, it’s a golden blond.

He warms up the crowd with a couple of jokes that are incomprehensible to Izuku, but seem to land with the audience. Then, the interviews begin, starting with the female tribute from District 1, Camie Utsushimi, and Izuku checks out immediately. Perhaps he should be paying attention, but there’s only two things that he can focus on right now. His impending confession, and the boy he is about to confess to, sitting just off to his right.

When Kacchan is called up, Izuku watches as the stage lights cause flickering lights to bounce off the gemstones on his suit as he gets up from his seat and walks across the stage over to Present Mic. The two of them shake hands, and then Kacchan takes a seat on the couch opposite Present Mic.

When asked what he’s most impressed with about the Capitol, after taking a moment to think it over, he gives an honest response and says his favourite thing was the lamb curry. When asked about his look for the Tribute Parade, his answer is more automatic—that he looked ‘fucking awesome’, of course, and that his stylist is a ‘fucking genius’.

Izuku pretends the corner of his mouth has an itch so he can hide his smirk of amusement from the cameras. So much for not swearing. Izuku is sure Toshinori and Midnight are both sighing with defeat right now, while the rest of the crowd laughs at Present Mic’s scandalized response.

When asked about his impressive training score, Kacchan is elusive, and says he isn’t telling, but that it was a first, and only the beginning of what he can do, which has the audience and Present Mic making sounds of intrigue. Izuku, meanwhile, can see the bitterness from their competitors coming off of them in waves.

Kacchan is absolutely nailing this, not that Izuku was surprised in the least, but he is immensely relieved.

Then Present Mic talks about the Reaping, and the boy that Kacchan volunteered for. It’s here that Kacchan’s bravado starts to wane, and confusion flickers across his face. He says that he doesn’t know who the boy was, and that it didn’t matter. That he planned to volunteer no matter whose name got picked from the bowl.

When asked if he waited intentionally until he was eighteen to volunteer, Kacchan gives a surprising answer. That he’s wanted to compete in the Games ever since he turned the eligible age of twelve, but that he never got reaped. Present Mic asks how many slips he had entered into the reaping, and Kacchan’s mouth barely moves as he replies that he had twenty-one submissions.

That sounds like twenty slips too many in Izuku’s opinion, but Present Mic is shocked by the number, and says it isn’t very many entries at all, and why didn’t Kacchan take out more tesserae, then, or just volunteer sooner, if he wanted to compete in the Games so badly, if age wasn’t a factor for him?

Kacchan looks ready to leap off the couch and throttle Present Mic as he tightly replies that it was because his mother didn’t let him take out additional tesserae, and that he asked her every year if he could volunteer, and she said no.

This gets a titter of laughs from the crowd and Present Mic, which makes Izuku angry, because what is so humorous about a mother not wanting for her only son to be taken away from her? It was baffling how out of touch these people were.

When asked what Kacchan did to finally get his mother to agree to let him volunteer this year, Kacchan has a very shocking response.

“I told her she wasn’t gonna stop me this time. That she’d have to turn me into an Avox if she wanted to keep me from bein’ able to volunteer.”

Izuku’s blood chills as the audience goes quiet. Kacchan says it with such conviction, that surely it must be true, even though he hadn’t even known what an Avox was until a few days ago. Either he was a better liar than Izuku thought, or Kacchan had actually told his mother he’d have to cut out his tongue to keep him from saying he would volunteer as tribute.

Present Mic is as stunned into silence as the crowd. Clearly the mention of Avoxes in any context is frowned upon. For a bad moment, Izuku thinks Kacchan has painted himself into a corner he can’t possibly get out of, but Present Mic recovers quickly, and gets the interview back on track by embellishing on Kacchan’s intensity, which gets the crowd cheering again. Izuku heaves a sigh of relief.

And just like that, it’s over, and Kacchan makes his way back to his seat to absolutely thunderous applause that’s so infectious that Izuku starts to clap, too, until he notices none of the other tributes are doing it. He falters a little, considers keeping it up—it would only aid what he was about to accomplish next, after all, if he showed Kacchan support in this way—but then the moment passes and Kacchan takes his seat, and Izuku is called up next.

Izuku feels the urge to say something to Kacchan as he passes him, or even touch his shoulder, but he can’t bring himself to even look at him. His mouth is suddenly dry as a bone.

His body goes into complete auto-pilot as he smiles and waves to the crowd the same way he did during the Tribute Parade. He gives Present Mic a firm handshake, grateful his hand isn’t sweaty, and then he takes his seat on the couch.

Present Mic jumps right in. “So, Izuku Midoriya—the baker boy of District Twelve! I understand you’re a great authority on district breads.”

Well, that’s a chilling way to start. Were their conversations in the lunchroom being recorded? And if that was the case, was everywhere bugged? Even his bedroom? He feels a sudden rush of anxiety for Melissa. He should have been more careful. But Izuku can’t let this distract him from his ultimate goal. So he plays along.

“I guess you could say that,” he says humbly, “You know something funny? Not only do they represent each district’s industry, but they actually kind of resemble this year’s tributes!”

Present Mic raises his eyebrows. “Are you saying that they look…doughy?”

The audience chortles, and Izuku laughs right along with them, but waves his hands back and forth. “No, no! What I mean, is, well…take me, for example. A dime a dozen and as plain as Twelve’s drop biscuits. And then there’s the cream-filled, glazed buns from District One,” Izuku glances very obviously over at Camie Utsushimi. “Now who does that remind you of?”

This pulls some loud wolf-whistles and catcalls from the audience. Utsushimi was undoubtedly a very attractive girl, though Izuku can’t imagine holding down a conversation with her—not just because she was his opponent, but also because nothing she says makes a lick of sense. She uses all kinds of weird slang that must be regional to her district or something, because Izuku has never heard any of it before. Utsushimi is also not really Izuku’s type, and certainly not who Izuku wants Present Mic to turn the romance plot onto. Time to switch things up a bit.

“But that’s not what I found most impressive about the Capitol,” Izuku says, “And I bet you’ll never guess what it was.”

“I think if I tried to do that, we’d be here all night,” Present Mic says with a grin, “So, what blew you away?”

“My shower,” Izuku replies. This, interestingly enough, actually earns him a few more whistles. Huh. His prep team really is amazing. Somehow they’ve managed to turn the mental image of a plain guy like him in the shower into a sexy one. “I’ve never been so terrified of soap.”

Present Mic knocks his head back with a laugh. “What the heck happened in that shower?!”

Izuku leans forward in his seat, and Present Mic mirrors him automatically, as though he’s genuinely intrigued. “So there I am, hopping around from foot to foot as I’m assaulted on all sides with jets of freezing cold and scorching hot water,” He mimics his antics from that fateful encounter, throwing up his arms to shield his face, “And in my panic trying to get the water to turn off, I just about drowned myself in perfume oil!”

The audience and Present Mic are in stitches. Izuku shuffles to the edge of the couch so he can lean over to Present Mic, and points to his neck. “Tell me, do I smell like roses to you?”

Present Mic makes a show looking befuddled, and then moves in close to sniff at him. Izuku smells more like a light, buttery croissant at the moment, but you would never know it from the way Present Mic recoils and cries out, “You smell like you bathed in the stuff!”

“Because I did!” Izuku laughs.

“What about me, what do I smell like?” Present Mic asks insistently, presenting his neck to Izuku.

Izuku gets in real close, and breathes in deep, lingering for a few extra seconds longer than necessary just so the crowd can shriek with laughter. Then he leans back and rubs at his chin, pouting thoughtfully, letting the crowd sit in their suspense. In all honesty, Present Mic reeks like hairspray and old leather, but instead he points at the host and declares, “Chocolate oranges!”

Present Mic’s jaw drops. “OHOHO! A keen sense of smell that only a baker could possess, folks!”

The audience cheers and Izuku gives them a big smile and attempts to look modestly sheepish.

As the audience settles, Present Mic leans in rather conspiratorially, and says, “So, Izuku, a guy like you just has to have a sweetheart back home, right?”

There it is. Izuku lets the question hang in the air for a moment, pausing on the precipice, which to Present Mic and the audience seems like hesitation. Then he bites his lip a little and shakes his head.

Toshinori said that Present Mic was damn good at picking up on cues, and sure enough, the eternal host of the Hunger Games doesn’t back down an inch from this juicy interrogation. “Come on, there’s gotta be someone.”

Izuku ducks his chin a little, averting his gaze, and hears a few people in the crowd cooing at this show of shyness, a vulnerable reaction that lets them look at him as if he were real. A character on TV that’s so true to life, so relatable, he could actually be human, and not just a piece on the Capitol’s twisted, blood-soaked chess board.

Present Mic keeps on digging for gold, letting out a gasp and leaning forward intently. “Maybe a secret crush?”

Wow, did Toshinori slip Present Mic a bribe or something? That was scarily on the nose. But then, so had been his question about the district bread. So maybe Izuku’s talk with Toshinori planning the romance angle had also been overheard. Whatever. At least it’s working to his advantage for this moment. It was now or never.

“Well, there is someone…but…” he trails off and sighs wistfully, “I don’t think they even seem to notice I’m alive.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Present Mic says, playing right along as if Toshinori had passed him a script backstage. “Are they in love with someone else?”

Automatically, Kirishima jumps into Izuku’s mind. The two of them were seldom seen apart. And, according to Tsu, Kirishima had taken notice of Kacchan, and has probably felt that way for a long time. As for whether or not Kacchan returned those feelings…well, he certainly doesn’t have to playact very much for this next part.

Izuku shrugs helplessly and replies, “I’m not sure. Maybe. It’s not like I would’ve stood a chance, anyway.”

A sympathetic sigh floats through the crowd.

“Well, Izuku, here’s what you have to do,” Present Mic says, dropping his voice low as if this were a private conversation between two old friends, not a televised interview being broadcast live to the whole of Panem. “You win this thing, you go back home a victor. And there’s no way they could turn you down then.”

Izuku’s heart is beating right out of his chest by this point. He hunches his shoulders, clutches at his knees, and shakes his head. “I’m afraid that won’t help in my case,” he says, his voice tight and hoarse, because it’s true, and it hurts to admit out loud just as much as the rest of it.

“And why is that?” Present Mic urges.

Izuku feels himself blushing, and it is not put on in the slightest. He is genuinely mortified to be saying this, here and now, of all places.

“B-because,” he stammers, “Because…he came here with me.”

There’s an initial, resounding gasp from the crowd, but Izuku doesn’t dare to look out at them, or across to Present Mic. He just stares down at the stage, and wishes it would open up beneath him.

Slowly, as the full understanding of what Izuku has said rolls over them, the noise from the crowd starts to grow, punctuated by Present Mic’s sympathetic mutter of, “Well, that is certainly a bit of bad luck, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Izuku chokes out, “Pretty unlucky.”

It is so bizarre to be telling this long-time secret out loud, here—not to a friend, not to the boy himself—but to the Capitol. And even though it’s one-hundred percent true, it feels so fake. An act on top of an act. Magnifying this confession has a reductive effect, diminishing it, cheapening it.  

“I don’t think any of us could blame you,” Present Mic says, “He must’ve been pretty popular back home, huh?”

Present Mic is trying to lighten the mood, and it actually works a little bit on Izuku, who manages to laugh quietly. “Yeah,” he agrees, “But he had no idea. He has no clue the effect he has on people…”

At that moment, Izuku looks up at the screens and sees that all of the cameras, every last one, are zoomed in on Kacchan, who has an expression on his face that Izuku has never, ever seen there before. He’s wide-eyed, lips slightly parted, and his cheeks and ears are so red, it’s putting his dazzling suit of flickering gemstones to shame. It’s so lovely, so captivating, that Izuku is utterly spellbound, his eyes transfixed on the creature looking back at him on the screens, who looks as though he has come from another world, where skin shimmers and eyes flash like they’ve embodied the essence of candlelight itself.

Kacchan is not pretty. He is not beautiful. He is as radiant as the sun.

“So he didn’t know about how you feel, either?” Present Mic asks, breaking the spell.

Izuku shakes his head, but it’s mostly to clear out the fog. “Not until now.”

“I see,” Present Mic tuts, “Well, dear boy, I think I speak for all of Panem tonight when I say our hearts go out to you.”

The audience actually gets to its feet at that, and the applause threatens to shatter Izuku’s eardrums, and he finds that he’s genuinely moved by their response. He mouths a small thank you to the crowd as he gets up and returns to his seat. He doesn’t have to worry about accidentally meeting Kacchan’s eye, because Kacchan is pointedly staring at the floor when Izuku arrives back to his seat. There’s no visible sign of anger. That’s something, anyway.

Everyone rises for the anthem, and Izuku watches as all the screens are taken over by a shot of him and Kacchan, standing a short distance apart. Izuku looks stressed, while Kacchan’s face is unreadable.

As soon as the anthem finishes, Kacchan bolts for the lobby, hopping onto one of the elevators just as its doors are slipping shut, so Izuku has no choice but to get on a different one. Even though the interview went well—better than Izuku had anticipated—he is racked with guilt the entire way up to the 12th floor, feeling incredibly sorry that he and Toshinori didn’t tell Kacchan about this beforehand.

When he steps off the elevator into the penthouse, Kacchan is a blur of red as he rushes him. Before he even comes into focus, Izuku is slammed into the wall, and by the time he gets his bearings, Kacchan has his forearm pinned against his neck. All the anger he had been expecting to see before is present now in Kacchan’s red, enraged face.

“What the hell?!” Kacchan hollers, “We haven’t said a word to each other since we were kids and suddenly you’ve got some crush on me?!”

Izuku sputters and chokes for breath as his fingers scrabble at Kacchan’s arm, unable to get any purchase on the slippery gems. “K-Kacchan, wait—!”

There’s a ping as the elevator doors open up behind Kacchan to reveal Toshinori, Midnight, and their stylists. Midnight lets out a shriek at the scene before them, and Toshinori is on the two of his tributes in an instant, yanking Kacchan off of Izuku and standing in between them, blocking Kacchan from Izuku’s line of sight.

“Calm down, kid!” Toshinori shouts.

“This was all your fuckin’ idea, wasn’t it?” Kacchan spits out, “Making me look like some kind of damn fool in front of the entire country?”

Izuku feels a bit stung, not just by the venom in Kacchan’s voice, but also by the fact that, not only did he not believe Izuku’s confession, he also wasn’t even crediting Izuku with the idea. Izuku looks around Toshinori’s shoulder, and meets Kacchan’s furious gaze.

“It…it was my idea,” he mumbles, “All Might just helped me with it.”

Kacchan’s eyes narrow sharply at him, his taut mouth twisting into a grimace. He’s never looked at Izuku with such vitriol, and that’s saying something. Izuku would relive the past eight years of silence all over again over seeing the hateful look on Kacchan’s face now. He didn’t even show this kind of disdain to the people of the Capitol.

“That’s right,” Toshinori says, “And Young Midoriya just did you a huge favour. This boy just gave you something you could never have achieved on your own.”

“He made me look weak!”

“He made you look desirable,” Toshinori says earnestly, “And that’s going to be a huge help in getting you sponsors.”

“I didn’t need his damn help!” Kacchan yells, “My interview went perfectly! They all fuckin’ loved me!”

“I’ll admit, you did a hell of a lot better than I thought you would, kid. But let’s face it, you were about as romantic as dirt before Young Midoriya said he wanted you. And now they all do. You two are all they’re talking about out there.”

Kacchan is seething at this point, and seems to not even have the words to articulate how mad he is, because he says nothing to that.

“It’s an ingenious strategy,” Toshinori continues, still trying to get Kacchan on board, “The star-crossed lovers from District Twelve…”

“We are not star-crossed lovers!” Kacchan snaps.

“It’s a television show!” Toshinori cries, throwing up his hands, clearly at his wit’s end with Kacchan now, “All these people want is some entertainment. Sponsors will mean the difference between life and death when you’re in the arena. You can set all the snares, and build all the fires, and shoot all the arrows you want, but if all that fails you and you’re looking death in the face, the only thing you can hope for is a gift from a sponsor. You were the same flashy pretty boy that they’ve seen from the Career districts over and over again for decades, and now you’re the boy next door. Which one do you think will get you more sponsors?”

It’s a bit of a surprise, really, how much Toshinori really does seem to care about what happens to the both of them. And it’s impressive, too, how well Toshinori can think on his feet, when he’s not absolutely hammered. If he wasn’t a drunk, he probably could have given District 12 a lot more victors.

Izuku can see the gears turning in Kacchan’s head as he takes in Toshinori’s words, and begins to understand. Toshinori has something that Izuku will never be able to possess—an ability to truly understand Kacchan, because the two of them were just alike. Best Jeanist steps over to Kacchan and puts a hand on his shoulder, murmuring quietly to him, and Kacchan’s mask of rage incrementally continues to soften further still. Izuku stares at Kacchan as if he’s never seen him before, and—if Izuku were to be honest with himself—he’s starting to wonder if he ever truly has.

After a long consideration, Kacchan finally speaks again, still agitated but significantly calmer than before, “I should have been told. I got put on the spot in my own interview. If I had been in on this shit, I wouldn’t have looked so stupid.”

Everyone but Izuku moves in to smooth things over, assuring Kacchan that his reaction was perfect, that he played his part well, that it all went off without a hitch thanks to his genuine reaction to Izuku’s love confession. Their words finally reach him, having Kacchan standing straighter, his rage successfully quelled, all no thanks to Izuku.

“You’re golden, kiddo,” Toshinori says, patting Kacchan on the shoulder. “You’re going to have sponsors lined up around the block.” His gaze lands on Izuku for a moment and then he says, pointedly, “Just play into the love story; give them a show.” Then he pats Kacchan between the shoulder blades and guides him towards the dining room. “Now come on, let’s go have some dinner.”

Kacchan doesn’t acknowledge Izuku whatsoever as they all sit down to eat, digging into his soup without so much as a glance in Izuku’s direction, and certainly no apology for slamming him in a chokehold against the wall, even though that was technically very against the rules. Izuku had been expecting Kacchan to be a bit peeved about being blindsided, sure, but he really can’t figure out why he had reacted so strongly to the confession. It can’t be that bad to find out that someone has a crush on you. Even if that someone is a person you’re expected to kill. Even if he thinks that it’s fake. He understands that the circumstances are trying and all, but…

At the end of the day, this noble gesture—confessing his love for Katsuki Bakugou to the entire world, and fighting for Kacchan’s life in the arena above his own—was not something that may ever be rewarded with recognition, at least from the one person who it mattered most for Izuku to get it from.

Izuku supposes he had hoped that, at the very least, Kacchan might take it as a compliment. But his reaction was so violent, so disgusted…was it just because it had come from Izuku? Did he really hate him that much?

But then Izuku recalls the soft, wide look in Kacchan’s expressive eyes, his rosy cheeks…no, Kacchan might have devolved into anger, because it was a more comfortable, familiar emotion for him. But his initial reaction to the love confession had not been disgust.

Maybe that is enough of a reward. Maybe that image of Kacchan—phantasmal and mesmerizing as a glowing ember, perfectly mystified and equally mystifying under the bright stage lights—could be something that Izuku holds close to his heart when he is in the arena. A last sweet memory to cling to, when his time comes.

Of course, Izuku doesn’t actually want to die. Not at all. The thought alone—the first time he’s allowed himself to really think it—nearly has tears spring to his eyes, but he takes a deep breath as he stirs around his soup, willing them not to appear. He can’t cry. Not anymore.

Because tomorrow morning, he’ll be a tribute in the Hunger Games.

Tomorrow, he’ll be a Career.

Chapter Text

PART TWO 

THE DECOY

♖♔

v.

The replay of the interviews has to be the most awkward thing Izuku has ever had to sit through in his life. Though he finds that he’s actually quite bearable to watch, the conclusion of his interview is just as painful to relive as it was in the first place. A prolonged close-up shot of Kacchan’s shocked face takes up the screen as he and the audience react to the confession. The closing shot of the program focuses on Izuku and Kacchan, and it’s impossible to read either of their faces, really. Kacchan certainly managed to keep his fury well hidden. Maybe he was a better actor than Toshinori gave him credit for.

There’s a collective, strained silence when Toshinori shuts off the TV. The time for final good-byes has come. Toshinori will be taking his leave, going to take up residence in the Games Headquarters, where he will be monitoring them from the arena and working on contacting sponsors, with Midnight helping him out. They’ll be seeing their stylists in the morning, when they prepare them in the Launch Room, so Best Jeanist and Sir Nighteye hang back and give the rest of them time for a last send-off.

Midnight’s eyes are swimming with tears as she takes Izuku and Kacchan both by the hand. “Thank you, boys, for being the best tributes I’ve ever had the privilege to sponsor,” she says reverently. It all feels so solemn and final, until she adds, “I wouldn’t be surprised if I finally get promoted to a decent district next year!”

Toshinori rolls his eyes as Midnight kisses each of them on the cheek and then hurries away. Katsuki makes an annoyed sound and scrubs his cheek clean, but the mood quickly sombres once it’s down to the three of them. As Toshinori crosses his arms and looks the two of them over, Izuku wonders how this moment has gone for him in previous years. Toshinori looks downright sober tonight. Kacchan and Izuku have accomplished that.

“Any last words of advice?” Izuku murmurs.

“When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there,” Toshinori says, and Izuku knows immediately that this advice is solely for Kacchan’s benefit. While Kacchan flees, Izuku will be making his move to get in with the Career pack, and to do that, he needs a weapon. “The Cornucopia bloodbath kills off nearly half the tributes in the first few minutes of the Games. So don’t get caught up in it. Just clear out, and put as much distance as you can between yourselves and the others. Your first priority is to find a source of water.”

“And after that?” Kacchan asks.

“Stay alive.”

After Toshinori leaves, Kacchan heads off to shower and go to bed, but Izuku keeps Sir Nighteye in conversation for as long as he’ll indulge him.

“I know I’ll be seeing you in the morning, but there’s just so much I want to say to you, and tomorrow there won’t be enough time and I’ll be so anxious I certainly won’t remember half of it,” Izuku rambles on, “Please give Bubble Girl, Pixie-Bob, and Creati my best. They were incredible. And thank you for the beautiful clothes, for showing me your amazing sketchbook, for letting me draw, and for your advice. I never thought I would like someone from the Capitol so much, and if more people were like you, and Best Jeanist, too, then—“

Sir Nighteye puts a finger to his lips and shakes his head, and Izuku snaps his mouth shut. He’s not so sure it matters at this point, what the Capitol hears him say, but he gives Sir Nighteye a nod of understanding anyway. He gives the stylist a hug good-bye, bids him goodnight, and then he’s alone, apart from the Avoxes cleaning up after dinner.

He takes a shower, washing off the silver glitter, the makeup, and the buttery scent of beauty from his body. Then he changes into sweatpants and a tee-shirt as he lies down in his bed, already made up with fresh linens again. He wonders if it was Melissa who turned his bed again. He hasn’t seen her since last night. He hopes she was okay, and that him asking for her name didn’t result in her punishment. Now that Sir Nighteye has confirmed that the walls are listening, Izuku can only ruminate about all the things he might have said over the last few days that could get him or other people into trouble. His thoughts are running amuck in his mind, however, making it impossible to focus on a single one.

He manages to nod off to sleep two or three times, but it’s a fitful doze where he keeps jerking back into wakefulness. With a defeated sigh, Izuku pulls the covers off and sticks his feet into a pair of soft slippers, slipping on silent feet out into the hall and up to the rooftop.

Izuku hasn’t been back up here since that first night with Kacchan, and he realises suddenly, that, including his time on the balcony with Best Jeanist, and earlier tonight on the stage in the City Circle, it’s only the fourth time he’s breathed the open air in the last few days. He takes in deep, grateful lungfuls as he pads across the tiles and over to the railing.

This is also the last time that Izuku will be under the stars outside of the arena. Tomorrow night, when he looks into the sky, will it even be this sky? Will there even be stars?

He’s so lost in his own head that he has no idea how long he has been standing there for when a sudden voice startles him.

“You should be asleep.”

Izuku doesn’t turn around, listening to the soft footfalls of Kacchan’s approach as Izuku looks over the city. The streets are still thick with honking cars and dancing people.

“I didn’t want to miss the party,” Izuku says, as Kacchan comes up to stand beside him. “It’s for us, after all.”

Kacchan peers over the railing. “Are they in costumes?”

Izuku shrugs. “With the crazy way they dress around here, who could tell?”

He looks over at Kacchan finally, and takes him in. The red streaks and makeup have been washed away from his hair and face, and he’s back to looking like the same boy Izuku remembers from District 12, if a bit cleaner, and with a healthy alertness in his face, a brightness in his skin, from all the food he’s been able to consume over the last few days. He’s dressed in comfy clothes like Izuku, and wrapped up in a robe.

“Couldn’t sleep, either?” Izuku asks him.

“Couldn’t turn my mind off.”

“Are you feeling homesick?”

“No,” Kacchan says, but then a muscle by his mouth twitches, as though he were forcing back a wince of pain, and Izuku wonders if he really means that. Surely he must be missing the woods, at least. Even a homebody like Izuku has been going stir-crazy. “I just can’t stop wondering about tomorrow.”

That’s an interesting response. None of his usual confidence. This isn’t the same boy who took the stage at the Reaping and declared he would win. Kacchan has always lived in the moment, only focused on the immediate next step, only focused on the things he could resolve in that given moment. It wasn’t like him to be thinking about tomorrow, even if their future did involve entering the arena. But here he was, up on the roof just like Izuku was, because he couldn’t shut off his brain, because he couldn’t sleep.

Was Kacchan actually nervous?  

“You’ll be fine, Kacchan,” Izuku assures him, “No matter what kind of arena they throw us in. You’re amazing. Everyone knows you’re the real contender out of the two of us.”

“That’s no way to think,” Kacchan says, surprising Izuku yet again with such an unexpected response. “I mean, I know I’m amazing, obviously,” Kacchan adds, as though backpedaling a little, “But you didn’t do half-bad during training, yourself.”

Wow. Had Izuku’s love confession really thrown Kacchan this badly off-kilter? He was so out of it that he was singing Izuku’s praises instead of focusing on his own strengths, and the Games were tomorrow morning. This wasn’t good.

“You could throw a spear handily enough,” Kacchan goes on, “And your camoflauge was—“

“It doesn’t matter, Kacchan.” He has to put a stop to this. Izuku was never a contender in these Games. It’s only ever been Kacchan who had a shot at the crown. And Izuku needed to make him see that. “You wanna know what my mother said to me, after the Reaping? She said maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner this year.”

“Well, there ya go,” Kacchan says impatiently, “If you’re fuckin’ witch of a mother thinks you’ve got a shot, then—“

“She wasn’t talking about me, Kacchan.” He seriously didn’t get it. Izuku’s not sure why it makes him so angry, but he just can’t seem to help it. “She was talking about you.”

Kacchan frowns. “What? How d’you figure?”

“She said,‘he’s a fighter, that one. A real fighter’. She wasn’t talking about me.”

Kacchan’s eyes go wide, and he says nothing in response.

Izuku looks away, resting his arms on the railing and bending his head, sighing. “My best hope is to not disgrace myself out there, and…” Then he trails off.

“And what?”

The words Izuku started to say are replaced by words that, as Izuku’s mouth opens to speak them, come from some part of his subconscious that he wasn’t even aware of until now. “I just…I want to die as myself, you know?”

But Kacchan shakes his head. Izuku isn’t sure how to explain it, really. This elemental fear. Not for death, or even pain. It goes back as far as he can remember. Watching as kids were paraded through the Capitol, endearing themselves to the audience, and then changing.

Maybe it won’t be that much of a transition for Kacchan, which is why he doesn’t understand what Izuku means. Kacchan hasn’t allowed the Capitol to make him into something he’s not. During his interview, he didn’t put up any sort of front. He was sincere and dazzling. And he had the skill to back up his confidence. And while Izuku’s feelings had been genuine, it was all done for the sake of a plot that Kacchan wasn’t even privy to. Which was for his own good, sure, but it still felt wrong.

The Games had transformed Kacchan into an otherworldly being of light and beauty. And meanwhile, Izuku was just the ugly gray moth drawn into his flame, already being twisted into something that’s conniving, scheming, and manipulative. And the thought of that terrifies Izuku even more than any muttation he could encounter in the arena.

“I just don’t want them to change me,” Izuku says quietly, “I don’t want them to turn me into something I’m not.”

It takes a while for Kacchan to respond. “You mean you won’t kill anyone?”

Izuku visualizes that inevitability, thinking back to Toshinori’s words from their interview training session, which was also as much a strategy meeting for Izuku’s plan to keep Kacchan alive in the arena.

If you want to make this happen, you must defend yourself, and get through that bloodbath alive. Whatever it takes.

“When the time comes, I’m sure I’ll kill just like everybody else. I can’t just go down without a fight. I just wish that…there was some way I could show them that they don’t just own me. That I’m more than just a piece in their Games.”

“But you’re not,” Kacchan says instantly, “None of us are. That’s how the Games work.”

Izuku feels his impatience rising within him. How? How does he explain this, when even he isn’t sure himself? But then, isn’t that precisely his plan? To be a rogue piece who operates outside of their control, makes unexpected moves. Izuku can’t tell Kacchan explicitly how or why, but if he could just plant the seed, maybe someday Kacchan would understand. And Izuku finds that he desperately needs Kacchan to understand.

“But I’m still me. And you’re still you. That has to count for something, doesn’t it?”

But Kacchan can’t read his mind. He shrugs a bit, and says, “Maybe. But…really, who gives a shit, Deku?”

“I do!” Izuku cries, exasperated, “What else am I even allowed to care about at this point?”

Kacchan takes a step backward, frowning. “Just focus on staying alive.”

Izuku looks away with a bitter smile on his face. So they’ve come full circle, back to the nonsensical notion that Izuku even has a chance to come out of this alive. Guess it was too much to hope that Kacchan might give him the courtesy of acknowledging Izuku’s survival as an impossibility, or to have the grace to offer him a final good-bye.

But of course, he does neither.

All this stuff about noble gestures was lonely, thankless work indeed.

Suddenly, Izuku is so tired. “…Yeah. Thanks for the tip,” he says sarcastically.

“Look, if you wanna spend the last few hours of your life plotting out some noble death in the arena, then that’s up to you,” Kacchan mutters, annoyed, “Meanwhile, I plan to live out the rest of my days back in District Twelve, in the Victor’s Village, where I belong.”

Izuku continues to glare out at the multi-coloured skyscrapers. “Fine,” he bites out, “Give my mother my best when you make it back, won’t you?”

“As if she’d even care,” Kacchan says fiercely. And yeah, that’s true, but it still stings. The truth always hurts. “Y’know, it’s too bad about the force field. If you could just swan dive off this roof, you’d be savin’ yourself a lot of trouble.”

Izuku’s head snaps to look at Kacchan, shock and anger running through him, his mouth opening on a retort, but Kacchan has already stormed off.

Well, that was that. If that was goodbye, if that was the last moment Izuku will have spent talking to Katsuki Bakugou, he supposes it’s surprisingly apt. Or maybe not all that surprising at all, considering their history. Before the reaping, they hadn’t said a word to each other since they were little kids. And now in less than a week, they’ve had so many arguments, ranging from cold to explosive, that Izuku is able to rate them on a scale.

And this one is by far the worst of them all.

Izuku’s eyes sting with the effort it takes to hold back his tears, and that infuriates him more than anything else—more than even Kacchan telling him to take his own life, because he knows Kacchan was only throwing cruel words at him like they were rocks, hoping that one of them would land hard enough, hurt bad enough, that Izuku won’t try and close the gap that Kacchan is trying to reestablish between them before the Games begin.

But Kacchan just doesn’t get what Izuku is trying to do here, Izuku thinks, as he scowls at the door that Kacchan had yet again slammed shut with resounding finality.

He’s on a mission of self-sacrifice. Killing himself is kind of the whole point.

Izuku doesn’t see Kacchan the following morning, so there is no opportunity for any apologies, and no second chance at a proper farewell. Sir Nighteye arrives to take him up to the roof. It is a bright blue, early morning. A hovercraft appears suddenly above them, just like the one he saw in the woods that day, that killed Melissa’s father, captured her, and took her back to the Capitol to be made into an Avox slave. Now this one will be taking Izuku away to his own cruel fate.

Once inside the hovercraft, a tracking device is painfully inserted into his arm by way of a huge needle, leaving him with a lump under his skin, but strangely no wound. Sir Nighteye brings Izuku into a small room where an ample breakfast is laid out. His stylist encourages him to eat, so Izuku does, but doesn’t register the taste of any of it as he relives the nightmares from his shattered sleep last night. Deadly things coming at him with sharp claws and razor teeth. Children with wild eyes chasing him with swords and axes. Kacchan dying in a thousand different ways.

It feels like no time at all has passed when they’re making their descent. They’re guided by a Peacekeeper off of the hovercraft and directly into a tube that goes underground.

Inside, there’s a large, circular room with twenty-four doors. Izuku is brought to a door labeled with an 18. He wonders idly which door Kacchan is behind as Sir Nighteye leads him inside, where he’s directed to shower and clean his teeth and change into his outfit for the arena, which will be the same for each tribute.

As Izuku gets dressed into the brown pants, green shirt, black thermal jacket and sturdy boots, he goes over his strategy. When the gong sounds, he needs to get to the Cornucopia, find himself a weapon, preferably a machete of some sort, grab a bow for Kacchan, and try to get through the bloodbath in one piece. He also needs to find the tributes from District Four. That’ll be Tatami Nakagame, and Rin Hiryu, if Izuku’s memory serves.

“You’re all ready,” Sir Nighteye says, “Would you like to talk while we wait until it’s time for launch, or would you prefer silence?”

Having just that simple opinion has Izuku’s head whirling. “I guess we can talk. Just…about anything.”

Sir Nighteye and Izuku sit together on the bench. “Be safe among the Careers,” the stylist begins, “Don’t trust any of them, not even Four.”

Izuku looks up quickly. “You know about the plan?” He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised, really. But he didn’t think his stylist would need to know about his strategy for the arena in that way.

Sir Nighteye nods. Then his brow furrows a little. “But, Midoriya…don’t give up entirely on your own life,” He squeezes Izuku on the shoulder. “You never know what will happen.”

Izuku feels his throat getting thick, and swallows deeply. He reaches up to rest his hand over Sir Nighteye’s, and returns the squeeze. It’s nice to know that there is at least one person here who is on Izuku’s side.

“Keep yourself alive, as long as you can,” Sir Nighteye continues. The advice begins to tumble out of him all in a rush. “Be careful about who is on watch while you’re asleep. Always be prepared for a quick getaway. If you can’t stow food and water in a pack, try to bury it somewhere that you can find it again, if you have to run. I know the Careers are strong and brutal, but at the end of the day—they are also children, just like you. And you are smarter than them, and moreover, you can see the bigger picture. You can do this.”

Izuku can only nod in quiet gratitude. Then a glass tube is descending from the ceiling, and a voice announces that it’s time to prepare for launch.

The tube closes around him as Izuku steps inside. He looks upward, but can see only darkness. He looks back to Sir Nighteye, standing just outside the tube. Izuku places his hand on the glass, and Sir Nighteye does the same, and then Izuku is being lifted upwards. He ascends into pitch black for a time until a disk slides open from above, and then there’s sunlight, and open air.

Izuku breathes in the cool, natural scent of pine as he looks around, getting his bearings. He’s on a small plain. To his left and before him is a lake and a field of overgrown yellow grass. Behind him, and around the other side of the Cornucopia are dense-looking woods. Izuku can’t believe their luck. It was perfect. Kacchan would be in his natural element here.

The voice of the Head Gamemaker, Flect Turn, echoes from the sky and across the plain. “Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Annual Hunger Games begin!”

The sixty second countdown begins. Izuku will use every last one of those seconds to take in as much as he can. He’s off to one side of the Cornucopia, with no view of the mouth, so he can’t see what lies inside of it, but there’s tempting survival items strewn about the plain. Izuku scans the other pedestals. It’s tricky to parse out individuals when they’re all in matching outfits like this, so Izuku squints in the sunlight, looking for that telltale plume of ash blond spikes and—there! Four…no, five tributes down from him. Kacchan is staring the Cornucopia down intently. Izuku follows his gaze and it doesn’t take long to figure out what he’s looking at. The Gamemakers have not bothered to be subtle. Sitting right on top of a mound of blankets, glinting in the sunlight, is a beautiful silver bow.

Izuku looks back to Kacchan, filled with dread. Damn it. Kacchan was going to try and go for it for sure, despite Toshinori’s instructions. Kacchan suddenly looks up and his eyes land on Izuku, and Izuku is certain he’s noticed him. He shakes his head, not even sure if Kacchan can see from this distance, but he does it anyway.

No, Kacchan. Don’t do it, he pleads, Don’t go for the bow. I’ll get it for you, and bring it to you. Just run. All Might told you to run. You have to run!

Kacchan is too far away for Izuku to read the expression on his face, but he’s almost certain Kacchan is glaring daggers at him.

The gong rings out, and Kacchan doesn’t hesitate. He leaps off the pedestal and dashes towards the bow.

“Kacchan, you idiot,” Izuku whispers sharply, watching as Kacchan, staying low, makes his way to—crap, Izuku can’t just stand here watching Kacchan!

Move, legs! Izuku orders himself, jumping off the pedestal and running deliberately into hell.

There’s already a fight breaking out at the front of the Cornucopia, all hoarse yelling and crashing metal. Himiko Toga already has her hand on a collection of daggers and Monoma is fighting with the male tributes from 6 and 7.

Izuku runs towards the weapons and finds a knife that’s the perfect size. Utsushimi and Kaibara are chasing down some smaller tributes a ways off. Izuku is just turning on his heel to look around for the tributes from 4 when a small but ferocious boy launches himself towards Izuku with a knife.

Izuku barely manages to bring up his machete in time to block the attack, and there’s a fierce noise of metal on metal as their blades connect. Izuku stumbles backwards, and the boy’s blade slips, and slices him down his arm. Izuku lets out a holler of pain, plants his feet, and—pure instinct kicking in—he snatches the boy by the arm and pulls with all his might, throwing the boy into the ground.

Looking down at the boy, Izuku feels more angry than frightened—it’s a primal, wounded anger, but the boy still looks up at Izuku in terror.

There’s a confusing moment where two things happen simultaneously. Just as the boy is scrambling back onto his feet, he falls over again, and there’s also a girl’s scream from behind Izuku. Izuku has just enough time to notice the dagger sticking out the boy’s back before he’s taking off running towards the sound of the scream—because it was a cry for help. A strange thing to hear in a place like this.

Izuku finds the source of it at the mouth of the Cornucopia. It’s the District 4 tributes. The male tribute, Hiryu, is laying flat on his back, a red stain spreading rapidly from the spear sticking out of the centre of his chest. The scream had come from his district partner, Nakagame, kneeling at Hiryu’s side.

Hiryu’s eyes and mouth are open, but there are no signs of life. Izuku can see no breath moving his lungs, and when he kneels on the other side of the boy, he can’t find a pulse.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Izuku tells Nakagame. He closes Hiryu’s eyes, and looks up at Nakagame. She’s got her light blonde hair tied back into short, spiky ponytails, and her angled blue eyes are wet with tears. She doesn’t seem to have any weapons on her yet. “Hurry and arm yourself.”

Izuku gets up and surveys the field. As much as the sounds of battle were unnerving, the hush that has fallen over the plain now is even more eerie. Aside from Hiryu, and the boy who cut Izuku, both of the boys from 6 and 7 are lying dead on the grass. He goes amongst the bodies, dreading that he will see Kacchan among them. He doesn’t find him, but his throat closes in horror all the same as he tallies up the dead. Eleven in all, killed by the Careers.

Izuku takes a few breaths as he considers, for a moment, bolting for the trees. But two things prevent him from doing so. The first is his ingrained fear of the forest. The second is the glimmer of silver that catches his eye.

Izuku stoops to pick up the bow and quiver of arrows, shrugging them over his shoulders. They feel incredibly alien to him, awkward and out of place on his person. This is Kacchan’s bow. Kacchan’s arrows. They belong with him. And since he hadn’t managed to get to them in time, Izuku would have to make sure he delivered them to him.

He goes back over to Nakagame, still standing near Hiryu’s body. The other Careers—both 1 and 2—are standing in pairs nearby. Izuku can see the relief in Nakagame’s eyes as Izuku steps over to her. He would certainly be intimidated, too, if he were left alone with the others.

Toga is glaring out into the trees as she plays with one of her knives. “He ran away before I could make him bleed,” she complains, “And he took one of my knives.”

Monoma clicks his tongue. “Sorry to hear, Himiko,” he says, “Don’t fret. We’ll get it back for you soon.”

“Not too bad for our first day,” Kaibara comments.

“Six and Seven must have had an alliance,” Izuku chimes in.

Four pairs of eyes land on him at once, but Izuku manages to keep his expression neutral. The amused smirk on Monoma’s face splits into a wide grin.

“Well, it sure didn’t last very long!” he cackles, “I guess you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Lover Boy? Didn’t even make it to the honeymoon phase, huh? What a shame.”

Guess that ‘Lover Boy’ was the dismissive nickname they’ve picked out for Izuku, making a joke out of his planned strategy. Hopefully Izuku will be able to sell it, anyway.

“So, we’re really keeping Twelve?” Kaibara asks, frowning.

Monoma smirks. “Well, it seems we need a replacement for Rin,” he says, “Hopefully you’ll be a bit less useless than he was, Lover Boy. Maybe enough to help us track down your boyfriend, hm?”

Izuku slides his knife into his belt. “Sure,” he says dismissively, “We should move away from the bodies. Let the hovercraft come and get them.”

Monoma’s face twitches. Clearly he doesn’t care for anyone else but him calling the shots. “Right you are,” he says, “You heard Lover Boy. Let’s move to the lake.”

The cannons begin to boom as they walk towards the water. From here on out, cannons will sound as soon as a tribute dies, but on the first day, the initial cannons are always delayed until the end of the bloodbath. Izuku counts eleven cannons, which matches the body count at the Cornucopia. That meant Kacchan was alive, that he wasn’t killed somewhere in the woods.

While they wait for the hovercraft to remove the bodies from the fields, Toga opens her jacket and begins to organize her collection of knives. The inside of her jacket has somehow already been adapted to hold at least eight daggers. Utsushimi has a long knife, Kaibara has a spear, Nakagame has a trident, and Monoma holds a huge sword, with another in his belt.

Monoma jumps right into it. “Here’s how this is going to work,” he says, “We have control of all the weapons and food, and probably the biggest source of water.” He points his sword towards the lake. “There’s seven tributes out there in the woods. We’ll spend the rest of the day gathering up the supplies, and we’ll hunt after sundown. We have two primary objectives. That big bald guy from Eleven, and Lover Boy’s boyfriend.”

Outside of Yoarashi and Kacchan, the field is, theoretically, pretty weak. There was a really small tribute from District 3, and the frail boy from 10, who Izuku thinks must have had something wrong with his foot, because he limped all throughout their training. There was that red-haired girl from 5, who spent no time at all at the weapons stations, and a girl from 8, who Izuku didn’t really see enough during training to make much of an impression of. Then there was little Mahoro.

“So, who do we go after first?” Kaibara asks, “Eleven, or Twelve? Twelve ran into the woods, and I saw Eleven go into the field.”

Izuku’s heart begins to pound.

“After we get the supplies together, we’ll take a look at the field,” Monoma says.

Izuku supposes the field would be a harder place to hide—especially for a big guy like Yoarashi. But was Monoma seriously less afraid of huge, imposing Yoarashi than Kacchan?  

Monoma turns to Izuku. “So, Lover Boy—“

“My name is Izuku,” Izuku tells him with a frown.

Monoma’s eyelid twitches. “My, my! District Twelve has a lot more cheek than usual this year!”

“What can you tell us about your district partner?” Kaibara asks Izuku, “How’d he get that training score? Does he have any experience with surviving in the woods? What’s his weapon of choice?”

“Now, now, Sen,” Monoma chides him, raising a hand. He keeps his eyes trained on Izuku. “That can all wait. What I’d really like to know is why you think you can lure out that sweetheart of yours.”  

Here we go, Izuku thinks. This is where the act really begins. And the easiest way to lie was to sprinkle in the truth. “Everybody back home has always said that Kacchan has had a crush on me for forever,” Izuku lies, “And now that he thinks I like him, too, well…” He shrugs. “Anyway, as far as survival skills go, Kacchan is as scared of the woods as anyone in Twelve. We’re all shut up there, and the woods are forbidden.”

It’s well known in 12, and soon will be well known to the rest of Panem, that Kacchan has far more skills in the woods than he ought to have. But the Careers won’t know that, and therefore will underestimate him.

“I don’t know what he did in his private session,” Izuku continues to fib, “But everyone in Twelve who isn’t a merchant’s child goes to work in the coal mines when they turn eighteen, which Kacchan did back in April. So he’s gotten a few months of experience with a pickaxe, maybe an ax, and would know a thing or two about working with explosives. That’s all I know.”

Monoma nods. “Well, thanks for the intel, Lover Boy,” he says. He turns to Toga. “Himiko, let’s me and you gather up all the weapons, and put them by the Cornucopia,” He gestures to Izuku and Nakagame, “You two, pile up the rest of the gear over there,” He points across the field. “Camie, Sen. You pile up all the food and put it over there.” He points to another spot on the plain.

Monoma has swagger, but he’s not exactly the strategist he thinks he is. Izuku can already tell he’s making several tactical errors. He’s allowing district partners time alone to come up with their own sub-strategies, and he’s putting all the supplies in similar piles, instead of spreading them out, or hiding them somehow. If they all go off hunting, what’s to stop the other tributes from sneaking up and taking whatever they want? But Izuku isn’t about to set Monoma off by trying to go against his plan, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Izuku and Nakagame start walking around the plain, collecting anything that isn’t food or weapons—tents, sleeping bags, tarps, fire starters, water purifiers, and random bits of rope, twine, and wire.

When they’re a good distance away from the rest of the group, Izuku says in a low voice, “I’m sorry about your district partner.”

She shrugs. “It is what it is,” she says, but her voice sounds strained. “I’m just lucky you decided to join us. I’d already be dead by now, otherwise.”

“I don’t know about that,” Izuku says, “You heard what Monoma said about me, being a ‘replacement’ for Hiryu. I think he puts a lot of stock in numbers.”

“At least in the short run,” Nakagame says grimly.

Well, at least they seem to be on the same page. That makes things a little easier. And at least Izuku knows this Career isn’t too keen on slitting his throat in his sleep—not yet, anyway.

Once they’re finished gathering up the supplies, Nakagame turns to him and holds out a small package. “Here. I think there’s bandages in this. You should clean and wrap up your arm.”

Izuku looks down at himself. He had completely forgotten about the cut he got earlier. Thankfully it’s not deep, but Nakagame is right. He still needs to get it cleaned, so it doesn’t get infected.

“Thanks,” Izuku says, accepting the plastic bag from her. He even manages to smile at her a little, though she doesn’t return it.

Izuku heads over to the lake, scrubs off the blood from his arm, and wraps a bandage around it. Utsushimi and Kaibara bring some dried meat and fruit over to the lake and they all eat, and work on purifying six bottles of water.

While he gnaws on a beef strip, Kaibara points at the bow on Izuku’s shoulder. “Can you shoot that thing?”

“Not that well. But…I thought it would be good to have a long-range weapon,” Izuku says carefully.

“You should let Camie have it,” Kaibara says, “She practiced archery during training. She was pretty good.”

But not as good as Kacchan, Izuku thinks.

“It’s a little awkward to lug around,” Izuku admits, “I can carry it for her for now.”

Kaibara’s eyes narrow a bit, but he doesn’t press the matter, thankfully. He was nobody’s fool. Izuku would have be careful around him.

The six of them head over to the field next, which begins abruptly on the southwest edge of the plain. The grass is thick and yellow, coming up to their heads. It’s easy to see where Yoarashi went, because his path is marked by footprints and broken shafts. There’s two additional paths that lead off in other directions.

“Did anyone see if anyone else other than Yoarashi went into the field?” Izuku asks, pointing at the other trampled paths. Utsushimi and Nakagame shake their heads, and the rest of them don’t say anything. Izuku rubs at his mouth thoughtfully as he considers the field. “Yoarashi must have known he’d be too easy to track, so he doubled back and made a second and third path, to throw us off his trail.”

“Cheeky, but astute,” Monoma remarks, his jaw tight. He’s clearly annoyed he hadn’t made the observation himself.

Visibility in the field is limited, and the grass rattles ominously with strange chattering, slithering, and scurrying noises. There’s a sudden loud rustle that makes all of them jump. Nobody seems very keen to go venturing into the grass. There could be things much more dangerous than Yoarashi hidden within.

“Okay, people, we’re losing the light,” Monoma says loudly, “Let’s gear up, and go scour the woods.”

Izuku is relieved to be abandoning the field, but he’s not looking forward to going into the woods, either. Will they find Kacchan? Most likely not. He’ll  probably be up a tree, and has probably already figured out how to feed himself. Hopefully he’s found some way of keeping warm, too.

But they could run into other more hapless tributes out in the woods, and the thought sickens and frightens him. This is where Izuku won’t be able to prevent killings. The bloodbath had mostly been over before Izuku had time to process it. This will be more like…watching his fellow classmates die. And this time, Izuku will be watching close up.

Unfortunately, a lot of innocent people are going to have to die in order for Kacchan to live. A lot already have. And it’s not Izuku’s doing, or even really the Careers’. It’s the Capitol’s.

Which reminds Izuku of another task of his. Following the Career pack is always a go-to storyline for the Games, as they are always on the move compared to the tributes who spend most of their time fruitlessly trying to hide. The Careers’ fascination with Kacchan will guarantee him plenty of screen time, and given Izuku’s confession last night, there will also be some camera time specifically for him, too.

As they’re all entering the woods, Izuku lags behind the rest of the pack. He pauses out in the open, under the last light of the day, and looks up into the sky.

“Hope you’re well-hidden, Kacchan,” Izuku murmurs. He doesn’t have to put on the wistful look on his face, or the desperation in his voice.

Fear clutches Izuku instantly once he plunges into the woods, which in itself is eerie in the darkness. As the light dissolves, it feels like the trees and the shadows cast by their dark branches, and the hidden things within them, all gather closer around him.

But this is overwhelmed by a sharper, even closer threat—the four Careers. Izuku doesn't know when they plan to target him, only that it is inevitable. This is an impossible alliance that could fold at any moment.

There is no fear among the Careers, at least none that is evident, with their noisy tread on the dead leaves and pine needles that blanket the forest floor. They make no attempt to conceal their movement. Monoma seems to be trying to keep them heading west, but that proves difficult to do, with the trees gnarling their path. As night falls, torches are handed out, casting their faces into a sharp relief of bright light and deep shadows.

After a few hours of hiking, they take a break. Kaibara hands out more dried meat and fruit and they sip from their water bottles as they sit in a circle, their torches stuck into the ground, their weapons in hand as they all watch one another with wide, suspicious eyes.

The anthem blares through the arena, and the tension in their group wanes for a moment as they all focus their attention on the sky. The images of the tributes killed in the bloodbath are displayed alongside their district number. No names. They are all just numbers here.

When they set off again, the chill in the air starts ratcheting up. Izuku can see his breath in front of him. By the time they take a second break for food, Monoma has a wild look in his eyes and has started muttering to himself, as though angry the hiding tributes don’t just fling themself into their path for his convenience. Izuku doesn’t know how they’re going to track anyone down. These woods seem massive and without end, and by hunting at night, they’re missing any subtle signs for human life. While he had some success at the bloodbath, there hasn’t been any action since. They were all scared off by the threat of Yoarashi and the ominous field he fled into, and there’s been no sign of anyone else.

They continue on Monoma’s chosen path, and then, suddenly, Toga comes to a stop, hisses to all of them to wait, and points off to the south.

There’s a pale glow through the trees. Some poor, cold, foolish tribute—not Kacchan, certainly— has lit a fire, maybe hoping that all the Careers were asleep by now.

Monoma grins, and breaks into a run, and Toga is on his heels. Izuku continues to take up the rear, not daring to get too far behind everyone, lest he trigger their suspicions.

They all pause on the edge of a small clearing. There’s a fire burning low, with a girl huddled near it. It doesn’t take long to see that she has succumbed to sleep.

“She’s mine,” Monoma whispers to them.

“I’m the one who spotted her,” Toga snaps at him, “Finders, keepers, Neito. I wanna cut her.”

Monoma thinks it over. “Well, I suppose you did have one of your knives stolen today,” he says, “Just don’t miss this time.”

Toga’s yellow eyes flash in the light of her torch. “I won’t,” she bites out.

Monoma smirks, and then he holds aside a few branches and makes a gesture with his arm, as though he were holding open a door chivalrously for her.

The girl snaps awake when Toga, giggling loudly, darts through the trees towards her, but she barely has time to scream, let alone beg for her life, before Toga plunges her dagger into her.

The rest of them join Toga, who is standing over the girl while swiping the blood off her knife with—to Izuku’s mortification—her tongue.

Monoma lets out a whooping cheer. “Twelve down!”

“She got anything good?” Kaibara asks.

Monoma checks around the fire, but there is nothing. No weapon, no bag, no trace of food. “Nope. Worthless,” he says dismissively.

Izuku thinks painfully of the girl’s family watching this—if not now, then during the endless recaps of it tomorrow. They will wake up and she will be dead, this girl with pretty silver curls, that look almost iridescent in the light of her fire, flickering with pale greens and soft pinks as though it refracts the light. 

“Let’s move on,” Monoma says, “Let them get the body before she starts to stink up the place.”

He gets a general laugh from that, and Izuku is yet again nauseated by him.

There’s something that feels distinctly unfinished about this encounter, and that fact seems to bring everyone up short as they’re moving away from the girl.

It’s Kaibara who articulates it. “…Shouldn’t we have heard a cannon by now?”

“Oh-em-gee, Sen, you’re deadass so valid,” Utsushimi says. She looks around to the rest of the group, tilting her head. “We totes should have heard a cannon by now, right, fam?”

“Unless she isn’t dead,” Monoma says, looking at his district partner.

Toga’s eyes turn into slits. “She’s dead,” she hisses at him, “I stuck her.”

“Then where’s the cannon?” Nakagame asks. Her voice is hoarse from misuse, and she sounds exhausted. She’s using her spear to keep herself upright at this point. Izuku can’t say he blames her. They’ve been hiking through the dense trees all through the night.

“It’ll be a totally major L if we have to track her down and unalive her twice,” Utsushimi whines. She’s been yawning for the past hour and is clearly as exhausted as the rest of them are.

“Someone should go back and make sure the job is done,” says Nakagame, and Izuku feels his shoulders tense up.

Toga turns her wild eyes to Nakagame now, and grips the handle of her knife, still slick with the girl’s blood. “I said she’s dead!”

And then a fight breaks out between Monoma, Toga, and Nakagame, whose pointy blue eyes are strained with anxiety at what she’s unleashed. For a few moments, Izuku watches on in cold anticipation, wondering if his first day in the Games will end in a mini-bloodbath here in the middle of these cold, dark woods.

Unable to take it any longer, Izuku takes in a breath and shouts out, “We’re wasting time!” This shuts everyone up, and all eyes land on him. Izuku stares them all down. “I’ll go finish her off.”

Monoma makes a sound that’s halfway between amusement and exasperation. “Go on then, Lover Boy,” he says, “See for yourself.”

Clutching at his knife, Izuku walks back towards the clearing and into the light of the girl’s dying fire. Her eyes are open and glassy in the faint light, her mouth open on its final scream, cut short by Toga’s blade, which was plunged into her neck. Thick red blood oozes from the deep wound in the middle of her throat, and Izuku hears a horrible gurgling sound as the girl, clinging to the last few moments of her life, tries to take in tiny, shallow breaths.

Izuku sits down next to her, staring at the girl’s face, trying very hard to ignore the wound, working hard to strain his brain and put a name to her face as he waits for her to die.

Izuku takes her wrist and feels for her pulse. It’s there, but soft, and erratic. It fades out, like the end of a song, and Izuku feels her death under his fingers as it simply stops.

Hagakure, his mind finally supplies. Tooru Hagakure is her name. Or, was. No, it still is. Death can take many things from a person—dignity, respect—but not their name.

Sorry, Hagakure. I’m so sorry.

He brushes his fingers over her lips, icy cold but soft, closing her mouth. Then he closes her eyes, the same way he did for Hiryu this morning. The thought that Izuku has already had to do this twice in as many days has him feeling woozy as he stands up, threatening to send up the dried apricots and beef jerky he ate earlier. He barely manages to keep it down as he limps out of the clearing on his aching legs, stiff from the long, cold hike.

The group seems to be murmuring amongst themselves as Izuku approaches, but go quiet as he comes within earshot.

“Was she dead?” Kaibara asks him.

Just then, a cannon fires.

“She is now,” Izuku says, solemn but steady, “Ready to move on?”

The sky is turning gray with the early signs of dawn, so they make their way back east, towards the lake. The night is over, so it’s time to regroup back at the camp.

The sun is fairly high by the time they finally make it back. Izuku is so exhausted and stressed he’s starting to see double. He’s not even bothered by his hunger—he just wants to sleep.

“How should we divvy up the watches?” Kaibara asks, “We have to get some sleep.”

“Say less, Sen. I’m about to fall over, no cap,” Utsushimi complains.

“I’m not tired,” Nakagame says quietly. Izuku knows that’s a flat-out lie, but she’s clearly not keen on falling asleep with the others just yet.

“Neither am I,” Toga says.

“Then you two can take the first watch,” Monoma tells them, “Sen and Lover Boy will take second, and Camie and I will take the last.”

They make camp just outside the mouth of the Cornucopia. Sleeping bags are arranged inside of the horn so that those that sleep can do so out of the sun. Izuku can only hope Nakagame will watch his back for him. It’s his final thought as his head touches the ground.

Three hours later, Nakagame rouses him. She looks tense and, instead of going straight to sleep, she follows Izuku outside of the horn. “Wake me up when your watch is over,” she murmurs to him, “I can’t sleep with Monoma keeping watch.”

Izuku nods slightly. “Sure,” he whispers back, He should probably stay awake during Monoma’s watch, too. Hopefully the couple hours of sleep he managed to get will suffice for the day. As Kaibara passes them, his brown hair mussed with sleep, Izuku says to Nakagame, at a normal volume, “Hand me your bottle. I’ll refill and purify your water for you.”

He pockets a few granola bars from the food pile and then heads over to the lake with his own water bottle and Nakagame’s. Sitting down by the lake’s edge, Izuku removes his boots and socks, and soaks his feet in the water to soothe his aching soles and the blisters that had formed. While the water purifies, he nibbles on a granola bar and thinks about all of those enormous breakfasts during their week of training. No spicy lamb curry for Kacchan this morning. Izuku hopes he’s managed to find himself something to eat, and more importantly, found an alternative source of water, since the lake was now off-limits.

Remembering his duty, Izuku looks off into the woods, and murmurs Kacchan’s name. This is for the audience as much as himself. Saying it out loud allows him to feel it across his tongue as he pronounces the two syllables. How deep has Kacchan ventured into the woods by now? Izuku would give anything to see him again, but in these circumstances, seeing him would be a literal disaster. But he still has to get Kacchan the bow. How Izuku could possibly accomplish this in time for it to be of use to him against the Careers, Izuku doesn’t know.

When he makes his way back over to the camp, he sees Kaibara examining the food pile. “There’s some missing,” he mutters.

“Oh, that was me. I took some granola bars just now,” Izuku says. He pulls one from his pocket for Kaibara to see. “Sorry. I should have mentioned it.”

But Kaibara shakes his head. “There’s more than that gone. Someone’s been here and stolen some,” he says, “It’s gotta be Eleven or Twelve. They must not be as deep out as Monoma thinks.”

Izuku raises an eyebrow a little at that particular phrasing. Seems they were all just following Monoma’s lead, even if it led them on a wild goose chase and got their supplies stolen. “He won’t be happy,” Izuku mumbles, “Was anything else stolen? Weapons, supplies?”

“Don’t know,” Kaibara says, “I only took an inventory of the food since that’s what I gathered yesterday.”

Izuku looks around, examining their surroundings a little more. If someone is watching them, waiting to steal food, maybe they’re doing so right now.

“I’m going to the lake,” Kaibara announces, holding up his water bottle.

Izuku nods. “I’m gonna take a look around,” he says, “See if I can find any clues.”

Kaibara just shrugs at him and turns away. He clearly doesn’t view Izuku as much of a threat, because he’s got his back completely turned to him as he strides over to the lake’s edge and squats down to refill his bottle.

Izuku circles the Cornucopia tentatively, and notices something around the back that confuses him. Someone has dug up the ground around one of the tribute platforms. Izuku approaches carefully to inspect it further. His mind reels with possibilities. Did someone try to dig their way back down to the Launch Room? Then, he remembers the mines that are planted around the platforms to keep the tributes from stepping off before the sixty second countdown is up.

Izuku hurries over to the lake, loudly announcing himself with noisy footfalls so Kaibara won’t suspect a sneak attack, but the brown-haired boy only looks up at him lazily as he approaches. “Kaibara, come look. I’ve found something.”

Kaibara picks up his spear and follows Izuku back to the dug-up pad. “What the hell happened here?”

“I think someone dug up the mines around the pedestal,” Izuku says, “They must have done it overnight.”

Kaibara frowns. “Why would they do that? Not like they can use them. They get disabled once the sixty seconds are up.”

Izuku nods. “Yes, but there are still explosives inside them,” Izuku tells him, “Think of it like a stick of dynamite. There are chemicals inside of it that form the explosion, and there’s a trigger. You can cut away the trigger—which, with dynamite, would be the fuse at the end—but the explosive is still inside. And if you could find another way to set it off, then—“

“How do you know all that? Thought you were a baker, not a miner.”

Izuku blinks. “Well, yes, but we go on field trips to the coal mines each year,” Izuku replies, “We all learn about it in school, whether we become miners or not, since it’s our district’s main source of trade and all.”

“You said your district partner knew about explosives, too.” 

Oh, yeah. He did. Uh-oh. Kacchan really didn’t need any more reasons for the Careers to hunt him down. “Yeah, but dynamite is nothing like the electronic mines that would have been buried here,” Izuku says carefully, “You’d have to know how to reactivate the electronics that trigger the detonation. So…maybe it was Three? They work with technology, after all.”

Kaibara stares down at the turned-up dirt. “We’ll have to let Monoma know about this when he wakes up.” By the tone in his voice, he’s clearly not looking forward to that conversation. Neither is Izuku.

After what they judge to be about three hours has gone by, Kaibara and Izuku go to wake up Monoma and Utsushimi. Kaibara leaves Monoma for Izuku to wake up while he rouses Utsushimi, but first Izuku touches Nakagame’s shoulder and shakes it gently until she wakes and blinks up at him.

Izuku and Kaibara go outside with Monoma and Utsushimi to show them the hole in the ground. When Kaibara mentions the missing food, Monoma’s eyes take on a crazed quality that’s deeply unnerving.

“Would your boyfriend have allied up with Three?” Monoma asks Izuku.

What an amazing possibility that would be. A non-Career alliance. Izuku shrugs a bit. “I don’t think Kacchan was interested in alliances,” he says evasively, “But I suppose anything is possible.”

Monoma clearly isn’t satisfied with that answer. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Tonight, we’ll leave in a group, heading toward the field, making it look like we’re going after Eleven. Then, split up. Some of us will stay in the grass, some of us will head for the woods, and we’ll have a stake-out. Wait and see who comes to take the food or work on the mines. But if it’s anybody other than Eleven or Lover Boy’s sweetie-pie, then we won't kill them right off. We need to find out who they’re working with.”

Back inside the Cornucopia, Izuku lays down in his sleeping bag next to Nakagame, and the two of them look at each other periodically in silence while Kaibara goes back to sleep. He wants to tell Nakagame about the latest developments. Maybe he could persuade her that Kacchan had allied with District 3, and then she would agree to slip away from the Career pack with him.

Izuku knows that he and Nakagame will be Monoma’s first targets when the alliance breaks, though he doubts even a fool like him would give in to the impulse to get rid of two of their group just yet. Monoma must be feeling vulnerable now, camped here out in the open, with eyes watching them from all sides, and the potential for their food and supplies to be plundered out from under them.

Izuku wakes up, and sits up with a start when he realises it’s dark, and that Nakagame and Toga are gone. Kaibara still sleeps nearby. Izuku jumps up and rushes out of the horn, but notices that the other four tributes are just going through the pile of food. It’s not quite dark, but the sun is setting. When he approaches them, Nakagame hands him two cans. Utsushimi goes back to the Cornucopia to wake up Kaibara, while Monoma relays his stake-out plan to Toga and Nakagame.

About an hour later, Izuku is crouched under a tree, staring at the Cornucopia through some night vision glasses, when he detects movement on the plain. Someone is creeping towards the Cornucopia, a very small yet rotund figure with a short crop of light blue hair. It’s the boy from District 3. He’s got some kind of small trowel in his hand and is looking around at the pile of supplies.

What was his name again? Izuku pinches his bottom lip and tries to recall the large board in the gymnasium during training that listed their names and district numbers. What name did Present Mic call out during the boy’s interview? The name jumps into his brain just as Kaibara lurches out and grabs at the boy, and everyone else converges on him with flashlights pointed into his face. It’s Shoda, Nirengeki Shoda. His eyes are wide and terrified, and he’s struggling in Kaibara’s hold and talking fast.

“Wait, wait, please—don’t kill me, don’t kill me, I can help you, I can help!” Shoda cries.

“Who are you working with, kid?” Monoma grills him.

“Nobody! I’m on my own, honest!”

Bad answer. Shoda doesn’t know he’s sealed his fate. But as Monoma is readying to strike, Izuku calls out, “Hold it!”

Monoma whirls on him. “What?”

But Izuku isn’t looking at him, but at Shoda. “Can you reactivate the mines?” Shoda nods earnestly. “What was your plan with them?”

“If you bury them around your supplies, anyone who comes near them would trip them,” Shoda explains.

“Wouldn’t that blow up our stuff, too?” Kaibara asks, his tone accusing.

“Not if it was done properly,” Shoda insists, “I could place them strategically, so that the detonation would be enough to kill the tribute without wasting resources.”

The six of them look at each other. Monoma certainly looks interested, which is good news for Shoda.

“How long would it take?” Monoma asks him.

“If I could get some help digging up the mines, and work in the day, I could do it by the end of day tomorrow.”

“He can keep watch of camp while we hunt, too,” Izuku says. That might extend his life by a few more days, at least. Otherwise Monoma would probably just kill him after the mines are installed.

“Fine,” Monoma says, “If you can deliver on the mines, then you’ll have until Eleven and Twelve are dead. That’s it.”

That night is a lot less tense. Maybe Izuku is just getting comfortable because he’s still alive, or maybe it’s just because he’s pretty sure Monoma will stick to the plan and wait until Yoarashi and Kacchan are out of the running before he breaks up the alliance.

Monoma arranges the watches by district—he and Toga, then Utsushimi and Kaibara, then Izuku and Nakagame, who take the first watch. They build a fire and sit in near silence in front of it for a while, then the anthem sounds and the girl who Toga killed last night, Hagakure of District 8, is shown in the sky.

Nakagame speaks up once the seal of Panem fades out from the sky. “I hate to say it, but with Shoda here, it’s kind of a boon for us.”

Izuku understands her meaning. Since he’s theoretically lower on the pecking order, in Monoma’s mind, they’ll get an advance warning of when the alliance is breaking.

“I’m not so sure he’ll wait for both Yoarashi and Kacchan to be gone,” Izuku’s heart lurches at the thought. It sickens him to even consider the possibility of Kacchan being gone from this world.

“You might be right,” Nakagame says, “So then what would we do?”

Izuku hesitates for a long time, then he whispers, “I need to get the bow to Kacchan.”

Nakagame is very still for an even longer time, and Izuku’s heartbeat quickens. Then she nods her head. “Okay. Deal.”

Izuku still isn’t one hundred percent sure of Nakagame, of course. Sir Nighteye had told him not to trust any of the Careers, even 4. But what he does know is that she won’t take on 1 and 2 on her own. In the meantime, he’s accomplished two things tonight: he’s reaffirmed his allegiance to Kacchan on air, and he’s introduced the idea of the bow to not only the audience, but to the sponsors. If Izuku isn’t able to get this bow to Kacchan, then maybe Toshinori can arrange to have one sent to him as a sponsor gift.

For the rest of their watch, they talk about life in their districts. Nakagame tells him about her time fishing with nets and tridents, catching giant fish like sharks and stingrays. Deep sea fishing expeditions take multiple days, and is a respite from being in the villages with the Peacekeepers. Out on the boats, people are able to talk freely. Izuku talks about baking bread, which is quite dull in comparison, but Nakagame seems fairly intrigued.

The next day is a working day, with the six of them aiding Shoda in digging up the mines, which they finish doing by midmorning. Shoda then shows them all how to open them up using knives, while he works on the inside of the first ones he dug up the first night. It’s an intricate process which involves him stripping and carefully crossing some of the internal wires.

Shoda uses one of these as a demo, setting it very gingerly in the grass. Then they all stand well back and chuck rocks at it until one of them hits it, and it explodes.

They take a break around noon, where Izuku reluctantly hands the bow to Utsushimi when she says she wants to practice with it. Her aim isn’t terrible, but not stellar, either, even after a great deal of practice. It’s nothing close to the speed and accuracy that Toga has, when she uses the same tree to practice throwing her knives. Afterwards, Utsushimi slings the bow and arrows over her shoulder, instead of giving them back to Izuku. Great.

In the afternoon, their next task is trickier. Shoda marks out a pattern for the mines around their combined pyramid of goods, and they dig shallow holes. Each mine has to be set in the hole and mostly buried before they can be reactivated by Shoda, who carefully finishes covering them with loose soil when he’s finished.

Shoda makes sure that the rest of them can see and follow the path to get to the supplies. It’s narrow and requires a quite a bit of footwork. Monoma makes Shoda demonstrate the path several times, and then declares that Shoda will be in charge of fetching whatever food and supplies they may need from the pyramid. Looks like Shoda has extended his own usefulness. Did he make the booby trap around the supplies so difficult to navigate with that intention in mind? It was a clever strategy, Izuku had to admit. But Monoma’s patience would quickly run out. 

That night, Izuku is on watch with Utsushimi, Kaibara is with Nakagame, and Monoma with Toga again. Most likely they are planning their endgame, but Izuku isn’t worried. They still have time. Eventually, they’ll likely have to brave the field to go after Yoarashi, and until then, they’ll be together and waiting fruitlessly for Kacchan.

Utsushimi has put the bow away with her bag, so there’s no easy way for Izuku to ask for it back, or just reclaim it for himself. He’s hoping he won’t need it soon. He and Utsushimi don’t talk much. When she asks a question or makes a comment, Izuku manages short responses, still not able to parse her strange jargon, and then returns to staring longingly at the woods.

The next day, Izuku wakes up at noon to the sound of Monoma shouting. When Izuku exits the mouth of the horn, Monoma is pointing off to the north, where Izuku can see smoke billowing into the sky. At first, Izuku thinks it’s from a campfire, but upon further inspection he sees that it’s far too big of a plume to be from a simple fire.

“What’s going on?” Izuku asks.

“It’s the Gamemakers,” says Monoma with a grin. “Flushing tributes out of the woods.”

Izuku had forgotten all about the Gamemakers. The dark smoke is coming from far, far into the woods. There’s only one person who could have ventured so deep into the trees, only one person that wasn’t popular with Gamemakers. Only one person that they would come after with fire. The Gamemakers reveled in cruel ironies. They were fighting fire with fire.

They were targeting Kacchan.

And it had all been starting to look so simple. Kacchan would outlast the Careers and ultimately defeat them. Izuku would take out at least one of them for him along the way. But of course, they’re not playing their own game here, are they?

And now Kacchan is in danger, being led out of safety and towards trouble by the Gamemakers, and it’s too soon. It’s way too soon.

Monoma sends Shoda into their pile of supplies to gather them all some breakfast and arm himself with a weapon. Shoda will be earning his keep today, keeping watch on the camp while the rest of them hunt.

After a quick bite to eat, the six of them take off into the woods, heading straight north towards the thick smoke that’s starting to overtake the glow in the distant trees. Izuku is frantic with worry and anxious as all hell. This is it, the confrontation that he’s been dreading. Unless Kacchan has found some way of evading the fire that didn’t lead him towards the Careers, then Izuku will be seeing him again very soon.

Izuku rehearses his frantic and half-formed plan. He’ll have to stay close to Utsushimi so he can strip her of the bow and arrows, get them to Kacchan, and then attack the closest Career to him. Monoma would be best, or maybe Toga. She’s deadlier at a distance than Monoma. But none of that will matter if Izuku can’t get Kacchan the bow. With Utsushimi unarmed and at least one Career down, his odds would be pretty good.

That leaves Nakagame, but Izuku can’t worry about her right now. He’s given her a fair warning about whose side he’s really on, anyway. Hopefully, she’ll bolt as soon as the fighting starts. Of course, someone will have to kill her eventually, but Izuku can’t worry about that right now, either.

The north section of the woods is roughly five or six kilometres away, on the other side of the lake. The terrain is made up of small hills and large boulders, and the windy path of the stream that trickles off of the lake.

The heat starts to rise around them, and Izuku’s lips go dry and his lungs start to sting from the smoke. It’s not long before a hacking cough begins, and he’s not the only one. Yet again, Monoma is a fool, leading them out into this acrid air. But it also makes Izuku hopeful that Kacchan will hear them coming and be able to get away.

But those hopes are quickly dashed when Monoma gives a whoop of victory that chills Izuku to the bone. They’ve all crested a large boulder and below is a small pond under the rocks, and there’s Kacchan, already bolting away, sloshing through the pond and back toward the woods.

They all hurry down the rocks and skirt around the pool. Kacchan is fast, but he’s limping, Izuku notices, as he disappears into the trees.

Monoma is laughing like a lunatic, chanting, “We got him, we got him, we got him!”

But they don’t have him. Kacchan has scampered up a tree, and he’s already way up in the narrow branches, perched like a bird. Izuku brings up the rear, right behind Utsushimi as they all crowd around the base of the tree.

Monoma cranes his neck up and grins ferally at Kacchan. “Been a bit warm around here for my taste lately, wouldn’t you say so, Twelve?” Monoma laughs.

Kacchan shrugs. “The air is much better up here,” he calls out, “Why don’t you come on up?”

Izuku has to bite back a smile. Monoma was right; District 12 certainly had a lot more cheek than usual, with Kacchan around.

Monoma’s lips curl with a sneer. “I think I will,” he says grimly.

Monoma strips off his pack, but leaves himself with his big sword. But even with that, he’s leaving himself vulnerable by climbing. He’s slow at it, too, and while he struggles to look for a good hand hold on the lowest branch, Kacchan scurries even further up the tree, quick as a squirrel. While the others cheer Monoma on, Izuku makes a show of cleaning the ash off his knife with the hem of his shirt while he weighs his options.

He could probably take on Toga, and maybe still have time to throw his knife at Monoma’s back. Kaibara would probably impale him with his spear after that, and then it would be down to Kacchan and Utsushimi, whose bow and arrows are almost within Izuku’s reach. But he can’t just grab them and fling them to Kacchan in this current situation. If Izuku can take out Monoma and Toga, then Kacchan could grapple Utsushimi for the bow, kill her and—

Izuku is broken out of his thoughts by the loud crack of a tree branch as Monoma crashes to the ground. He jumps to his feet and starts spitting out curses, but Kaibara puts a hand on his shoulder and says he’ll try next. But he’s heavier than Monoma and makes even less progress. By now, Kacchan is a good thirty or so meters in the air.

Utsushimi pulls the bow from her shoulder and, looking up through the leaves, she aims an arrow and shoots directly upwards. Izuku holds his breath as he looks up and watches the arrow pierce the bark of the tree, inches from Kacchan’s foot. He quickly plucks it free and then waggles it playfully down at them.

“Maybe you should try throwin’ the sword!” Kacchan jeers tauntingly. 

Once again, Izuku has to force himself not to smile, biting the inside of his cheek so hard he nearly breaks the skin. It’s clear that Kacchan has the advantage, and they all know it. The size and strength of the Careers is rendered useless here. And worse, Kacchan is making them all look like incompetent fools, which Monoma absolutely cannot stand.

“This is ridiculous,” Monoma spits, “He’s treed, we’re armed, and we have him surrounded. Someone has to be able to reach him.”

“Maybe we can smoke him down?” Kaibara suggests.

“You idiot, we’d be smoking ourselves out, too,” Monoma snaps at him in disgust, “We’d have to retreat ourselves, and he might be able to get away while we can’t see.”

“We’re losing the light,” Nakagame says, “He might try doing that, anyway.”

“I don’t want Katsuki to get away again,” Toga grumbles, “I want to cut him.”

“Maybe one or two of us should go back to the Cornucopia to get some rope or something,” Nakagame suggests.

She means her and Izuku, of course, but there’s no way Izuku is leaving Kacchan. And Monoma isn’t having it, either. He glares at Nakagame, eyes full of suspicion. “No, that will take too long. We’ve got to get him down, and we’ve got to do it now.”

Another argument starts to break out, but Izuku interrupts much more quickly this time. Nice and loud, so Kacchan can hear. “Let him stay up there. It’s not like he can go anywhere. We’ll just deal with him in the morning.”

Izuku has technically fulfilled his use to the Careers, now that Kacchan has been found. His only buffer against a sudden death is the promise to deliver Kacchan, so in a last, desperate attempt, he adds in a whisper, “I should be able to lure him down, as long as he still trusts me.”

There’s an uneasy, resentful silence, but Izuku is betting most of the group is grateful for an excuse to put off any decisions for now. Finally, everyone agrees, if reluctantly.

As Izuku builds their campfire—very deliberately away from the base of Kacchan’s tree, and under the unnervingly close watch of Toga—he considers the two problems he will need to solve overnight: getting the bow from Utsushimi, and getting the Careers out of the clearing.

He could try to persuade the Careers that he could shoot the bow (despite complete lack of evidence) and that they should all retreat while Izuku tries to convince Kacchan that it’s safe to come down, only to shoot him when he’s within range. To do that, Izuku would also have to convince them that Kacchan is a lot dumber than he is. A hard sell, for sure.

Which leaves just one option, really. The one Izuku has been putting off. Toshinori told Izuku to turn on the Careers when they found Kacchan, and they found him. Kacchan has bought them both a few hours with his superior skills in the trees, but when the sun rises, they will both be out of time.

It’s a good thing Izuku slept in until noon, because he’ll have to stay awake the whole night. And it turns out, he would have had to anyway, because when Monoma divvies up the watches, he doesn’t let Izuku or Nakagame take a watch, together or apart. Izuku knows that’s because Monoma thinks Nakagame tried to bolt just now, but as for Izuku…

Yeah. His days in this alliance are numbered.

Propping himself up against the base of Kacchan’s tree, Izuku sets his knife across his knees. If he looks straight up, he can just make Kacchan out, vaguely, amongst the delicate branches and needles. He’s not safe yet, of course, but a part of Izuku is still ridiculously glad to be so close to him now, to have seen him, and heard his voice, so familiar and evocative of home with his strong District 12 accent.

Recalling the memory of Kacchan taunting the Careers, Izuku finally allows himself to smile.

Chapter Text

vi.

There are no pictures in the sky that night. But tomorrow, Izuku’s will be.

Monoma takes the first watch by himself, and has set Utsushimi to watch last. Izuku’s latest plan is to take out Utsushimi and Monoma—preferably in their sleep. Then if he flees, hopefully Toga and Kaibara will pursue him. Neither of them will have use for the bow, so that will be left behind for Kacchan.

There’s a lot of unpleasant variables to that plan, but Izuku is pretty much out of options. By morning, Monoma will have come up with a plan to get Kacchan down, so tonight Izuku will have to let go of his life and steel himself to do what he never thought he would—kill in cold blood.

Yes, he’s attempting to defend Kacchan, whose life has somehow come to mean more than Izuku’s own fear of pain, and now even death. But the thought of delivering the blows is so horrifying that Izuku’s mind keeps trying to retreat from it.

Izuku considers the possibilities of his death with a strangely detached curiosity. How will it happen? By Monoma’s sword? By Toga’s daggers? Kaibara’s spear? Will it hurt? Will it take a long time, or will it happen in an instant? One moment light, and the next, darkness. Nothingness. It’s strange, the sense of fatalism that pervades his participation in this Game, that makes Izuku feel more important than he really is. And yet, at the same time, much, much smaller. Insignificant. A piece in someone’s game.

He closes his eyes, pretending to sleep, making his breath sound heavier. He’s done this before, plenty of times, when his parents would fight. One time—the worst of times—his father came at his mother with a belt, and Izuku had pretended to sleep through it. It’s not something he’s proud of, but he had been small, and scared of his father’s retribution, because he knew the telltale sound as that belt came down through the air—the sharp whistle and snap—and remembered the hot, stinging flash of pain that followed it, and the welts left in their wake. It happened so regularly, back when Hisashi was alive, that Izuku’s teachers used to ask him about it.

For his mother, her episodes were fewer and farther between, but still loom large in his memory. The last time she hit him was the day with the bread. But worse for Izuku than the physical abuse was the verbal, the sort of words that ring in your head forever, long after the bruises fade. Useless, good for nothing, not even worth the time. Izuku had gotten to the point where he mostly let it bounce off of him. It was just his mother at the mercy of the demons she couldn’t conquer. It wasn’t her fault she couldn’t marry the man she wanted, and that the one she did had revealed himself to be cruel.

It’s a form of forgiveness, Izuku supposes, the only form there is when there’s no apology. She loathed herself after those episodes; at least, Izuku has always had to believe that she did. And if he forgives her now, then maybe it will make this whole thing easier for him. She was the one who showed Izuku that he could be brave enough to be defiant, even when he knew he was facing punishment. Burnt fingers and a bruised cheek were a low price to pay for Kacchan’s life.

The moment with the bread makes Izuku think back to the boy he burned it for, and how he had ensnared Izuku, all those years ago. It wasn’t anything Kacchan did on purpose—just Izuku’s over-sensitive heart, really. But ever since, though he has lived and breathed and looked like a normal boy, Izuku has been bound to Kacchan in a strange and immovable way that makes something like this insane situation he’s in now almost inevitable. It has always been there, dormant, waiting for Izuku to pick it up and figure out what it was. Until Izuku went on stage to declare it, he had never really put a name to it—he never called it a crush or an infatuation. Kacchan fascinated him because he was a fascinating person. He was just…Kacchan.

Izuku’s mind flits back to panic and the task at hand when he sees Kaibara waking up Utsushimi for her watch. She stirs the fire, then sits up against the tree opposite to Izuku, facing him. This will make a sneak attack on her very difficult, Izuku thinks with consternation. But nonetheless, at dawn, he must kill her. All he will do, from now until then, is visualize her and Monoma—climbing up that tree, shooting at Kacchan—as mutts in human form, and hopes that it will make it easier for him to do what he must.

As the sky begins to lighten, Izuku notices two things. One is that Utsushimi’s head has slumped over; she’s fallen back asleep. The second is that there is an odd sound coming from above, in Kacchan’s tree. A grating, sawing sound.

Izuku looks upwards, and can just make out Kacchan way up above. He’s changed positions overnight, and he’s in motion. Then Izuku understands. He’s sawing at a branch.

A branch that’s weighed down by a massive wasp nest.

There’s only a split second to register that last fact before it comes crashing down to the ground, hitting the fire and scattering red sparks and golden wasps all over the place.

Only one thing in the entire world is known to Izuku now. To run, as fast and as far from here as possible.

Wakefulness has given him a distinct advantage. By the time everyone else is up and screaming, Izuku has already bolted away from the mass of fiery wasps. He can hear Kaibara yelling for all of them to get to the lake, but Izuku can’t see who is or isn’t behind him. He feels one sting, two, three, as he moves frantically through the trees, and then one, two, three people pass him by, as indistinct as shadows. There’s a burning sensation in his chest, and Izuku looks down to see he’s on fire. He comes to a stop and frantically pats himself down. Curiously, his hands aren’t burned, and there’s no scorch marks on his jacket or shirt. He looks around, trying to find his bearings.

The world around him is collapsing into sparkly shards, but he can see the wasps following behind the others as they continue to run. Izuku looks back down at himself and sees shimmering trails of smoke, but otherwise he seems to be intact. He feels lighter than he should, though. Like something should be weighing him down…something he was meant to be holding…

His knife! He dropped it when he ran away from the wasps. What a disaster. He has a job to do, and he needs a weapon to do it, but he can’t seem to remember what that is…what was it? What?

The woods look like smudgy watercolours, flat and blurry and surreal. Izuku pivots around, and even that slow process makes the earth beneath him rock unsteadily. It’s then that Izuku finally registers those were no ordinary wasps, but Capitol-made muttations. Tracker jackers. Their stings are poisonous, and bring on hallucinations, confusion, fear, and death.

As Izuku staggers through the woods, he hears some strangled gasps coming from his left, and pursues the sound. He comes across a figure laying on the ground, twitching. Their hands and face are swollen and horribly deformed. Sickly green pus oozes from the wounds. The sight is terrifying, and Izuku has no idea, like the fire from before, if what he’s seeing is even real. But then he makes out the hair—light blonde, tied into spiky ponytails. Nakagame.

The boom of the cannon reverberates strangely in his ears, but brings reality into a sharper clarity, though only just. Nakagame keeps twitching, and when Izuku takes a step closer, she suddenly goes still, and another cannon fires.

Izuku picks up Nakagame’s trident, and as he moves away from her, a hovercraft appears to take her away. He feels a brief pang of jealousy for her that overrides the sadness, because although her death was horribly gruesome, she is being taken away from this horror. She has escaped the arena.

He follows the path of trampled grass back towards their camp, breaking into a run, raising his trident as he bursts through the trees and into the clearing, poised to strike.  

Kacchan is there, sitting by Utsushimi, who has suffered the same fate as Nakagame. And at last, Kacchan has his bow. He looks at Izuku dizzily, and there’s something limp and helpless about the way he holds his weapon. Izuku sees a swollen purple sting on his cheek, and another on his neck, and knows Kacchan must be just as disoriented as Izuku is. If he was sound of mind and could effectively arm himself, Izuku would probably be dead already.

There’s footsteps coming from behind. Izuku goes over to Kacchan and crouches down in front of him.

“What are you still doing here?” Izuku hisses, but Kacchan only stares at him in a daze. He grabs Kacchan by the shoulder and shakes him. “Get up! Get up, Kacchan! Time to go!”

Kacchan staggers to his feet, and Izuku gives him a light shove. The footsteps are growing closer. Izuku’s gaze darts back and forth between the treeline behind him and back to Kacchan, who still hasn’t run away. Izuku gives him another push, hard, making Kacchan stumble backwards.

“Run!”

Izuku turns around and sees Monoma. The tracker jacker venom has made his face purple and puffy, and he lunges forwards with a sword. But it’s not towards Izuku that he’s going, but to Kacchan, who is finally making his escape. Desperation forces Izuku’s limbs to move, and he lurches forwards to block Monoma’s path. Monoma looks so unlike himself, so unreal, that it makes it easier for Izuku to hitch up his trident, thrusting it forward with every ounce of his strength.

He catches Monoma in the side as he tries to swerve around him, and Monoma screams in rage and agony. He brings his sword down on Izuku in one quick, sickening stroke.

In his final moments of lucidity, the blade goes deep, deep into Izuku’s upper thigh, and as he falls to the ground, the world breaks into pieces, each one like a mirrored shard that reflects multiple contradictory things at once. Monoma, staggering around, grunting in pain. The trident lying on the ground, its prongs red and shiny. Slithering things in the grass. The things he heard coming from the field that night, hiding in the darkness, now come out in the light. Blurry, snake-like shapes, rattling through the leaves on the forest floor, dripping off the lower branches of the trees, dropping all around him. Izuku forces himself to his feet and shuffles deeper into the woods, crazed by pain and poison, but the ground lurches under his feet and he falls back to the floor, bent double over his bleeding leg.

“Geez, Izuku. You really can’t do anything right, can you?”

Izuku looks up, bleary-eyed, and he sees Kacchan. Clean and whole, and smaller, much smaller. Staring at Izuku, boyish and curious. He’s got a blue ball tucked under his skinny arm.

“What are you doing?” Izuku asks the child, “You need to get out of here!”

Kacchan’s large red eyes narrow at him. “No, you need to get out of here," he argues, “Start running, you idiot. Run!”

Izuku reaches out for the child Kacchan, but he can’t quite touch him. He suddenly vanishes, the vision shattering with Monoma’s howl of rage and pain. Izuku looks back to see Monoma doubled over, screaming. Blue sparks fly off of his skin and crackle into a million tiny stars.

“It’s not fair.”

Izuku looks off to the right. Kacchan has reappeared. He is still a boy, but not as young as before. He’s sitting on the ground, a blanket wrapped around his small shoulders, and a mug in his hands, still full. The drink inside used to be hot, but it has long been leached of its warmth. Kacchan doesn’t look at him, only staring dejectedly down at the ground.

“It’s not fair,” Kacchan repeats, “Why’d my dad have to die, too? He wasn’t mean like yours.”

“Kacchan, run!” Izuku calls out to him.

Kacchan glares at him. “Go away, Deku. Leave me alone.”

The boy vanishes in a cloud of shiny mist. The mist extends outwards, covering the forest floor, surrounding him on all sides.

“We are not star-crossed lovers!”

Izuku looks straight ahead, and his mouth scrabbles to find its voice, but nothing comes. He is just too beautiful for words. His face is like pure light. His red eyes shine too bright to make direct contact; like staring into the sun. He grabs Izuku by the collar and drags him to his feet. It’s even harder to stay upright this time; Kacchan is holding up his entire weight.

“Are you fucking deaf?” Kacchan yells in his face.

“You have to get away!” Izuku shouts back, “Run, Kacchan!”

Kacchan bursts into sunbeams, and Izuku crumples back down to his knees. The ground tilts and Izuku retches from dizziness, but there’s nothing in him, so he’s just heaving dry. His throat is a withered husk, and it’s hot. So hot. Is he on fire again? He struggles out of his jacket, and the cool air of the woods settles around him. Sweat slides down his forehead and there’s blood on his fingers. Where did that come from?

Bad. This is bad. Something—he can’t remember what—has made a mess of his leg. Red and oozing. Izuku ties his jacket around it so he can’t see it anymore.

Getting to his feet feels impossible, but something urgent drives him on. He ignores everything else. The dripping, rattling snakes. The smell and slick heat of blood. He tries to heed Kacchan’s command to run, but he doesn’t even make it one step before something slams into his back and he’s being ground into the forest floor. Izuku’s cheek presses into the cold ground, dry leaves and pine needles and rocks digging into his skin, but it barely registers. Everything feels detached, distant.

His ears are ringing, and everything is too bright, then too dark. He tries to move, but his limbs are slow and sluggish, like they’re wading through thick molasses. Something grabs his wrist, and the pressure of it jolts through him, electric and sharp. His other arm is twisted around painfully, pressed into his back, and then something—a knee, maybe, but it feels more like a boulder—holds it in place. A hand squeezes the back of his neck like a vise. His other trapped wrist is dragged through the bed of pine needles until his right arm extends straight out. Another knee pins his arm.

Izuku strains to look over his shoulder and sees Monoma—the gnarled, purple creature that he thinks is Monoma—raising his arm into the air. In his hand is a rock the size of a small fist.

“No—” Izuku gasps out, a breathless choke.

Then the rock comes down on his knuckles.

Izuku has never broken a bone before; he has no concept of what it’s like. He hears the crack before he feels it, and when the pain that follows vibrates up his arm like a shockwave, he wonders if the poison bubbling in his blood is dulling or amplifying the agony. A scream tears from his throat, high and ragged.

His addled mind mercilessly alights his nerve endings as it catches up to the situation, making the second blow even worse. It lands at the base of his fingers, splintering cartilage, fracturing bone. This time, he doesn’t scream, but not in some act of defiant bravery, not to procure his pride. It’s just because the pain is too much, crashing through him like lightning. The world blurs and recedes until his vision bursts into reds and whites.

Monoma hits him again, and again, and again. Sharp, swift, targeted blows, over and over, to all five of Izuku’s fingers. Izuku’s other hand weakly claws at the dirt, trying to ground himself in something. Is he even still breathing anymore? Is any of this even real? His mind floats, mercifully now, above his body. He curls up in some far, untethered corner of his brain that notes, distantly, with a strange calmness, that if this is real, then this will never, ever heal right. Though he can’t bring himself to look, he knows that his hand is a mess of ruined flesh, his fingers bent the wrong way. He can’t move them anymore. He doesn’t know where the damage begins or ends.

There’s a dull thud as the rock drops into the bed of pines. Monoma takes his weight off Izuku’s back, and Izuku listens to the sound of his pained, haggard breath as he lurches away, into the trees, back towards the lake.

This place is worse, so much worse, than Izuku had ever imagined it to be.

Somewhere, a bird sings, clean and cheerful.

Izuku laughs at the irony of it. Or maybe he sobs. He can’t quite tell. Poison swims in his eyes, or maybe it’s tears, and his vision darkens.

“Stay awake.”

Izuku opens his eyes. A boy is crouched next to him, red eyes large and innocent, but his expression is knowingly solemn. He reaches out and prods Izuku on the shoulder.

“You’ve gotta get up, Izuku,” Kacchan tells him.

“You have the bow,” Izuku says to the boy, “You can win, Kacchan, I know you can. You didn’t even need my help. You did it all on your own, like you always do. The best way for me to help you now is to die.”

One more cannon. One more face in the sky. One step closer to victory.

But the boy shakes his head. “No. You have to move.”

Why should he? His work here is done. He is mutilated, and poisoned, and minutes from death. What will finish him off? The venom, or the blood loss? Impossible to know. But he is undeniably a goner. That thought rings true, even through the fog, clear as a bell. A familiar, old tune winds its way through the haze and buries itself into his head, repeating over and over. He struggles to stay awake, as the boy vanishes yet again, and another takes his place. Standing in the mist, wearing a familiar, faded brown leather jacket, and singing the song that Izuku remembers the man who used to own that jacket singing once before; the song that haunts Izuku’s dreams…

Are you, are you

Coming to the tree?

Where the dead man called out

For his love to flee

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight

In the hanging tree

Death presses in around him, and it feels like Izuku breathes it in with each ashy breath. Kacchan continues to sing, beckoning him. Izuku drags himself towards the mist until he reaches the base of a tree, and drags himself slowly, slowly, to his feet. Kacchan and the silvery mist have moved deeper into the forest. Izuku follows his voice, his mind grabbing onto it, and holding on. A reason to stay awake. To keep moving forward.

For some reason, Kacchan doesn’t want him to die here. So he lets his voice carry him into the mist.

He would let Kacchan lead him into hell itself.

Then again, he supposes he already has.

When the mist clears, Izuku finds himself under a bare sky, sitting on a muddy bank. He can see the sun sparkling off a bubbling, whispering creek. Opposite him, on the other side of the creek, standing on a boulder, is Kacchan. Young again, bouncing his blue ball against the stone loudly.

“Cut that out,” Izuku tells him, “It’s too noisy. They’ll hear you, and come for you.”

He closes his eyes. His throat is so dry. He’s never been so thirsty.

Izuku loses consciousness for a long, flickering second, and when he becomes aware of things again, he is being kissed by cool, wet lips. A silky feeling flows down through him, swirling around his tongue, flowing down his throat. He is kissed all the way from death to life and back toward death. Satiated, but suffering, unable to breathe.

Gasping, Izuku lifts his head out of the water. He sits up in the mud and carefully releases his jacket where it's knotted around his leg. Exposure to air makes it hurt even more, but Izuku grits his teeth and splashes water over his wound, attempting to clean it.

He looks at his hands, red with mud and blood, and tries to wipe them off on the rocks, but they won’t come away clean. The colours around him begin to swirl around like finger paints. Then Kacchan breaks through the perfect orange disk of the setting sun. Izuku can only stare. His heartbeat says his name, but he has no voice. He can only watch mutely as he raises his bow and fits an arrow to the string.

“Found you,” he says.

Izuku lifts his blood-stained hands as the arrow flies at him.

He wakes up with a gasp, and it takes a moment to remember where he is. The sun has gone down and the anthem has begun to play. Izuku looks up at the sky, where he expected his own face to be tonight, but only Utsushimi and Nakagame appear instead. He experiences a genuine moment of sadness as Nakagame’s face disappears from the sky, before he realises that the world around him is no longer swirled around, nor populated by hallucinations. It’s still a bit misty, and the mist seems to vaguely hum.

Izuku crawls awkwardly up onto the bank one-handed until he’s on dry land. He’s not cold—in fact, he’s fairly warm and swampy—but he stiffly puts his jacket back on. It’s caked with dried mud and blood, but he figures he ought to preserve his heat while he can. He has no sleeping bag, and he’s not mobile enough to make a fire.

He can barely believe he slept all day and is somehow still alive. He’s so exposed here. The Careers must still be incapacitated from the tracker jacker attack, and the rest of the tributes are huddled in their respective hiding places. Izuku takes a tally of who is still left.

Monoma. Toga. Kaibara. Shoda. Yoarashi. Mahoro. That boy from 10, the girl from 5. Then him and Kacchan makes ten. The Careers are outnumbered again, and Monoma’s two main targets—Yoarashi and Kacchan—are still alive. Has Yoarashi been keeping an eye on the Career camp at the Cornucopia? This would be the perfect chance to take out the Careers, while they all battle through the hallucinations of the venom. If Monoma comes out the other side, he’ll be furious when he regains his lucidity. Izuku is sure glad he won’t be around to see that.

But he certainly didn’t get away from Monoma unscathed. He is wounded badly, and though he is in desperate need of cover, he finds walking nearly impossible when he tries to get up. It’s not just from the intense pain, but from something essential in the leg—a ligament, maybe—that has been injured. So he crawls slowly downstream, until he comes to a thick clump of rushes, and settles in between the thick, tall grasses. The ground is uncomfortably wet, but he’s as well hidden as he can be.

One of two things is true about his situation with the Careers. The first: Monoma is convinced that he wounded Izuku badly enough that he is no longer worth their time. Or, the second option—and the one that keeps Izuku awake and watchful—is that Monoma, either too angry by Izuku’s betrayal, or too afraid to pursue Kacchan and Yoarashi with reduced numbers, will decide to hunt Izuku down and finish the job. Which would be a bad strategy, but it wouldn’t surprise Izuku one bit if Monoma let his emotions get the better of him in that way. But Toga and Kaibara would probably talk him out of that one.

That’s too bad, really, because the only use Izuku could possibly have at this point would be as a decoy. The more time Kacchan has to recover before the Careers pursue him again, the better. Maybe Izuku could see if he’ll be able to make it back to the Cornucopia. He can see how that will go in the morning, he thinks hopefully, as the friendly gulps of frogs and chirping crickets harmonize into a lullaby that lulls him to sleep.

It’s a fitful rest, where he wakes several times before his body relaxes into a deep sleep, where the nightmares return. And so does Kacchan, throwing tracker jacker nests at him, demanding Izuku explain himself. But he is mute, unable to plead his case. 

As far as Kacchan is concerned, Izuku is a Career. Izuku separated from Kacchan in training, and then he helped to track him down. He may have held Monoma at bay, but even Izuku barely remembers how that went. The whole incident is lost in the tracker jacker haze. The only evidence Izuku has of the encounter and its place in reality are his very real, very serious injuries. But Kacchan might still have reason to doubt Izuku’s true intentions. But no matter how angry Kacchan is with him, and despite what his poisoned mind showed him, Izuku can’t believe Kacchan would pursue him. There are unspoken rules about that sort of thing; it would be badly received back home, if Kacchan intentionally attacked his district partner.

It’s more likely that Kacchan, like Monoma, will leave Izuku to his fate. Which, hopefully, now that he is past the worst of the bouts of tracker jacker nightmares, will come by way of a peaceful starvation, alone and hidden. He just needs to get to a proper hiding place.

But his leg is even less mobile in the morning, so Izuku sticks to crawling, exiting the reeds and sitting in the sun to dry off and ponder the entire situation.

Kacchan is still alive. And so are three of the Careers. Monoma is wounded, and the tracker jackers may still be working through all of them. Kacchan has his bow. Izuku has to congratulate himself on his own small part in that. If Kacchan can regain his senses in time to find himself a fresh hiding spot and plan out his engagement with the Careers, then he will win this thing for sure.

As for Izuku, he’s weaponless, without food, and with these injuries…yeah, he’ll be down for good, most likely. But he feels at peace with it. This is what he intended from the beginning, after all. He survived his time with the Careers, and it won’t be so bad, he thinks, to die here. He has water, so he won’t die of thirst, which is a brutal death. Infection might outrace hunger and take him, feverish and insensible, out of this place. That’s probably the best case scenario, really.

So, his top priority now is to avoid being killed violently by another tribute. He takes a long drink of water and then spends the morning digging a hole in the mud above the stream. It takes some time, especially with his dominant hand out of commission indefinitely, but eventually he has a nice shallow grave for himself.

Then, he gets to work on his face. He makes a fat, thick mask of mud, mixed with grass and gravel. It’s tough to do without a mirror; he has to feel things out with his fingertips as he swirls and smears layer after layer onto his face and hair, until he’s hidden but still able to breathe.

After that, he takes one last long drink of water and lowers himself into the hole, and starts replacing the mud over top of himself, feet first, until there is nothing left to do but lay his head back.

It’s another night without faces in the sky, as he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep.

The next day, Izuku wakes up with the noon sun in his eyes. He must have slept for fifteen hours straight; a luxury he rarely got even back at home. He’s not hungry, or even thirsty, just well-rested and strangely at peace.

He thinks back to Sunday afternoons, excused from the bakery, and going out to the meadow to draw the critters he spotted in the grass, and enjoy the sun. There are trees on the other side of the creek, cattails and wild flowers and great white boulders. It’s all fresh and unspoiled by coal dust, ugly buildings, and gray, defeated faces.

Izuku isn’t sure if he’s being allotted any screen time right now, since he’s buried in the ground and immobile, but he opens his mouth and whispers Kacchan’s name all the same. It’s worth remembering that, somewhere out there, is a boy who still might need Izuku’s help. Kacchan will be someone to root for now and shower with affection once he becomes the victor.

Of course, Kacchan will be a different sort of victor, Izuku thinks. A rare one.

A morning nap brings strange dreams that are more so memories from long ago. The happier boy who Kacchan used to be when he was little. Not that he would ever win any awards for a sunny personality, but he had been less inclined to scowl back then, before his father died.

Arguing with their teachers about math problems and essays. When they learned folk dancing in fourth grade, Kacchan had refused to participate in something that was ‘lame’, but Izuku had seen him tapping his feet along to the fiddle music when he thought nobody was watching.

But unbeknownst to Kacchan, Izuku was always watching.

When Izuku wakes up again, he finds a beautiful sunset directly in his line of sight, and realises he’s slept the day away. The sunset leaves trails of pink and green over the peachy orange sky. He’s never really noticed before how many colours go into a sunset. He wishes he could paint it.

The next day, the sound of a cannon startles him awake. Izuku struggles against the cocoon of dried mud until he’s broken out of it, gasping and exhausted by the effort. He stays on his knees, weak and dizzy. He tries to stand several times, and when he’s finally convinced himself he can’t do it, he manages to wobble to his feet. But then he takes a step and a pain that feels like it is ripping his leg in half lengthwise brings him right back down to the earth. His urgency at the sound of the cannon can’t compete with his thirst, so Izuku brings his parched lips down to the water, and slowly laps water into his mouth. He’s unable to make his body move from the creek again until he’s spent a good five minutes drinking, which makes his kidneys pinch.

With even more of a glacial pace than before, Izuku pulls himself back to his feet. The pain doesn’t knock him over now that he expects it, but he still stands there, unable to make himself take another step as he begins to have a fever-tinted argument with himself.

He has to do something.

My time is up. What could I do? I can’t even move.

He can’t just lie down here and wait to die! He has to fight! For his life, and for Kacchan’s.

I can’t. I can’t. Besides, I have to die for Kacchan to win, anyway.

But the stubborn voice wins out, and he moves, in slow-motion, down the stream, towards a small copse of trees. Once he’s there, he collapses at the foot of a tree and puts his head on his knees to stop the dizzy spell that threatens to make him pass out.

The tree has a soft, red bark. A fir tree, Izuku remembers from training. Kacchan’s voice comes to him, then.

If you’re starving, a lot of the nutrients in plants are in the roots. If there’s fir or evergreen, you can get nutrients outta the bark, too.

Izuku isn’t starving—he’s not even hungry—but he is weak, so perhaps he should try and eat. He pulls off a strip of bark and puts it in his mouth. It’s not easy to chew, and his jaw starts to hurt before it’s mushed down enough to swallow, but he repeats the process with two more pieces of bark.

Then his stomach turns over and he retches the undigested bark back up, rough in his throat. When that’s done, Izuku begins to shake uncontrollably. Darkness covers the edges of his vision and grows inward, until there’s only a pinprick of light and a rushing sound in his ears. He struggles against it, some small, stubborn piece of him refusing to give in. But within seconds, he blacks out.

It’s the anthem that wakes him once again. He must have missed the second cannon, because two faces appear in the sky that night. Shoda, and the boy from 10. Izuku’s elation for Kacchan is followed by sadness for Shoda. He wonders why the Careers have decided to turn on him, with their two targets still in play. Maybe it wasn’t even the Careers that did it. Kacchan could be back on his feet and hunting tributes on his own now. But he would probably target the Careers first. Izuku has a feeling it was Monoma.

This thought makes him uneasy, because it meant Monoma was back on the hunt again. Izuku would rather not have to worry about him.

Who else is left? Izuku counts hazily in his mind. Him, of course—and why the hell is that the case? Is this some kind of long drawn out punishment for his part in the killing of Hagakure? For not being able to save Nakagame, and Shoda? Whatever. He needs to focus on other matters.

Back to the count. Him and Kacchan. Monoma, Kaibara, and Toga. Yoarashi and Mahoro—it’s incredible how long that little girl has lasted. Who else? The girl with red hair, from 5. Is that it? Eight?

The final eight. Izuku can’t remember the last time District 12 had a tribute make it this far. And now, there’s been two. By now, the Capitol must have sent camera crews to District 12, to interview Izuku’s family, and Kacchan’s. Izuku wonders how that will go. He also wonders how his whole act-that’s-not-really-an-act strategy has been playing out back home. Not that he’s been providing much fodder for that lately, puking up bark and sleeping in the mud.

Speaking of which, he needs to bury himself again. His leg isn’t getting any better. He’s about as mobile on his feet as he was in the ground, so it’s time to get back to his grave. He can only help Kacchan by dying, so he best get back to it.

The mud has somewhat dried back at his little hole, so he digs a little further into the wet earth. He redoes the mud on his face, since he washed a bunch of it off drinking in the stream, then he settles back into his muddy grave and closes his eyes. 

In the morning, he wakes up, still alive. He decides to work on perfecting his concealment. He had to work in the dark last night, so it was tricky to be accurate. So using his jacket to cover his good hand, he smooths the mud over his body and face, slicks it over his hair, and then proceeds to drift in and out of sleep.

A sound, muffled and cottony, wakes him in the late afternoon. The ghost of a cannon, a sound that he used to anticipate with fear, but now means nothing to him. His heartbeat doesn’t even rise by half a beat. It’s followed by a second boom. Two more dead. Maybe one of them is him.

But his face is not in the sky that night. It’s Kaibara and Mahoro who have died.

Mahoro’s face is the last thing Izuku sees that night and all the next day.

Morning comes on the other side of his eyelids. Then afternoon, then evening. He feels the light instead of seeing it. His bouts of unconsciousness are coming in longer cycles now. His time is coming soon.

A tickling sensation causes Izuku to open his eyes that night for the first time since the night before, and he watches a bug with spindly legs crawl up the bridge of his nose. It’s so close to his eyes that it looms large, larger than it truly is. It startles and hops away as the anthem sounds.

Tonight, the anthem closes out with no faces in the sky, and a new flourish of trumpets at the end, heralding the voice of Flect Turn, Head Gamemaker, whose voice Izuku hasn’t heard since the first day of the Games.

“Attention, tributes. Attention. Congratulations to those of you in the final six for your skill and success in making it to this point,” Flect Turn says, “There has been a slight rule change. The regulations requiring a single tribute have been suspended. Under the new rule, two victors may be crowned if both originate from the same district. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favour.”

The Capitol seal vanishes, and the frogs start up their chorus of chirrups again as Izuku tries to make sense of what he just heard.

After understanding, Izuku’s first reaction is total despair. This rule change has come far too late for him, and anyway, he’s already accepted his death. Made up his mind to it, despite death being strangely slow in accepting him in return. But it can’t resist Izuku forever.

Izuku closes his eyes against his second reaction, which is panic. Kacchan. Will he come looking for him? If their roles were reversed, Izuku would immediately. But Kacchan might still think of Izuku joining the Careers as an unforgivable act of treason. But on the other hand, their friends and family back home will be expecting Kacchan to seek Izuku out. And Kacchan must know it. But will he find Izuku in time? Maybe Izuku should make it a little easier, poke his head out of the mud, and clear up his face. But he’s not even sure he can move anymore; he can’t remember the last time he did. He doesn’t even have the strength to form Kacchan’s name on his lips.

And what if Kacchan did find him? Izuku is nothing but a liability. He would be useless to him in fighting off the others, but maybe sponsors will reward Kacchan for finding Izuku, if the star-crossed lovers thing has really played off well enough to inspire an unprecedented rule change.

Did Toshinori predict this all along? From the very beginning, he had wanted to present them as friendly, joined at the hip. Best Jeanist and Sir Nighteye, too. Of course, they would know the Capitol citizens better than Izuku or Kacchan did. This little teenage romance drama might be a pretty interesting distraction in these Games. The crowd had certainly been enthusiastic about Izuku’s confession to Kacchan on the night of the interviews, but it’s hard to imagine Izuku’s sporadic whispers into the night having fuelled a reaction so strong that the audience demanded both of them got the chance to live…

Izuku falls back asleep puzzling over the whole thing, and wakes up early. This new wrinkle seems to have reactivated his brain and put off thoughts of death, but he still can’t reanimate his body. He is encased in mud, unable to get out. Only his lips and eyelids can move, and even that is only barely. He feels sorry for Kacchan, if he is trying to search for him. Izuku hopes he doesn’t, even though that would be the expected thing. He should really be concentrating on Monoma and Toga, who are now operating as a full and deadly team.

He drifts off again briefly, and then wakes up to the sound of footsteps. But they’re so light and soft, it couldn’t possibly be human. It must be a deer, walking by the stream. That might be a nice thing to see; one last pretty sight, before he goes. He cracks open his eyes.

Oh. Not a deer. But still a pretty sight. He doesn’t think he’s hallucinating, but he must be. He closes his eyes, and reopens them again, a little wider. Sunlight dazzles against a pair of gold wings. A gold pin. A bird in flight, enclosed in a circle. He can see now, from this close up, that the bird in question is a mockingjay—it suits Kacchan well, he thinks.

“Kacchan…”

Izuku is surprised by the sound of his own voice, faint and rough and dry. He shifts his eyes up to look at Kacchan’s face. He is thinner and scraped up and bruised, but beautiful—so, so beautiful. The prettiest bird Izuku has ever seen. For a moment, Izuku isn’t quite sure how real he is.

“Deku. Deku?”

The mockingjay sings his name. Izuku’s heart thuds back to life with the sound of it, but he has no idea how to direct Kacchan to his location. Then he hears his boot stamp the mud right next to his ear.

“Um, please don’t step on me.”

Kacchan lets out a surprised cry, and jumps backwards, clapping a hand over his mouth. Then his eyes find Izuku’s.

“Shit, Deku,” Kacchan says wonderingly. He kneels down next to Izuku and looks him over, then starts to free him of the thick reeds he’s buried under. “Man, I guess all those hours painting cakes paid off after all.”

All Izuku can think about is Kacchan’s icy dismissal of his camouflage skills the first day of training, and feels like laughing out loud, but he can only manage a small smile. “Yep. I guess you really can frost someone to death.”

“Idiot, you’re not going to die. We’re on the same team now.”

“I’ve always been on your team, Kacchan.”

Izuku still isn’t wholly convinced this isn’t a hallucination, or perhaps a final vision in the last moments of life, because the look on Kacchan’s face is so unexpectedly soft, Izuku is sure he must just be having a really, really good dream.

“Yeah,” Kacchan says, his voice warm, “I think I’m finally startin’ to figure that out.”

Kacchan produces a water bottle and helps Izuku up onto his elbow. He holds the back of his head with surprising gentleness as Izuku manages a few swallows of water. He urges Izuku to drink more, but he shakes his head weakly.

“Thanks for coming to find me,” Izuku says. Then he looks down at himself, still mostly buried in the muck. “Well, what’s left of me, anyway.”

“Where did Monoma cut you?” Kacchan asks him.

Izuku is surprised to hear that question. Not are you hurt anywhere, or did Monoma attack you, but a specific inquiry about the cut. How would Kacchan know that? His leg is all covered in mud, making it impossible to see the wound. Did Kacchan have another encounter with the Careers, and Monoma told him about the attack? If so, how much did Monoma tell him?

“Left leg, on my thigh,” Izuku answers. Then he hesitates. “And, um…”

“What else, Deku?” Kacchan says firmly, “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”

Izuku swallows. So, he doesn’t know about the much more brutal part of Monoma’s attack. The cut to Izuku’s thigh had come from a pained fury, a retaliation to Izuku spearing him with the trident. But those deliberate, targeted blows to his fingers was another level of viciousness. “It’s…my hand. My right one. You won’t be able to see it with me buried like this.”

Kacchan doesn’t start ordering Izuku to just hurry up and explain what’s wrong. In fact, he doesn’t respond at all. Instead, a funny look crosses over his face, and then he eventually nods. “Well, let’s get you outta there, then. I’ll wash you off in the stream.”  

Kacchan easily rips away the rest of the weeds, breaks through the mud, and grasps Izuku under the arms and drags him towards the stream. Which hurts—a lot. Dislodging him from the mud makes it feel like Kacchan is ripping off his legs. But he’s so dizzy with the giddiness of seeing Kacchan again, he doesn’t care.

Izuku gets propped up against a rock and he watches Kacchan go to work with a calm and efficient quickness. He’s got a large pack and extracts a startling number of objects from it, starting with two bottles and a water skin. After filling one, he leaves the other two wedged in a rock in the stream so they can fill up on their own while he pours the contents of the first onto Izuku. Slowly but surely, the steady stream of water washes Izuku’s days in the mud off of him. Eventually Kacchan finds Izuku’s clothes under the mud and unzips Izuku’s jacket and pulls off his shirt, which makes Izuku cry out a little—not out of embarrassment at being stripped, but because his shirt is so caked on to his body that it feels like Kacchan is pulling his flesh off his body.

Kacchan grimaces, but looks sympathetic instead of annoyed. “Stay still,” he grunts, and gets the shirt the rest of the way off as quickly but gently as he can.

Once that part is over, Kacchan cleans off Izuku’s chest, arms, and finally his hands. He saves the right one for last, very carefully dipping it into the stream and letting the current rinse away the mud, since he doesn’t know the extent of Izuku’s injuries. Izuku holds his breath as Kacchan takes Izuku’s by the wrist and takes his hand out of the water. It’ll be both of their first time seeing just how bad the damage is.

It’s even worse than Izuku could have imagined. It’s so awful Izuku can’t bear to look at it for longer than a second, but the devastation on Kacchan’s face is even worse.

“Deku…”

Izuku’s throat feels thick at once. “Monoma…beat it with a rock. I’m sorry, Kacchan.”

Kacchan looks up at him, wide-eyed. “Idiot, what the hell’re you apologizing to me for?”

Oh, Kacchan. He can’t possibly think this is his fault, can he? Izuku would do it all over again, if it had brought them to this exact moment. He wouldn’t change a thing.

He just wished it didn’t have to mean he would become such a liability to Kacchan. Tears well up in his eyes, unbidden. Izuku is too weak to try and stop them now. And…something about having Kacchan here, makes it feel like it’s finally okay to let them out. “B-because…I’ll be useless like this…”

“Don’t be stupid,” Kacchan says instantly, “You’ve still got your left hand. You don’t have to be ambidextrous to stab Monoma in the heart for doin’ this to you. I’ll hold him down for you and you can go to town.”

Izuku shakes his head. Now that the tears have started, he can’t seem to get them to stop. And with them, all the other emotions that feverish delirium and the calm acceptance of his death had kept at bay for the last few days finally bubbles up and out of him.

“I’m too hurt, Kacchan.” Honestly, if Kacchan wants to save Izuku, let alone himself, he needs to leave Izuku in his hiding place and try to kill the rest of the tributes, right now. Because unless the tributes vanish and Izuku is scooped up and taken to a hospital, he is absolutely going to die in this arena.

But Izuku also doesn’t want Kacchan to go off into danger. Izuku wishes that all of the other tributes would just kill each other so that Kacchan can stay with him. More dilemmas—they are never-ending here.

“Y-you shouldn’t have come for me,” Izuku says, sniffling, “I’ll just be slowing you down. You should just go…”

Kacchan’s expression is solemnly firm. “Knock it off. As if I’d leave you like this. The fuck d’you take me for? Now pipe down and lemme get a look at the rest of you.”

Izuku’s lip wobbles with the effort it takes to keep himself from sobbing. Tears continue to quietly dribble down his cheeks as Kacchan thoroughly examines his upper half for injuries.

“You should have ripped these stingers out right away,” Kacchan tells him, but his voice is soft, instead of chastising. “I’m gonna have to pry these out. Keep still.”

Izuku nods, closing his eyes as Kacchan finishes cleaning the last of the muck from his skin and hair. He cringes a bit as the stingers get dug out. He opens his eyes again when it’s over, and watches Kacchan pull some leaves out of his pack, and, strangely, put them in his mouth. He chews them for a bit and then pulls a green wad out and applies it to each of the swollen lumps. The sensation of the leaves and Kacchan’s cool hands are both so pleasant that Izuku sighs.

Kacchan washes Izuku’s shirt and jacket in the stream, and sets them to dry on a boulder. Then he returns to apply some burn ointment to his chest, and once again the medication and the hands that apply it feel like heaven. Izuku had forgotten all about the fire. His memories from the tracker jacker attack are so hazy, and he isn’t able to parse reality from fiction. He had been certain the flames he extinguished from his chest hadn’t been real, but this burn on his chest says otherwise. What had caused it? Probably a stray spark from the campfire that had struck him when the wasp nest landed into it, Izuku thinks.

A cool hand presses into Izuku’s forehead, a sweet relief to the blistering heat. Kacchan procures some pills from his endless pack of supplies, and gets Izuku to take them with some water.

“You hungry?” Kacchan asks.

“No. I haven’t been for days.”

Unsurprisingly, Kacchan goes back to his trusty pack and this time pulls out something that looks like a roasted chicken wing, but larger, and offers it to Izuku. The smell of it makes Izuku’s stomach roll and he looks away, swallowing thickly.

“Deku, you need to eat.”

“It’ll just come right back up.”

“What, y’gonna start fighting with me now? You have to get somethin’ in you. Here, I’ve got some dried fruit. You can handle that.”

At least the smell of the dried apple Kacchan gives him doesn’t make him sick. He accepts it and chews on it obediently, followed by a second and a third.

Then it’s time to look at his leg. Kacchan removes Izuku’s boots and socks, and then pauses as he reaches for Izuku’s belt. Izuku watches as Kacchan’s ears turn pink as he unbuckles Izuku’s belt and unbuttons the top of his pants.

“Keep a lookout on the woods,” Kacchan grumbles, when he notices Izuku staring at his flushed face.

Izuku quickly looks away, and tries to set his face in a neutral and business-like expression, as if this is nothing more than a simple medical exam. Which it is, of course. Izuku’s pants slide off easily—he’s lost a few sizes since entering the arena—and reveal his freckled legs and wounded thigh. Dark purple, swollen, accented with splotches of blood, yellow-white pus, and a horrible smell.

When Izuku peeks up at Kacchan, he sees he looks utterly lost. Izuku’s pretty sure there’s nothing in that bag of tricks of his that can heal a wound this severe. Looking at it now, Izuku is honestly surprised he’s as lucid as he is. Kacchan must know now, having seen all his wounds, that Izuku’s situation is hopeless.

“Pretty bad, huh?”

Kacchan puts a set, closed-off look on his face, and shrugs. “I’ve seen worse,” he says, but his voice is strained. “You should see some of the people they bring from the mines to see my old hag. Let’s get this cleaned up, then I’ll really know what I’m workin’ with.”

Kacchan goes back to work with his bottles of water and his soft hands. He finds another tracker jacker sting and treats it with more chewed-up leaves. Then he sits back, takes a deep breath, and stares at Izuku’s leg. Izuku stays quiet, oddly fascinated by the deep look of concentration and determination on Kacchan’s face.

Finally, he says, “Let’s give it some air.” He picks up Izuku’s pants and socks in one hand, and shoves more dried fruit at Izuku with the other. “I’m gonna wash your pants. In the meantime, get this into you.”

Izuku nibbles on his pieces of dried pear while Kacchan cleans his pants and socks in the stream. When he comes back, he looks through the contents of his first aid kit, and when he apparently finds nothing useful, works on chewing up some more leaves. He wordlessly goes about the task of pressing mounds of chewed-up leaves into the cut on his leg. It’s not an unpleasant sensation, but there’s pain at even the slightest touch of the wound.

A sickly yellow pus starts to run down Izuku’s leg, which makes Izuku feel queasy, but when he looks up at Kacchan, expecting to see him in a similar state, instead he finds only a slight furrow in his brow and a tightness in his jaw. He is completely absorbed in the task at hand. Well, Auntie Mitsuki was an apothecary, after all. And practically the unofficial doctor for the Seam, for the miners and other people who couldn’t afford the district doctor in town. Kacchan must have picked up a thing or two from her. He may have even lended her a hand with some of her patients. He certainly seemed to know what he was doing, anyway.

Perhaps Izuku should tell him that. Or offer up any words of encouragement in general, really. Kacchan is going above and beyond for him, as he applies wad after wad of leaves to his leg until the pus stops flowing. This visibly reduces the swelling, allowing them both to see just how deep the wound goes. Monoma’s blade has cut Izuku straight down to the bone. Kacchan sits back on his heels and rubs thoughtfully at his chin, a faraway look in his eyes. Izuku dutifully helps himself to another piece of dried pear, staying nice and quiet to allow Kacchan time to think. The least he can do at this point is make Kacchan’s job of keeping him alive a bit easier by trying to keep down some food.

Several minutes pass and Kacchan is now worrying his bottom lip between his thumb and index finger, and Izuku blinks at the familiar sight, because it’s like looking into a mirror. He wonders, then, if his habit of pinching his lip while he was thinking had been something he picked up from Kacchan, or if Kacchan had picked it up from him. He’s been doing it for so long, it was hard to remember its origins. It was an awfully endearing sight; but Kacchan is in danger of rubbing his poor lip raw.

“What’s next, Dr. Kacchan?” Izuku attempts to joke.

Kacchan finally let’s go of his lip and sighs. “I’m thinkin’ I’ll put some of the burn ointment on it. It probably helps somewhat with infection. And then wrap it up.”

Within no time, Kacchan has efficiently wrapped up his wound in a clean bandage, and with that it’s looking remarkably better. He’s about to sing Kacchan’s praises when suddenly he is pushing his pack towards him.

“Here, cover yourself with this and I’ll wash your shorts.”

Izuku blinks in puzzlement. Modesty is the last thing in his mind at this point. “Oh, I don’t care if you see me.”

“For fuck sake.” Seems like it’s Kacchan’s modesty that seems to be at stake here. His ears and cheeks light up in a bright flush of pink as he shoves the backpack at him. “Well I care, alright?”

Wow, who knew Kacchan could be so shy. How endearing...

“Plus, you’re literally on live television right now, moron,” Kacchan grunts out. He raises an eyebrow. “You really want all of Panem to see your—“

“Alright, alright! You don’t have to say it…” Now it’s Izuku’s turn to blush. He quickly snatches up the backpack with his good hand. When Kacchan doesn’t look away, however, Izuku looks up at him and tilts his head. “Um. Aren’t you going to turn around?”

That darling blush already burning in Kacchan’s ears and cheeks shoots right down his neck as his eyes go wide and his nostrils flare, then he turns around sharply and folds his arms.

A crooked little grins spreads over Izuku’s face as he wriggles out of his boxers, which is very awkward to do one-handed, and also while trying to keep the backpack in place over his nether regions, but he manages to do not only that but toss his underpants into the stream himself. Kacchan goes to collect them before the stream carries them off, and beats them clean against some rocks.

“What have you been sent so far?” Kacchan asks while he works.

Izuku’s heart jumps. “Nothing,” Izuku says, trying to keep his tone casual, unassuming. “Why? Did you get something?”

Kacchan looks up at him, and his expression is so guilty that Izuku is racked with guilt of his own. “The burn ointment. And some bread.”

That’s it?! The beautiful boy next door from District Twelve, the boy on fire…only got a tiny jar of burn cream and a loaf of bread? It’s a good thing Izuku told Toshinori to forward all the gifts to Kacchan.

Of course, Izuku hadn’t been expecting to get anything, not just because he told Toshinori not to, but also because of his time with the Careers. Izuku remembers how Kacchan had been limping, that night they found him in the woods after the Gamemaker fire. His injuries from that targeted attack must have been severe for it to warrant an expensive gift like medicine. And perhaps before Kacchan got his bow, food was harder to come by, and that bread is the only thing that had kept him going. Izuku would know all too well what a loaf of bread could do.

“…I always knew you were All Might’s favourite.”

Kacchan rolls his eyes. “Oh, please. He can hardly stand to be in the same room as me.”

Izuku thinks back to that last day of training, and a frustrated Toshinori pouring himself a drink after Kacchan had stormed out of the room. “Because you’re just alike.”

Kacchan pouts a little at this, and if he makes a comment on it, Izuku misses it, because before he knows it, Kacchan is shaking him awake. The sun has changed positions in the sky. He must have dozed off at some point.

“Deku, we’ve gotta go.”

His tired brain is still playing catch-up. “Go? Go where?”

“The fuck you mean where?” Kacchan says, exasperated. “Away from here, obviously. Downstream, maybe. Somewhere we can hide you until you’re stronger.” He starts helping Izuku back into his underwear, which is now nice and dry. Urgency has clearly trumped modesty, because Kacchan doesn’t even blink when he does it. When they’ve got everything but Izuku’s boots and socks on, Kacchan says, “I’ll carry you.”

“Kacchan, I can’t let you carry me,” Izuku says, shaking his head. “I’ll walk on my own.”

But Kacchan just looks even more annoyed with him. “Your leg is cut down to the bone, idiot. You’re not putting any weight on it anytime soon or you’ll black right out.”

This was true, though Izuku hates to admit it. But he doesn’t want to cause Kacchan even further trouble by sitting here arguing about it. Kacchan is right. They are too exposed here, and need to find someplace more protected.

Kacchan shoves his quiver of arrows into the backpack, then straps the pack to his front. Izuku is given his own boots to hold by the laces, his socks balled up and stuffed into each one, and, to his great surprise, Kacchan’s bow. Izuku figured Kacchan would try to maneuver it onto his shoulder, or perhaps even clutch it in his teeth, before entrusting Izuku with it.

Izuku doesn’t have much time to relish in this special honour that’s been awarded him before Kacchan is lifting Izuku up onto his back. He can tell Kacchan is trying not to manhandle him too much, being careful of Izuku’s leg, but Izuku can’t help the involuntary groan of pain as his leg is inevitably jostled by the movement.

“If you drop my bow in the stream you’re dead meat,” Kacchan tells him.

Izuku grips the bow tight, and focuses very hard on not passing out as Kacchan moves slowly upstream. Every step feels like steel striking the bone in his leg, even though they are not his own steps. He absolutely wouldn’t have been able to move an inch without puking up all those pears.

Kacchan brings them up the bank and rocks on the opposite end of the stream, and into a dark cave that’s the size of a small room. Kacchan is sweating and taking laboured breaths, and Izuku has reached the point of his fever where he’s got chills. Kacchan leaves Izuku to rest up against the cave wall, and Izuku watches the slanting beam of sunlight that streams in from the mouth of the cave flicker like a lazy candle as Kacchan moves about, unpacking his magical pack and sprinkling the cave floor with pine needles, bringing the scent of the woods into their little hideaway.

He’s vaguely aware of being moved into a sleeping bag, and water on his lips, trickling down his throat. Kacchan tries to get him to eat some more dried fruit, but Izuku presses his lips together and shakes his head. He has reached his limit. Kacchan frowns at him, but doesn’t fight him on it, and goes about his task of setting up their cave. Izuku watches him work, backlit by the setting sun, and at times wrapped in that strange, silvery mist again. Maybe the tracker jacker venom is still not quite out of his system.

This place is much better, Izuku thinks. Out of the baking sun, no longer exposed. A good place to hide, for Kacchan. And for Izuku, a much better place to die.

“Kacchan,” Izuku murmurs. Kacchan turns, and the light flickers again as he comes over to sit next to him. “Thanks. For coming to get me.”

“You would’ve come and found me if you could,” Kacchan replies.

He brushes his fingers with a softness that’s still surprising through Izuku’s hair, pushing his bangs off his sweaty forehead and pressing his hand there. Kacchan runs hot, but his hands have felt so cold to Izuku today. Izuku must really be scorching. With the way Kacchan’s eyes widen with alarm and fear, he knows it must be bad.

“Kacchan,” Izuku begins, desperately. His voice is fading, but there are things he wants him to know. Now that he can be completely honest with him. “I-if I don’t make it back—“

But Kacchan shushes him. “Oi, I didn’t drain all that nasty fuckin’ pus for nothin’.”

It’s the wrongest time, the strangest time, to think it—but there is nothing right or normal about this place—but it is at this exact moment that Izuku realises with absolute certainty that he is truly in love with this boy.

Kacchan smooths back his hair. “You’re gonna make it.”

“But in case I don’t—“

Kacchan puts his fingers over Izuku’s mouth. “Shut up, Deku.”

Izuku reaches up and weakly pulls Kacchan’s hand away. “But—“

Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, Kacchan leans down and stops Izuku’s next words with a kiss.

Izuku has never been kissed before, and it follows so closely on the moment of illumination about his feelings that it is very hard to separate the two very different sets of circumstances: the act they are putting on of the star-crossed lovers, and the actual feelings that motivated it in the first place. They converge within Izuku, melding together in the unnatural heat of his body.

Kacchan reaches up to cup his face. Kacchan’s lips and his hands feel so cool right now, but Izuku is on fire all the same. It spreads over his fevered skin and soaks into every part of him. Izuku’s heart, his guts, and—the vaguely-confused area which Kacchan had made him hide earlier. By the time Kacchan pulls away, it feels like it’s only been a second, and also a thousand years, and the heat has melted Izuku entirely.

Izuku forgets what he was going to tell Kacchan before. Was it about the act, or the real thing? It no longer seems to matter now.

Kacchan presses their foreheads together. ‘“You’re not gonna die,” he whispers, fierce and breathless. “I forbid it. Ya hear me, Deku?”

“Okay, Kacchan,” Izuku whispers back in agreement. How can he do anything but agree?

Now that he knows the taste and touch of his lips, the boy on fire seems to have set something aflame inside of him. Something visceral and desperate.

If it means he might get the chance to taste and feel those lips again, even just one more time, then Izuku really, really wants to live.

Chapter Text

vii.

He’s in a coffin, dead but somehow still conscious, and people are coming to look down on him. His mother, her expression tight with sadness, or maybe shame. Somehow, his father is there, too, and as stone-faced as ever. His friends. Last of all is a boy who is more of an amalgamation of his various forms. Darkly beautiful, accompanied by that misty light. There’s gold dust around his eyes, shimmering with unshed tears. The ends of his soft hair touches Izuku’s face as he bends down over him. His lips press against his. It feels so real.

And something smells so good. Like home.

Izuku gasps awake and sees Kacchan’s face right up against his. And his smile is like the sun. Izuku can’t help but smile back.

Steam flutters between them as Kacchan holds up a container. “Deku, look what All Might brought you.”

Inside the tin is some yellow broth that smells like chicken. Consciousness has brought back the sense of his nausea, and now the smell of the soup is no longer as appealing as it had been in the dream.

His smile wanes, and he shakes his head when Kacchan holds a spoon of the stuff towards his mouth.

Kacchan’s sunny smile remains, but Izuku can see that it’s now strained, and frustration flashes in Kacchan’s eyes. “Don’t be such a baby, Deku. Come on, you hafta eat, so you can get better, yeah? Come on, just try some.”

Izuku forces himself to accept the spoonful.

“Thaaat’s it,” Kacchan says encouragingly. He catches a drip of the broth about to roll down Izuku’s chin with the spoon. “Good, right?”

Izuku weakly nods as he thickly gulps down the soup and wills himself not to spit it right back up.

Kacchan holds out a second spoonful, which Izuku accepts gingerly. “There you go. Atta boy. Down the hatch.”

The praise helps him to choke down the third spoonful, but Kacchan nearly spills the fourth one onto Izuku’s shirt when Izuku groans and jerks his head away. “Can I sleep now, Kacchan?”

“Not yet. Soon. First you’ve gotta get this down. Now c’mon, open up.”

“Just—give me a minute, please,” Izuku begs, closing his eyes. “I can’t just take one spoonful after the other. My stomach is the size of a walnut right now and that soup smells awful.”

“You’re gonna hurt All Might’s feelings sayin’ shit like that,” Kacchan accuses, his tone playful, “He went to all that trouble schmoozing it up with your sponsors to get ya this soup, and you say it smells awful. You’re supposed to be the nice one, remember?”

Despite this, Kacchan mercifully holds off on offering up any more soup, but stays by Izuku’s side, so Izuku knows he’s not off the hook just yet.

“He’s probably breakin’ into the white liquor as we speak,” Kacchan says with a sigh, “You don’t want All Might to be sad, do you, Deku?”

Izuku groans. “Okay, okay. If I can just take a breather between a few bites…”

He forces himself to accept several more spoonfuls, and Kacchan sits back and waits patiently when Izuku asks for a rest. But Kacchan runs out of patience soon after that, when Izuku starts losing more of the soup to dribbles down his chin, and his rest periods become more frequent and last longer, happening after each spoonful instead of after two or three. Kacchan keeps dogging him, but with every swallow, it’s only getting harder for Izuku to continue to cooperate. He doesn’t mean to be so difficult; he knows Kacchan is just trying to help. But his stomach is rocky and his leg hurts and he just wants to sleep.

It’s probably been close to an hour by this point, and they’re nowhere near close to done with the soup. The smell of it is still thick in the air, and the way it mixes with the aromatic pine needles makes Izuku have to swallow hard against the bile that threatens to jump into his throat. When Kacchan holds out the spoon again, Izuku clamps his lips shut. He doesn’t dare shake his head, because any wrong movement might have what little broth he’s managed to keep down so far come right back up, so he just stares defiantly at Kacchan.

Kacchan has long since stopped smiling. A muscle in his jaw twitches as he audibly grinds his teeth together. “Deku, if you don’t take another sip, I’m pouring the rest of this down your pants,” he threatens him darkly, “And this shit is well insulated so it’s still piping hot.”

But Izuku knows it’s an empty threat. Kacchan would never be dumb enough to waste food like that. And it’s with that knowledge, and the fact that Izuku is fed up, too, that he has the guts to say, sardonically, “I don’t think you’ll be able to handle applying the burn ointment down there. Since you couldn’t even watch me strip down at the stream.”

Kacchan bristles a little, but it’s not enough to make him back down. “See if I tend to your wounds at all after you’ve given me such a hard time,” he volleys back tersely. Then he sighs a little, and his tone and expression turns imploring. “C’mon, take another sip. Please.”

Oh, wow. Kacchan has coaxed, ordered, bullied, and threatened Izuku to eat this soup for the better part of an hour, but he hadn’t ever pleaded. In fact, Izuku doesn’t think he’s ever heard Kacchan say please once in his entire life. It’s so unexpected, so wildly uncharacteristic, Izuku can’t help but blurt out, “It’s so weird to hear you say that word.”

Kacchan looks downright murderous now. Dying via soup would be a pretty pathetic way to go, but Izuku supposes it would make sense, since he’s pretty pathetic in general. Just when he thinks Kacchan is going to make good on his threat and dump hot soup on his crotch, instead Kacchan knocks back the pot of soup, gulping it down himself. Izuku watches on in confused bewilderment. Well, perhaps Kacchan doesn’t want it to go to waste, if Izuku refuses to eat it.

But then Kacchan snatches him by the chin, and kisses him hard enough to bruise. Izuku squawks between their lip-lock, wriggling around in the sleeping bag when Kacchan suddenly forces Izuku’s mouth open with his own mouth. Izuku had heard about kissing with tongue from some of his classmates, but he didn’t think it was supposed to go like this. But Kacchan doesn’t stick his tongue in Izuku’s mouth. Instead, Izuku’s mouth fills up with hot soup, choking him. He doesn’t dare spew it out, though it goes against his body’s every impulse not to do so. It’s either that or swallow so he doesn’t drown in it, so Izuku clutches at his throat as he harshly gulps the soup down and then gasps for air.

“K-Kacchan!” Izuku cries. He can’t believe Kacchan just did that!

Kacchan stares him down fiercely. “I’m getting this broth into you one way or another, Deku. Even if I gotta hold ya down and feed it to you like a baby bird.”

This time, considering he just got through dealing with the demonstration, Izuku knows this is not another empty threat. But really, this bedside manner was pretty atrocious. And certainly not the way he had hoped to feel Kacchan’s lips against his again. This can’t possibly go on. “I-I’m already struggling to keep anything down,” Izuku says warily, “This seems a little counterproductive.”

Kacchan’s eyelid visibly twitches at that. “Well, maybe if you’d just drink it without fightin’ me at every turn, we wouldn’t be havin’ this problem,” he grits out.

Izuku wonders if the two of them will ever be capable of getting through a single interaction with one another without it devolving into an argument. But Izuku is certainly in no mood to try and maintain civility between them right now. “Well, threatening me with bodily harm isn’t giving me much of an appetite, I’m sorry or say,” he says curtly, “I’m not feeling very motivated.”

Kacchan’s eyes narrow. “And how would you suggest I give you more motivation, then?”

Izuku opens his mouth to retort, then quickly clamps it shut and averts his gaze from Kacchan’s grumpy face. He shuffles around a little in his sleeping bag, suddenly feeling very warm in a way that has nothing to do with his fever. “Well, I can think of one thing,” Izuku mumbles, “One thing that might…but…I…um, well, that is—“

“Hah?” Kacchan snaps, irritated, “Speak up, Deku. I’ve only got one working ear over here.”

That has Izuku’s head whipping back up. “Wait, what? Since when?”

Kacchan waves his hand around like it’s no big deal. “Since I blew up the Careers’ food. The explosion ruptured my eardrum. Can’t hear shit outta my left ear now.”

That is a lot of information to take in at once. Kacchan…he figured out Shoda’s mined booby trap and used it to destroy all of the Careers’ supplies. While Monoma and Toga were still a brutal team with his strength and her speed, Kacchan has severely weakened their upper hand. They would have absolutely nothing now than whatever meagre supplies they had been carrying on their backs. And Izuku knows from experience that the Careers didn’t bother to put much food in their packs whenever they left camp to hunt.

Their lavish lifestyle and their arrogance were their biggest downfall. On the off chance a non-Career tribute managed to take home the crown, it was always due in part to the Career pack losing their lions’ share of the spoils from the Cornucopia. If Izuku could just hold out for a little while longer, perhaps Monoma and Toga would take out the rest of the tributes, but, fruitless in their efforts to track down Kacchan and Izuku, would eventually run out of their few rations and succumb to starvation. Maybe they really did have a chance at winning this thing. Kacchan could easily keep them both fed, with his hunting skills.

But that’s the thing that prevents Izuku from feeling any joy or relief. As a hunter, Kacchan greatly relied on all of his senses. Going deaf in one ear would be strange for anyone, but for Kacchan…he must feel so disoriented. To not have his sense of sound for hunting was one thing, but here, where other hunters could jump out at any moment, Kacchan must have been so on edge, tracking Izuku down all on his own, tending to him by the babbling creek, all with only one ear to help him listen out for an assailant.

No wonder he had told Izuku to keep an eye on the woods. And Izuku had barely done so, too distracted staring at Kacchan half of the time, and dozing off for the rest. Izuku feels a pang of guilt. He’d been so caught up in his giddiness at seeing Kacchan again, and relishing in the comfort of Kacchan tending to his wounds, he hadn’t even bothered to ask about Kacchan’s own injuries.

“Oh, Kacchan. I’m sorry,” Izuku says with sympathy, their petty bickering from a few moments ago entirely forgotten. “That must be really difficult.”

“You take a look at yourself lately, Deku?” Kacchan says with a snort, “I might have an ear outta commission, but you’ve got a fucked up leg and a busted up hand. Don’t waste your time feelin’ sorry for me and focus on getting better. Now drink your fucking broth.”

Well, Izuku would be the biggest, stupidest jerk on the planet if he fought him on that now. But he still can’t just let Kacchan force the soup down his gullet. It feels awfully selfish, and Izuku doesn’t quite know how to ask for it, but it would be nice…Izuku had been lucky to get even one, but, just maybe…

The audience will probably eat it right up. And if Izuku and Kacchan can keep the Capitol’s attention, get them rooting for them, that will make it all the easier to get them both home.

So Izuku decides to push his luck. “…What do I get if I do?”

“Another day on this earth,” Kacchan says, clipped. “How’s that for motivation?”

But Izuku doesn’t back down. He makes a show of humming thoughtfully, shrugging his shoulders. “I guess that’s tempting,” Then, he peeks up at Kacchan, and murmurs, “But, I was kind of hoping for…something else.”

Realisation jumps to Kacchan’s face, softening the scowl there, but then it’s replaced by a crooked, playful little smile that has Izuku’s belly doing backflips that feels nothing like his bouts of nausea. His heart starts hammering in his chest as he watches Kacchan move in close.

“Something else, huh?” Kacchan murmurs, “You gonna elaborate on that? I’m not a mind reader, y’know.”

Kacchan’s voice is an alluring, low purr that has Izuku burning right down to the depths of his soul. Kacchan is aware of the whole star-crossed lovers story, of course, and Toshinori had told them both to play into it, and give the Capitol a show, but…Toshinori also said that Kacchan can’t act to—quite literally—save his life. But then, Kacchan had managed to keep his rage about the surprise love confession in check until the cameras were off of him. So maybe Kacchan could put up a facade, under the right set of circumstances. Right now, the circumstances are Izuku eating his soup. Which, if he doesn’t eat, he’ll die. That ought to be good enough motivation on its own. And yet…

“Um, w-well, I was just thinking that it would be a lot more…a-appetizing,” Izuku holds back a wince at his godawful attempt to be flirtatious. “...if you used your mouth, to, um, give me a little…encouragement.”

Forget all the other things that could kill him in this arena, because Izuku will die right this second of pure embarrassment.

Instead of laughing in his face, Kacchan goes along with it. “Is that so?” He leans in even closer. “Without a mouthful of broth this time, I take it?”

Kacchan is so close Izuku can see all the different flecks of colour in his eyes. Like a sunset, it’s a variety of deep maroons and pinkish amaranths, dappled with bright scarlets and rich blood-oranges. And that’s just in this light. Izuku wonders how many kinds of sunsets there are to discover, at all the different times of the day, in Kacchan’s eyes.

“P-preferably, yes,” Izuku stammers out.

Kacchan touches his burning cheek again, and Izuku’s eyelashes flutter from the feel of his cool palm, paired with the sound of Kacchan’s breathy little laugh before he whispers, “Yeah? Well, I think I might be willing to negotiate a trade.”

Then Kacchan kisses him, and this time Izuku finally has enough wits about him to kiss back. Kacchan pulls away far too soon, holding up the pot of broth, forgoing the spoon altogether.

Izuku takes a dutiful sip, then says, “More, please.”

He’s not talking about the broth.

From that point forward, Izuku accepts small mouthfuls of broth in exchange for Kacchan’s kisses, one after the other, back and forth. Kacchan makes sure to keep the trade fair. If Izuku takes a bigger sip, then he gets a longer kiss. At one point, Kacchan makes a content little noise in the back of his throat when Izuku kisses him back, and Izuku wants to hear it again so badly he takes a deep gulp of broth when Kacchan presents it to him afterward. Kacchan not only gives him a longer kiss for doing so, he even tilts his head and deepens the kiss, and that has Izuku’s head spinning. He’s forgotten all about his nausea by this point. All he can think about is the press of Kacchan’s soft lips against his, the slide of his mouth, his warm breath.

Finally, Izuku takes the pot right out of Kacchan’s hands and drains the last dregs, knocking his head back to catch every trace on his tongue. He barely has time to set the empty pot aside before Kacchan is pulling him in by the back of the head. He rewards Izuku with a make-out that lasts for a minute straight, wet and deep, and Izuku is in serious danger of moaning when he feels Kacchan grip at the curls at the base of his neck. Izuku isn’t sure if Kacchan has ever done this before, but much like how he handled treating Izuku’s wounds, he makes it look easy. But then, Kacchan has always been good at everything he tries, so naturally he would be an amazing kisser, too.

All too soon, Kacchan pulls away, hands on either side of Izuku’s face. “Good job, Deku,” he says, and the praise leaves Izuku reeling nearly as much as the kisses did. Is Kacchan saying good job for finishing the soup? Or is he telling Izuku that he’s a good kisser, too? Maybe both? “Now get some rest.”

Even though Izuku would love to keep kissing Kacchan some more, he drops off immediately as soon as he lies down, but his sleep is restless. At some point, he wakes to the sensation of something cool and wet being put on his forehead. And later, he wakes up to feel Kacchan’s body pressed up against his in the sleeping bag. The real world is confusing, so he quickly dives back into sleep, where his dreams make more sense. He’s in the bakery, and the back door is closed, so the room is filling up with heat. It’s uncomfortable, but he’s in the right place. He’s home.

When he wakes up for real, it takes him a moment to register his surroundings. A cave. Pine needles. A sleeping bag. Kisses.

And their giver is nowhere to be seen.

Izuku’s heart races and he starts trying to extricate himself from the sleeping bag, which requires every bit of his strength. Then Kacchan suddenly reappears, flooding Izuku instantly with immense relief.

“I woke up and you were gone,” Izuku pants, “I was worried about you.”

Kacchan takes a seat at Izuku’s side. He’s got the little pot of soup, and starts grinding up something inside of it with the pommel of his knife. “You should be worryin’ about yourself,” he grunts.

“I thought Monoma and Toga might have found you. They like to hunt at night.”

“It’s fine, nerd,” Kacchan says firmly. Izuku hasn’t heard that term of—endearment?—from Kacchan since they were little. “I left two seconds ago to get some berries. The sun is comin’ up,” Kacchan looks up from his task and gives Izuku a once-over. “How’re you feelin’?”

Izuku reaches up and feels his neck. He seems to be a bit less hot. And he’s certainly feeling a bit more clear-headed. “Better than yesterday. Definitely an improvement over bleeding out in the mud. Clean clothes, medicine, a sleeping bag…and Kacchan.”

As soon as Izuku says it, he realises just how lonely he’s been; not just over the last few days, but ever since the bloodbath. He’s had no one to really talk to, with everything being a carefully-guarded secret. No one he could truly trust. Izuku had given up on ever being able to see or talk to Kacchan again. It’s overwhelming to be here, alone, with him now.

Kacchan reaches over and touches Izuku’s cheek. His fingers feel a little less cool than yesterday, but still lack their true warmth, so Izuku must still have a bit of a temperature. Izuku is so hopelessly starved for physical contact, he leans into Kacchan’s hand, reaching up and grasping his wrist to keep it in place a moment longer and, impulsively, turning to press his lips into Kacchan’s palm, dry and soft under his mouth, and smelling like fresh berries. Izuku looks up and meets Kacchan’s eyes, which look somewhat startled, but not displeased.

Kacchan pulls his hand away carefully. “No more kisses for you until you’ve eaten,” Kacchan says, and his voice is strangely subdued. Not a trace of snarkiness.

Kacchan helps Izuku slither out of the sleeping bag, and sits him up against the cave wall to spoon-feed him some berry-mush, which Izuku finds he can swallow without any problem. The greasy-looking meat Kacchan once again offers him, though, he quickly refuses.

“Did you get any sleep?” Izuku asks.

Kacchan shrugs. “A little.”

Izuku takes in the dark circles under Kacchan’s eyes, and frowns. “Kacchan, you were never a good liar. Go on and rest. I’ll keep watch, and wake you if anything happens.” Kacchan pouts at him, which is adorable, but Izuku can’t let it buckle his resolve. He heaves a sigh. “Kacchan, you can’t stay up forever.”

Kacchan hesitates a moment more, blinking at Izuku slowly. He’s clearly fighting hard to keep his eyes open. “Fine. But just a few hours, and then you wake me.”

Kacchan opens up the sleeping bag and spreads it out across the cave floor so he can lie on top of it and Izuku can sit beside him. He fits an arrow to his bow and clutches it as he lies down. Izuku stretches out his bad leg and looks out at the cave entrance. He considers giving his lap to Kacchan to use as a pillow, but then thinks better of it. For one thing, he can’t drum up the courage to offer, and for another, he wouldn’t want to disturb Kacchan if he starts to shake uncontrollably with another bout of fever chills, or if he has to drag himself out of the cave to use the bathroom. He wants Kacchan to get as much rest as he can.

Peeking down at Kacchan out of the corner of his eye, he can see his blond eyelashes still blinking. Almost involuntarily, like his hand is being controlled by an invisible puppet string, Izuku brings his hand over to Kacchan’s head, and starts to run his fingers through his hair. It’s just as soft as Izuku had always imagined it would be.

Izuku finds he is strangely unsettled, waiting to see if Kacchan will refuse the gesture. Izuku has always found comfort in touch—not from either one of his parents, of course, but he and his classmates had never shied away from friendly gestures. Pats on the shoulder and back, reassuring hand squeezes, and jovial hair-ruffling when teasing good-naturedly or as an act of sportsmanship when someone made a great save, scored a point, or won them a game. Izuku had witnessed Kirishima and some other of their bolder classmates trying such things on Kacchan in the past—being so good at everything he tried, it often encouraged celebration from his peers—but he would always swat their attempts at affection away with a scowl, or snap at them before they could even get close.

But Kacchan doesn’t do that now. In fact, he even starts to noticeably relax under the ministrations as Izuku continues to stroke his hair. Izuku forgets to watch the mouth of the cave as he stares down at Kacchan in wonderment.

“Go to sleep, Kacchan,” Izuku murmurs.

And, within moments, Kacchan does.

For the first time in many days, Izuku manages to stay awake for several hours straight. It’s not easy, though. He occasionally blinks himself from the precipice of sleep. He reaches for one of the water bottles in Kacchan’s pack, which he left right next to Izuku so he could access them easily, but it takes effort to lift it to his lips and what little he manages to drink doesn’t make him feel any better.

The day passes by quietly. Izuku listens to the quiet whisper of the stream outside their cave, the chirping birds, and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. There’s no footsteps, and no cannons, so Izuku doesn’t wake Kacchan. He has no real concept of how much time is passing, and Izuku feels perfectly awake, and Kacchan is perfect even in sleep. His face is more relaxed than Izuku has ever seen it. By the time Kacchan wakes on his own, the light slanting into the cave is starting to turn golden.

“You didn’t wake me up,” Kacchan grumbles.

Izuku looks down to see Kacchan’s hair mussed by sleep and Izuku’s continued ministrations (which lasted for another hour after Kacchan dropped off to sleep, before Izuku’s hand started going numb). He still looks a little drowsy, having just woken up from his deep and restful sleep, so the glare he points at Izuku doesn’t have nearly the same sharpness it does when he is fully alert. If anything, it’s just an even more adorable version of the pout he had given Izuku when he tried stubbornly to refuse any rest earlier.

“There wasn’t anything worth waking you for, and I figured you needed the rest,” Izuku tells him. And then, smiling a little, he adds, “Besides, I like watching you sleep. It softens you. Miss Midnight had a point, you know, about all the scowling spoiling your handsome features.”

Kacchan attempts to scowl at him in rebuttal to this, but it only makes him look even cuter, all full-cheeked and a crinkle in his nose, so Izuku grins back at him. Kacchan sits up and presses a hand to Izuku’s cheek, and Izuku has to fight against the urge to bunt against him like a pleased cat.

“Have you had anything to drink?” Kacchan asks him, crawling around to Izuku’s other side and pulling out one of the water bottles.

“A little.” Izuku is only a little bit better at lying than Kacchan is.

Kacchan checks both bottles and the water skin, looking deeply unsatisfied, and then he shakes his head in exasperation before digging out his first aid kit and taking out some pills. He shoves them and a full bottle of water at Izuku.

“Take those, and drink this—all of it,” Kacchan demands, getting to his feet and standing over Izuku, arms akimbo, while Izuku obediently takes the pills and drinks down the entire bottle, then a second. Izuku’s stomach feels unnaturally and uncomfortably distended when he’s done. Kacchan starts to unzip Izuku’s jacket, and says matter-of-factly, “Help me take your clothes off.”

Oh, what an unfortunate way to phrase that. Izuku hopes his blush isn’t too obvious, or can at least be blamed on his fever as he pushes his back away from the cave wall with a slight grunt of exertion, and raises his arms as best he can so Kacchan can relieve him of his jacket and shirt. He makes quick work of adding another layer of medicine to the burn on Izuku’s chest, which is looking a lot better, and another round of chewed-up leaves to his tracker jacker stings.

And then, comes one of two things Izuku had been dreading. “Lemme take a look at your hand.”

Izuku offers Kacchan his right arm, and watches anxiously as Kacchan takes Izuku by the wrist and examines the damage to his fingers and thumb. Izuku’s leg had been a more immediate and pressing concern yesterday, and Izuku had been doing what he could to at least keep his hand elevated and refrain from moving it—not that his fingers would have so much as twitched even if he tried. Beyond the shattered bone and cartilage, Izuku is fairly certain there is damage to his nerves. Even if they make it out of the arena, would the doctors in the Capitol be able to heal such a thing? Or would Izuku lose his hand entirely?

It’s happened before to many victors, who sustained grave injuries in the final hours before they were crowned, with  limbs which had sustained horrific mutilation and turned gangrenous which had to be amputated. It was always a highlight of the reveal ceremonies several days after the Games concluded for the victor to show off their shiny new Capitol-made prosthetic to the crowd. Izuku can only hope he won’t be subjected to being turned into such a horrendous spectacle. As if the Games themselves weren’t bad enough.

“I think we oughta try and splint it,” Kacchan says finally, pulling Izuku out of his despairing thoughts. “I’m gonna go and find some branches.”

Izuku doesn’t like the idea of Kacchan leaving the cave, but he really has no choice in the matter. Kacchan’s bag of tricks, while magical, didn’t have much in the way of treating broken bones. He keeps his mouth shut in a taut line while he watches Kacchan get up and move to the mouth of the cave, biting his tongue to keep himself from telling Kacchan not to go.

Suddenly, however, Kacchan stops, as though he could read Izuku’s mind. After a moment, he turns around, goes back over to Izuku, and crouches down to place a kiss on his forehead.

“Be right back,” Kacchan says quietly.

Izuku stares into Kacchan’s eyes as he runs his hand through Izuku’s hair, making Izuku’s scalp tingle pleasantly. Izuku can still smell the berries Kacchan picked that morning on his fingers. He names all the red berries he can think of and associates them with the new colours he discovers in Kacchan’s eyes in the golden glow that filters into the cave: strawberry, raspberry, cranberry…

“Don’t go too far,” Izuku whispers.

Cherry, goji, hawthorn…

“I won’t.”

Red currant, mulberry…

“I mean it, Kacchan. Stay within earshot.”

Kacchan knocks Izuku out of his trance when he suddenly roughly scrubs at Izuku’s hair. “Hey. You pickin’ on my disability?”

“N-no!” Izuku cries. He squeezes his eyes closed as Kacchan continues to attack his scalp, but not because it hurts or anything. In fact, it actually feels pretty good. “I meant, stay where I can hear you. That way if you call for me, I can come find you.”

“Yeah, what are you going to do?” Kacchan says sarcastically, “Crawl to me?”

“Yes,” Izuku says instantly, opening his eyes. “Whatever it took to get to you.”

Kacchan looks away with a huff. “I think I can manage gathering a couple of sticks, Deku,” he mutters, “Just sit tight.”

As he watches Kacchan leave the cave, Izuku leans back against the cave wall, and grumbles to himself, “Not like I can do much else…”

He waits very impatiently for Kacchan to return, perking up eagerly when Kacchan ducks back into the cave with a bundle of small sticks and twigs in hand. Then he watches on as Kacchan goes about the careful process of assembling Izuku’s hand splint, staying very quiet so Kacchan can focus on his work. It’s pretty mesmerizing to observe the way Kacchan seems to tune everything else out when doing this kind of thing.

He wonders idly if this is how Kacchan is when he hunts, or if this is something reserved for treating a patient. They don’t train people in 12 on how to be doctors; all they learn in school is basic math, language, the history of the war, the Hunger Games, and of course, coal. Any medical knowledge people acquired came from the basic first aid practices that were shown the day they came of age and began in the mines, as well as from hands-on experience treating themselves and their fellow workers in case of any accidents.

Auntie Mitsuki and Kacchan would both make for talented doctors, if given the opportunity. Maybe, if they were able to win the Games, they could. Izuku hasn’t heard of any victors becoming doctors, or using that as their chosen victor talent, but it’s not like Kacchan could exactly go with hunting. And most victors usually did something more appealing to the Capitol audience, along the lines of art, fashion, or music…

That has Izuku thinking back to the very first time he ever met Kacchan. He can still hear his voice, high and sweet with the innocence of youth, singing the song that had first endeared Izuku to him, ensnaring him for life…

Down in the valley, valley so low,

Hang your head over, hear the wind blow.

Hear the wind blow, love, hear the wind blow,

Hang your head over, hear the wind blow

Roses love sunshine, violets love dew,

Angels in heaven know I love you

If you don’t love me, love whom you please,

Put your arms ‘round me, give my heart ease

Write me a letter, send it by mail,

Bake it and stamp it to the Capitol jail.

The Capitol jail, love, the Capitol jail,

Bake it and stamp it to the Capitol jail.

Build me a castle, build it so high,

So I can see my true love go by.

See him go by, love, see him go by.

So I can see my true love go by.

Down in the valley, valley so low,

Hang your head over, hear the wind blow

The song helps distract Izuku from the pain that shoots up his arm with every miniscule movement of his battered fingers as Kacchan affixes the splint to his hand. It's probably somewhat promising that he can even still feel anything, honestly, so he grits through each stab of pain until Kacchan is finished. The end result is a makeshift but sturdy assortment of thin branches and bandages supporting and immobilizing each of his fingers. Izuku admires Kacchan’s handiwork, and feels some relief. It was as good as it was going to get, and Kacchan did quite well considering that he didn’t have much to work with.

Next, Kacchan helps Izuku out of his pants, looking less affected by it than he was yesterday, but Izuku doesn’t take it personally—they are both tense as Kacchan treats the stray sting on Izuku’s leg, and then begins to unwrap the major wound. They both stare down at it, Izuku with a detached curiosity. It’s still clean, but swollen again. The skin is shiny, and there’s two large, red streaks extending from the wound up towards Izuku’s hip.

Izuku doesn’t need medical training to know that this is very, very bad.

After a long pause, Kacchan looks slowly up at Izuku. “Well, the pus is gone,” he says, his tone forcibly light. “That’s a good sign.”

Izuku tears his eyes away from those red streaks, and meets Kacchan’s equally red gaze. “I know what blood poisoning is, Kacchan. Even if my mother isn’t an apothecary.”

“You just need to outlast the others,” Kacchan says firmly, “They’ll heal this along with the rest of you when we get back to the Capitol. But you have to eat, keep your strength up. I’ll cook you something.”

As incredible as the idea of getting to eat Kacchan’s cooking is, Izuku still frowns. “You shouldn’t light a fire, Kacchan.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Kacchan says dismissively.

While Kacchan is gone, Izuku lays back on the spread out sleeping bag, still in his underwear. It’s too much of a struggle to try and get dressed on his own, and besides, it’s way too hot to think of putting his clothes back on right now. It’s such a relief to feel the air on his exposed, flushed skin, that he might just be able to nod off for a bit while Kacchan is away, but he’s so sick with fever and with worry for him, that he ends up just staring at the mouth of the cave until Kacchan finally returns.

He manages a small smile for him as Kacchan comes back to his side, hoping to quell the concerned pinch he sees in Kacchan’s brow. He must not be making a very convincing case, because Kacchan wets a bandage and presses it to Izuku’s forehead, which makes Izuku feel marginally better, for a second. Now that Kacchan is back in the cave, Izuku is feeling relaxed enough to sleep, but he fights against the heaviness dragging down his eyelids.

“Can you tell me a story?” Izuku asks.

Kacchan’s shoulders droop with a soft exhale. “Already told you I ain’t much of a storyteller,” he mutters.

“I know.” Izuku just wants to hear Kacchan’s voice, for as long as he still has his senses about him. “So tell me something real. Something happy.”

Kacchan frowns at him for a moment, but then sits back and seems to think it over. It makes Izuku sad to see that Kacchan has to try so hard to dig up a happy memory. But eventually, he begins to tell Izuku about the day he purchased a goat. Izuku phases in and out as Kacchan talks about bargaining for the wounded goat, possibly dying of infection—quite an apt tale, considering that’s what Izuku is also doing. It’s also an interesting glimpse into Kacchan’s daily life.

Izuku also remembers that day; he had been in the market getting supplies for the bakery when he saw the crowd that gathered around the goat man’s stall. He could just make out a flicker of ash blond hair through the sea of heads and shoulders, and hear Kacchan loudly bartering with the goat man. Izuku is pretty sure Kirishima had been with Kacchan that day—the two of them were so rarely seen apart, whenever Kacchan was anywhere out in public, after all—but curiously enough, Kacchan omits Kirishima from the story. The happy part of the tale eludes Izuku until Kacchan explains that the nanny goat had been given to Auntie Mitsuki for her birthday. He had even purchased the animal a purple ribbon to present it to his mother with.

“And the goat was okay?” Izuku asks hopefully.

“We worked fuckin’ magic, Deku,” Kacchan says proudly, “That thing couldn’t have died if it tried.”

Kacchan’s expression flickers to guilt as he realises his words, but Izuku just smiles at him. “Don’t worry, Kacchan. I’m not trying. So then what happened?”

“Well, that’s it. We had the goat back on her feet and givin’ us three litres a day in no time,” Kacchan says, shrugging. But then his eyes take on a faraway look as he continues, “That first night, I was so fuckin’ determined to make sure she didn’t die that I stayed with her by the fire, laying with her on the blanket. And the fuckin’ thing actually licked me, like it was givin’ me a kiss goodnight or some shit.”

The mental image is so precious, it actually pulls a laugh, albeit a weak one, out of Izuku. “Sounds like she was already crazy about you.” No surprise that Kacchan’s magnetism extended to animals, as well. “Was she still wearing the purple ribbon?”

“I think so. Why?”

Because a goat is just a goat. But a goat with a ribbon the same colour of the dresses and sweaters Mitsuki always wore, the same colour of lavender she put in the soap she made for her son, or hung in dried sprigs in the window of the Bakugou's little house in the Seam, a burst of colour amongst all the gray…is a symbol of family. Of love.

“Just trying to picture it,” is all Izuku says by way of explanation. “I can see why that day made you so happy. What did you name her? Please tell me you don’t just call her ‘the goat’.”

Kacchan rolls his eyes, and tells him he and his mother had conflicting ideas about what the nanny goat ought to be called. Mitsuki had chosen the name Yu, but Kacchan decided to call her Mt. Lady, because she was such a gold mine, and would make them a ‘mountain of money’.

Izuku grins. “Those are both great names. But I like Mt. Lady. It suits you, giving something a heroic name like that.”

“Lady has paid for herself several times over,” Kacchan says, a trace of his normal defensiveness creeping back into his tone. “She earned her hero name, I’d say.”

It’s then that Izuku realises that he has fallen for a boy whom admission of affection is a real struggle. Izuku is sure that if he were to ask Kacchan if he knew Auntie Mitsuki’s favourite colour, Kacchan would probably lie, even though he had probably picked out the exact shade of purple that he knew Mitsuki loved the most.  

“Well, she wouldn’t dare do anything different after you saved her life,” Izuku says, “I plan to do the same thing. Maybe I’ll earn a hero name, too.”

Once Izuku is gone, he’ll leave Kacchan with only the legacy of the soft and tender care he had given Izuku. Toshinori wanted to soften Kacchan’s image, and has succeeded. Kacchan will be seen as a tribute and a victor of unusual gentleness, fierce loyalty to his district—a healer, not a murderer. All the trouble Izuku has caused—naming his emotions on stage, turning on Kacchan once they got to the arena, and any wounded feelings from Kirishima, seeing Kacchan kissing someone who wasn’t him—will dissolve with Izuku’s passing. And all of it will serve Kacchan in the dark years he will face as a victor.

“Well, when we win this thing, I suppose we’ll both get ‘hero’ names,” Kacchan says, “Bet they already have a few ideas knockin’ around for us back at the Capitol.”

Kacchan speaks with such hopefulness, as if the idea of the two of them leaving this arena alive isn’t a complete impossibility. There is no way that Izuku will not be dead in a matter of days; maybe even hours, considering how awful he feels. The poison in his blood will spread through his body and kill him long before the other tributes are dead. Surely, Kacchan must know this. And yet, he’s saying ‘when we win this thing’. When had I’m gonna win turned into when we win? Was Kacchan just trying to spare Izuku’s feelings, assuming that Izuku didn’t know enough about blood poisoning to understand how truly limited his time on this earth was?

“I think I’d rather pick my own,” Izuku says tightly. Only victors get victor names, and Izuku won’t be a victor. The Capitol won’t get to decide what his name will be. And besides, there’s only one name that Izuku can think of, when he thinks of a hero.

Kacchan decides to indulge him. “Yeah? And what would your victor name be, if you could pick?”

But just as Izuku is about to tell him, trumpets suddenly rend the air, startling them both and Kacchan jumps to his feet and hurries to the mouth of the cave.

The voice of Flect Turn booms all around them. “Attention, tributes, attention. Congratulations, once again, to our final six. Tomorrow, courtesy of the Capitol, there will be a feast. But this is no ordinary feast. Each of you needs something, desperately. You will find what you’re looking for at the Cornucopia, tomorrow morning at sunrise. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favour.”

“Your medicine,” Kacchan says at once in a rush of breath, turning back around to look at Izuku.

Kacchan looks so relieved, so hopeful, but surely he has to know what a trap this is. Everyone knows a feast is just a way to get desperate tributes all together in one place and get some blood to spill. There’s a determined light in Kacchan’s eyes which deeply unsettles Izuku.

“You can’t, Kacchan,” Izuku says firmly, “They’re just trying to lure everyone out for a fight. There hasn’t been a death in days. I won’t let you risk your life for me.”

“You’ll die without it, Deku.”

So Kacchan does know. He simply just doesn’t care.

Dizzily, Izuku tries to get his feet under him. “Then I’m coming with you.”

“You won’t get even ten steps from here on that leg,” Kacchan says flatly, not bothering to help Izuku get to his feet, because it just further proves his point. “You can’t fuckin’ walk, Deku.”

“Then I’ll drag myself!” Izuku cries, panicking now. “You go, and I’m going, too. And if I’m yelling your name, I bet someone will come and find me, and then I’ll be dead for sure.”

Kacchan flushes with indignation at that, and opens his mouth to retort, but Izuku isn’t about to let him. “Please, Kacchan. I can’t let you do this. I’m not letting you run into some free-for-all against Monoma and Toga. Don’t be stupid. Let them fight it out with the others, and we’ll see who winds up in the sky tomorrow night, and work out a plan from there.”

 But Kacchan knows as well as Izuku they simply don’t have that kind of time.

“Yeah, and what plan would that be? For me to just sit here and watch you fuckin’ die?” Kacchan snaps at him, and his voice is sharp, but Izuku can hear the clear desperation in it. “You need that medicine, Deku.”

Why is it that their worst fights always seemed to be about sacrificing themselves? Izuku wishes that Kacchan would just allow him the dignity to die on his own terms without threatening to throw himself after him.

Izuku takes a deep breath to calm himself down. “I won’t die. I promise I won’t,” he lies, “If you promise not to go.”

For a time, they just stare one another down, at an impasse, measuring the other’s capacity for stubbornness against their own. Then, Kacchan rubs his face angrily, sighs heavily in exasperation, and then points firmly at Izuku.

“Then you have to do everything I say from now on,” Kacchan demands, “No more bein’ a little shit and arguing. Drink your water, wake me when I tell you to, and eat every bite of the soup I just made you no matter how fuckin’ disgusting it is!”

Izuku nods. “Agreed,” he says, “Is it ready now?”

Kacchan heaves a breath through his nose so hard his nostrils flare, and then storms out of the cave without a word. Izuku sighs. He’s unconvinced but relieved that, for now, Kacchan is staying put. The truth of the matter is, Kacchan could escape any time he wanted to, but Izuku would have to convince him that his injury isn’t so bad. That he still has time to outlast the others.

Kacchan returns with the broth-and-berry-mush pot, and shoves it at Izuku with a terse order to eat. Izuku accepts the pot and looks down at what appears to be that weird meat Kacchan kept trying to get him to eat, ground down into a chunky mush with some water and herbs.

Izuku tries a spoonful. “Oh, this is good!” he says enthusiastically. In truth, his stomach feels odd and he can’t actually taste anything. “What is the meat, anyway? Chicken?”

“Groosling,” Kacchan supplies.

“Never heard of it. Have you ever shot one before?”

“Not since I came here,” Kacchan says quietly, “They have ‘em in Eleven.”

Izuku doesn’t know how Kacchan could possibly know that. Before his talk with Nakagame about life in District 4, Izuku had no outside knowledge of any of the other districts. Had Kacchan run into Yoarashi while Izuku was in the mud? Or maybe little Mahoro?

“This is really delicious! How did you get it warm? You didn’t light a fire, did you?”

Kacchan explains about his fireless cooking method using the hot rocks that had been baking in the sun, and Izuku continues to praise Kacchan’s problem solving and culinary skills until he finishes the groosling stew, and Kacchan pushes more fever pills and water onto him. Then Kacchan takes the empty pot back from Izuku, mutters under his breath about washing up, and slips out of the cave again.

While Kacchan is gone, Izuku heaves himself to his feet, which is incredibly difficult with just one hand and trying not to distribute any weight to his left leg, but the groosling has given him a surge of energy. Maybe he really will be able to convince Kacchan that his strength is returning, that he’ll be able to wait it out for four cannons to sound and the victory trumpets to announce them the winners of the Games. And to do that, he’ll have to prove he is mobile.

But when he gingerly puts the toes of his left foot on the cave floor, a ripple of intense pain shoots through his whole leg and up his spine so hard he gasps. It takes everything he has not to drop back down onto the cave floor, shakily lowering himself back to the safety of the sleeping bag. So much for that.

Well, if he can’t walk, he at least needs to show some sign of improvement. He reaches into the pack next to him and starts to swallow tiny gulps of water. He’s so full from that rich groosling, it’s a slow-going process, but he makes himself do it. Kacchan returns, looking a little less miserable, but still carrying obvious tension in his face. Upon seeing Izuku heeding his instructions and drinking some water, though, he actually smiles a little bit.

Kacchan steps over and ruffles Izuku’s hair. “Want some berry mush for dessert?” Kacchan asks softly, “I can add some mint leaves to it, spice it up a little.”

Izuku is beyond full right now, but feels a leap of hopefulness in his chest at Kacchan’s warm reception. And if he continues to be obedient, he might just get Kacchan to stay with him, after all. “I’d love some. Thank you, Kacchan.”

“Sure.” To Izuku’s immense surprise, and delight, Kacchan even pecks him on the cheek. “Be right back.”

Kacchan leaves the cave once again, but returns much faster this time around. He pulls some mint leaves from his trusty pack, tearing them up and adding them to the pot and mixing it all up before handing the pot over to Izuku. Much like the groosling stew, Kacchan isn’t spoon-feeding him this meal, either. But that’s fine by Izuku—it’s another chance to prove he’s not on a slow and steady decline.

He takes a deep gulp of the minty, fruity mush and then pulls the pot away, licking his lips and frowning. It’s definitely berries, but something else, too, besides the mint. Something Izuku can’t quite place, but it’s familiar. “Wow, it’s so sweet.”

“I found a new patch of berries, a little further down the stream,” Kacchan explains, “They’re sugar berries. The old hag makes jam from them. You’ve never tried them before?” Kacchan touches his elbow, guiding the pot back up to Izuku’s lips. “Have some more.”

Izuku complies. The berries have not only an unnatural sweetness to them but also a strange texture that makes Izuku’s lips stick together. “No, although they do taste familiar. You said they’re called sugar berries?”

Kacchan nods. “You wouldn’t see them in the market. They only grow wild.”

Izuku takes another gulp, moving the mush around with his tongue thoughtfully. “I’ve never heard of them before.” He knocks back the last few bits of it, then looks down into the pot. He’s still got a mouthful of the stuff as he mumbles, “They’re as sweet as…”

And then, Izuku remembers where he has tasted this sweetness before. He had been very small, and very sick with pox. The fever he had back then had almost been as bad as the one he’s dealing with now, and he’d had a pounding headache, and dreadfully painful blisters that became his mother’s full-time job to keep Izuku from scratching. The sores spread all over, even into his mouth, leaving Izuku in such uncomfortable agony he couldn’t get a wink of sleep. Eventually, his mother had enlisted the help of none other than Auntie Mitsuki, who had come by the bakery to give Izuku some medicine that would finally let him get some rest.

Beyond the tang of the berries is a sweetness exactly like that medicine. Auntie Mitsuki had only placed a few drops on Izuku’s tongue, and he’d been out for a full day.

Izuku’s eyes go wide as it all clicks into place. “…syrup.”

Sleep syrup!

Izuku doesn’t know by what enchantment Kacchan got his hands on it, but Izuku is certain it’s what is in the berries. He knows exactly what Kacchan is doing to him, and he can’t—

But Kacchan has seen Izuku figure it out, and is on Izuku in an instant, putting his hand over Izuku’s mouth and nose so Izuku is forced to swallow the berries still in his mouth. He struggles in a blind panic, rolling over and trying to jam his finger down his throat so he can throw up the syrup, but Kacchan grabs his wrist and pulls his hand away from his mouth, his other arm locking Izuku in a chokehold. For a second, Izuku is convinced that Kacchan has decided to get rid of him, or at the very least put him out of his misery. Is he going to knock him out, and then suffocate him? Break Izuku’s neck? But as Izuku’s body grows too heavy to put up any more resistance, Kacchan’s grip around his neck loosens.

Kacchan rolls Izuku over in his arms, holding him in something like a strange embrace as Izuku’s body goes limp. He lays him back carefully on the sleeping bag, shushing and cooing at Izuku all the while, whispering in his ear, “It’s okay, you’re okay, shhh, that’s it, thaaat’s it, there you go. You’re gonna be all better when you wake up, Deku, I promise.”

Izuku looks up at Kacchan, hoping his face is able to convey the betrayal he feels. He can’t quite make out the details of Kacchan’s face, his vision beginning to blur. Then he goes cross-eyed as the drugs finally pull him into a thick, syrupy oblivion, and everything goes black.

The back door of the bakery is wide open, even though there’s an icy rainstorm outside coming down in buckets, because the ovens are at full strength and fill the kitchen with a heat so intense that it feels more like the middle of August, not April. Izuku is working alone in the back, moving frantically between the ovens and counters.

He’s really behind on his math homework, but his mother is also behind on her quotas. The winter has been miserable, between foul cold, wet weather and, of course, the huge accident in the mines three months ago. An entire section of the mine had to be closed off, causing poverty to spread throughout the entire district, starting with the mining families—those with dead husbands or ones now out of work—all the way to the merchants, who had also been impacted by the accident in a far more direct way than normal, with the death of Izuku’s father. Rarely does District 12 feel so interconnected as when they all are suffering as one.

When Hisashi was alive, Izuku would man the front counter while his father worked in the kitchen and his mother went over paperwork and their finances in the back office. Now that it’s down to just Izuku and his mother, and since nobody is coming into the shop in this downpour, it’s just Izuku working frantically by himself in the kitchen while Inko paces around in the office, out of her mind with stress and grief she hasn’t had the time to process, groaning loudly about how in the world they were going to get through these next few months, when they are down to the last of their ingredients and they haven’t made enough for the next quarterly shipment. They will be up to their heads in debt going into the spring…

Suddenly, Izuku hears Inko cursing sharply, and she’s running into the kitchen and out the back door. And she’s screaming, “Out! Get out! Get out of my bins, boy! I’m sick of you Seam brats pawing through my trash! Do I look like a charity? I can hardly look after my own! Get away or I’ll have the Peacekeepers on you!”

Izuku creeps up behind her and peeks around her back, and spots Kacchan putting the lid back on their empty trash bins and backing away, a confused, desperate, hungry look in his red eyes.

Inko storms back inside, her hair dripping wet onto the kitchen floor, and Izuku follows her. She turns her anger on Izuku, snapping at him for leaving his post. “What are you doing, just standing around? Get back to work! We can’t afford a speck of imperfection on today’s loaves, do you understand me?”

Izuku nods quickly and when Inko retreats back into the office, Izuku sneaks over to the back door and looks out through the curtain of water falling down over the flooded gutters on the roof. Kacchan is still out there, hunkered beneath their old apple tree. He looks so small and frail, drowning in his father’s hunting jacket and the rain that’s pushing him into the ground.

Is he dying? Right here, right now? Izuku has never seen it happen; not directly. Only the aftermath—the gaunt bodies sitting up against a brick wall in the town square, looking just like Kacchan does now. Izuku knew he had been struggling ever since Uncle Masaru died, feared it might be happening, berated himself for not figuring out a way to help. And now he’s come here, only to be screamed at. Were his mother’s vulgar screams the last human voice Kacchan will ever hear?

Izuku turns away, looking back into the houseful of bread at his disposal.

…A speck of imperfection, huh?

He sticks on oven mitts and goes over to the oven, pulling out a rack of fresh loaves. It’s the good stuff; full of nuts and fruit. Time are so tough right now, only the rich can afford bread like this, and his mother is charging accordingly for it, so it’s worth more than ever. But certainly not worth more than a life. Especially not Kacchan’s life.

Izuku sets aside the rack, plucks up two pieces of bread, and tosses them straight into the coals.

He lets out a shout, as if in surprise, and hurries to pluck the loaves out of the fire. Inko is flying back into the room just as Izuku is dropping the loaves onto the counter and then whipping off his oven mitts to beat off the flames. The two loaves have surface—but irrevocable—scorch marks.

Inko lets out an animal-like shriek and comes at Izuku fast. Izuku whirls around, holding up his hands and stammering out, “I-I’m so sorry, it was the warped rack, the pan just slipped—“

And then she hits him, hard, across the face with the palm of her hand, several times. It stings, and stuns, leaving his ears ringing from the blow. He has to bite back hard on the urge to cry as she screams in his face, “You useless, idiot child! What have you done? No one will buy those now!”

“They’re just a bit singed, w-we could still—“

“Feed them to the pig, you stupid boy!”

And now he has to bite back a cheer. During a more lucrative time, with Inko in a better, more reasonable mood, they might have had this bread for dinner themselves. Inko turns away from him, holding her head, silent now. Izuku picks up the hot loaves and walks to the back door.

Kacchan is still there under the apple tree, staring at the house. He lifts his head a little as Izuku ventures out into the rain. Izuku tears a small amount of bread off of one of the loaves and crosses the yard towards the pig pen. He tosses a few small pieces into the feeding trough, and then, without looking, tosses both loaves towards the apple tree.

Then, not daring to meet those red eyes, Izuku makes his way back into the house, cold, wet, and aching…

His face hurts…and his leg, for some reason. His hand, too. Actually, his whole body aches. It’s so cold…

And then Izuku wakes up, cold, wet, and aching, on the floor of the cave.

There’s the rushing sound of rain outside, and a roll of thunder in the darkness. Icy cold water droplets are dribbling through cracks in the roof of the cave, and pooling around him. There’s a strange, unpleasant taste in his mouth. Unnaturally sweet.

Everything comes back to him in a rush, and Izuku bolts upright, gasping. “Kacchan!”

Then he looks down and sees him, lying on the floor of the cave just to Izuku’s right. There’s a pool of blood around his head.

"No. No, no, no..."

Heart pounding, Izuku jumps to his feet. Something clatters to the stones and he looks down to see a clear needle roll across the uneven ground. He’s also back in his shirt, and he’s able to stand on both legs with barely any discomfort.

But he can worry about all that later. He hurries to Kacchan’s side and turns him over. He’s got a deep, long gash on his forehead that’s dripping blood. He’s pale and silent, but alive.

Alive. Izuku lets out a sob of relief, and kisses Kacchan on the forehead, avoiding the wound but still smearing his lips in warm, sticky blood. He cups Kacchan’s cheek, and finds it doesn’t feel hot. In fact, he's a bit cool to the touch. Not deathly cold, but he's definitely lost a lost of blood. 

Izuku finds Kacchan’s pack and rummages around for the first aid kit. He pours water onto a cloth and cleans off Kacchan’s forehead, then tears a strip off the roll of bandages with his teeth and wraps it around Kacchan’s head a few times as best he can. It’s hard to do one-handed, but he works slow and steady, resting Kacchan’s head in his lap to get the leverage he needs.

Kacchan is wearing cut up socks on his hands that are caked in dried blood, and his boots and socks are soaked with water—there’s a puddle by his feet that didn’t come from the rainwater dripping into their cave. Izuku takes off the bloody socks, and then, carefully lowering Kacchan’s head down, gets up and pulls off the damp boots and socks. Then, he goes back to the sleeping bag, unzipping it and folding it right open.

Izuku is glad his leg is feeling better, because he’s going to have to lift Kacchan up and move him into the sleeping bag, which is already going to be hard enough with his hand splinted. He approaches Kacchan from the right side, so he can tuck his good hand under Kacchan’s neck and support his head. Then, he carefully tucks his right arm under Kacchan’s bent knees, and, using his forearm as leverage instead of his hand, with all his might, and a grunt of exertion through his teeth, Izuku hoists Kacchan up off the floor of the cave and staggers the few small steps over to the splayed out sleeping bag.

His leg is screaming by the time he’s got Kacchan laid down, but it only throbs for a minute or two after he’s got Kacchan zipped up tight in the sleeping bag. Izuku takes a few moments to catch his breath, rubbing at his leg, and then he takes stock of his surroundings.

First, he picks up the needle that fell away from his arm. There’s also a small black backpack with the number 12 on it nearby. The feast. Kacchan went and got this antibiotic for him.

Izuku looks down at his leg. The red streaks are fading, and the shiny quality to his flesh is gone. It still seems a little swollen around the lip of the wound, but not in an unhealthy way. It’s probably just from his exertions just now. But it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it did before. Izuku can put his weight on it comfortably enough, at least.

More to the point, he’s alive! He looks down at Kacchan, in awe over him yet again, a laugh bubbling out of him. He tosses the needle aside and Izuku swoops down to kiss his cheek in thanks. The audience is surely gobbling this joyous little one-way reunion right up, cheering for the fact that Izuku has cheated death once more, but Izuku doesn’t give a hoot about any of them right now. He’s just so glad Kacchan is back; wounded, but not fatally. And alive. Back with Izuku.

The anthem sounds and Izuku steps over to the mouth of the cave to see Himiko Toga’s face in the sky. Izuku has a mixed reaction to seeing her. Izuku is certain it was one of Toga’s knives that had cut Kacchan. The girl had a strange fixation with blood and cutting people, but her skill at doing so had been undeniable. Toga was all too ready for these Games. In a different world, where her cleverness could have been put to actual use, Izuku is sure that Himiko Toga could have been a great person. A nice, normal girl. All the same, Izuku is relieved to see her face in the sky. Very, very relieved.

Back in the cave, Izuku uses some of the scattered pine needles to mop up the blood on the floor. He puts on his pants and jacket. His stomach is growling so he finds some groosling in Kacchan’s pack and wolfs down three pieces before he realises he probably should have rationed it out some more. He pushes down his newly ravenous hunger and gulps back some water instead.

Then he goes back over to Kacchan, lifting up his head and resting it back in Izuku’s lap, Kacchan’s knife clenched in his left hand. He would love to stroke Kacchan’s hair, but he needs his good hand to hold onto the knife, so he settles for resting his splinted hand on Kacchan’s chest instead to feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

He counts back to the number of days it’s been since Monoma cut him, trying to work out how many days they’ve been in the arena, but it all feels like a blur of mud and blood. He leans back against the cave wall and tries to think. It’s something to do to pass the time, and keep his brain stimulated.

Let’s see…it was easiest to start at the beginning. The reaping was always July 4th, which means the parade was the 5th. Then there was three days of training, with the Gamemakers’ evaluation on the third day, followed by a day of prep for the televised interview, which took place the following evening. After that, the Games began the morning of July 11th, the same as every year, like the reaping.

There was the bloodbath on day one. Around dawn of the second day, Toga killed Hagakure while they were hunting in the woods. They went back to camp, and by the third night, had brought Shoda into the Career pack to booby trap the supplies. Day four was when they spotted the fire the Gamemakers created in the woods, and then Izuku and the Careers found Kacchan, and had him treed.

By the morning of the fifth day, Kacchan dropped the tracker jacker nest on them. Izuku fought off Monoma, got his leg cut, his hand crushed…when was that? Izuku recounts again.

The 15th. The tracker jackers, Monoma…that all happened on the 15th of July.

Izuku’s eighteenth birthday.

Well, he would say that that’s one birthday he won’t soon forget, but most of that day is entirely lost to the silvery haze of the tracker jacker venom. He supposes that’s a good thing. If Izuku really does make it out of here alive, it ought to make for a pretty crazy story to tell. And the possibility of him getting to go home now feels slightly less impossible. There’s only one Career left in play, and Izuku is mobile and no longer actively dying of blood poisoning.

That thought has him looking back down at Kacchan and smiling. Kacchan saved his life. Threw himself into danger, took on the feast, took one of Toga’s knives to the head, and got Izuku the medicine. Izuku sets down the knife—just for a minute or two, he promises himself—to run his fingers through Kacchan’s soft hair.

He really was so amazing. There is nothing Izuku will ever be able to do to make it up to him, not if he were to live for a thousand years. But, at least, he can start to pay him back a little by looking after Kacchan now.

Izuku brings his hand to his mouth, kisses the tips of two fingers, and then presses them to Kacchan’s lips. A silent-thank you. He’ll say it out loud whenever Kacchan decides to wake up, which he hopes will be soon. He can feel Kacchan’s warmth and feel his life—his breath and heartbeat—under his hand, but it still feels like he’s far, far away right now.

He picks Kacchan’s knife up and clutches it tight, going back to his vigil, listening to the sound of the rain as he stares out into the night, thinking of the boy in the rain, the boy he had burnt the bread for, and the names of the colours he had seen in those red eyes in the silvery mist of that storm.

Chapter Text

PART THREE 

THE ADJOURNMENT

♖♔

viii.

The night goes by slowly.

When it starts to get too cold, Izuku climbs into the sleeping bag and maneuvers himself gently next to Kacchan, but stays wide awake, still gripping the knife.

How will this Game end, he wonders? Who was left in play now? Just him, Kacchan, Monoma, Yoarashi…and one more. Who was it? Izuku really has nothing better to do than to try and keep track of the days and the tributes, so he lays there running through them all, district by district, trying to recall their names. Most of them are lost to him, but eventually Izuku is able to drag up the vague image of her in his mind. Red-orange hair, tied in a ponytail. District 5. Her name was…Itsuka Kendo.

Where is Kendo now? What has she been doing all this time? Just hiding? How is she surviving? Was she the one who was stealing from the Careers’ food pile, before Shoda installed the mines? If so, how is she feeding herself, since Kacchan destroyed the supplies? How does she expect to win without confronting anyone?

Now that the feast is over, there will be a brief respite. Then, they’ll be driven together again, somehow. Hopefully not before Izuku has time to regain his strength, so he can help Kacchan finish this thing up.

He changes Kacchan’s bandage twice overnight. When the rain starts to drip through the rocks, Izuku takes the plastic sheet Kacchan has amongst his supplies and wedges it up into the low rocky ceiling over the sleeping bag so it doesn’t get on Kacchan.

By early morning, Kacchan finally begins to stir. He mumbles in his sleep, and his brow furrows. When his dream seems to make him restless, Izuku touches his arm, calling out softly. “Kacchan. Kacchan, can you hear me?”

Finally, at last, Kacchan’s eyes slide open and look up at Izuku. They’re dark, momentarily filled with confusion, and a flicker of fear.

Blood, garnet, carmine…

“Deku.”

His eyes soften, lighting up with recognition.

Carnation, ruby, apple…

“Hi. Good to see your eyes again.”

“How long have I been out?”

Izuku shakes his head. “Not sure. I woke up last night and you were lying next to me in a very scary pool of blood. I bandaged your head, but I wouldn’t try and sit up just yet.” Kacchan lifts a hand up to feel the bandage. Izuku holds out a water bottle. “Here.”

Kacchan empties the bottle with a couple of long gulps, and then eyes Izuku. “You look better.”

Izuku scrubs at his very dirty, matted hair somewhat self-consciously. “I dunno about looking better, but I feel pretty good. Whatever you shot in my arm did the trick. By this morning, all the swelling in my leg was gone.”

“Did you eat?”

Izuku nods, but offers Kacchan a sheepish smile. “I, um, might’ve gobbled down three pieces of that groosling I kept turning down earlier, before I realised it might have to last for a while. But I’m back on a strict diet now.”

Kacchan blinks slowly at him. “No, it’s fine. You need to eat. I’ll go hunting soon.”

“Not too soon, yeah?” He brushes some hair out of Kacchan’s eyes. “You just let me take care of you for a while.”  

It’s nice to be able to finally feel helpful after so much down time. Izuku doesn’t let Kacchan lift a finger as he feeds him groosling and raisins and gets lots of water into him. When Kacchan starts to shudder and complains that his feet are frozen, Izuku unzips the sleeping bag and gives him a foot rub to get the blood circulating.

“Your boots and socks are still damp, and this weather isn’t helping much,” Izuku says apologetically. He takes off his jacket and bundles up Kacchan’s feet with it. He zips the sleeping bag back up under Kacchan’s chin, and his voice is quiet as he says, “Toga is dead. I saw in the sky last night. Was that you?”

“No. Yoarashi. Broke her skull with a rock.”

Izuku shivers. “Good thing he didn’t catch you, too.”

Kacchan’s eyes are far away. “He did,” he murmurs, “But he let me go.”

Izuku blinks. What? That makes no sense. “He…let you go?”

“Yeah. Because…” Kacchan swallows. “Because of Mahoro.”

“The little girl from his district?” Izuku remembers seeing her face in the sky, when he was still lying in the mud. “She died a few days ago. What happened?”

Kacchan closes his eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath, and when he opens them, he says, “She and I teamed up.”

Izuku’s eyes go wide. Kacchan…entered an alliance? With little Mahoro, of all people?

And so, Kacchan tells him. How Mahoro had been in the tree next to Kacchan that night the Careers had him trapped, that it was her who pointed out the tracker jacker nest to him. After that, she followed Kacchan and the two of them eventually patched up one another’s wounds, shared a meal, and a sleeping bag. She gave Kacchan information about the Career camp, how all the supplies were stacked up all in one spot, and that’s when Kacchan came up with the idea to destroy the supplies. Mahoro wanted in on the plan, and so, Kacchan formed a reluctant alliance with her.

Kacchan explains their plan, where Mahoro would draw the Careers away from their camp while Kacchan figured out a way to destroy it. He figured out the booby trap with the mines, blew up the food, and then the Careers came back. Shoda got killed, and then the Careers went back into the woods that night once only Shoda’s face appeared in the sky. Eventually Kacchan went back to his and Mahoro’s rendezvous, but when she never showed, he went looking for her. That’s when he came across Mahoro, caught in a net trap. Kacchan has been speaking in a flat, detached voice, but as he begins to describe the details of Mahoro’s death, his voice starts to pitch with hysteria.

Izuku heart clenches, and he reaches out to squeeze Kacchan’s shoulder. “Kacchan—“

“She died, Deku,” Kacchan chokes out, “She died in my arms and I couldn’t do a thing about it. She didn’t even cry.”

Izuku rubs his thumb over the ball of Kacchan’s shoulder. “She sounds like she was very brave. And so were you.”

Kacchan shakes his head, staring up at the dripping ceiling. “No, I wasn’t. I cried like a baby and she didn’t squeeze out a drop.”

Oh, Kacchan. “So, you told Yoarashi about your alliance with her?” Izuku asks.

“I told him about the flowers,” Kacchan says, “About how she asked me to sing and I did. About the bread.”

Flowers? Singing? Bread? “Bread?” Izuku echoes, deciding to settle on the only part that makes any sense to him. “The sponsor gift you told me about?”

“Yeah. It was from District Eleven. The crescent moon roll with the seeds. You told me about it during training.”

Izuku nods. His heart squeezes a little to know that Kacchan had actually been paying attention. “I did.” He’s never heard of a district sending a tribute that wasn’t their own a sponsor gift before. “They sent you bread? For Mahoro?”

What had Kacchan done, that had warranted such an unprecedented thing? A first in Hunger Games history? Flowers, singing…had Kacchan…performed some kind of funeral rite for Mahoro? A chill runs through Izuku. One unprecedented action deserved another. If it’s ever happened before, it’s certainly never made it on air. But if District 11 had sent Kacchan a sponsor gift, they must have seen whatever he did with those flowers.

“They were repayin’ a debt, same as Yoarashi.” Kacchan finally meets his gaze. “Same as me. That’s what people who’ve never had enough do. We never wanna owe anyone anything, so we pay back our debts.” His eyes harden. “I don’t expect you to understand. You’ve always had enough.”

The words cut deeper than Monoma’s blade, but only because they’re true. Izuku has no right to refute him, so he presses his lips together. They’re both boys from District 12, their fathers both killed in the mines, they both volunteered for the Games, but that is where their similarities ended. And all the differences between them had built up the years of resentment and tension and distance between them.

“I never seem to get over owing you for the bread you gave me,” Kacchan mutters. Izuku’s brows shoot up at that. “You didn’t even mention it at school the next day, or any day since. I don’t even know if you burned it on purpose or not, to give to me. I don’t know why you did it, either way. I avoided you after our dads died. I needed someone to blame and your piece of shit father was dead so you were all I had to channel it at. So I pushed you away. Ignored you. And you helped me, anyway. It’s always the first gift that’s hardest to pay back, and it’s been so long now since then that it feels like I’ve missed my chance.”

Did Kacchan seriously still think that he owes Izuku anything, after all he’s done for him? Sure, it was nice to finally have an explanation straight from Kacchan himself, but it was nothing Izuku didn’t already know. There was nothing to explain, nothing to forgive, and certainly nothing owed. “I think you can consider your debt paid, Kacchan,” Izuku says quietly, “Seeing as how you brought me back from the brink of death and all.”

“I wouldn’t have even been here to do that if you hadn’t helped me first.”

The enormity of that statement closes over Izuku. He supposes Kacchan has a point about that, and Izuku supposes he always knew it, too. But it’s very different hearing him actually say so.

Kacchan frowns at him. “Why did you do it, anyway?”

Izuku’s brows jump up, and his heart begins to pound. “You know why now, don’t you?”

Surely, he has to. On one hand is the act of the star-crossed lovers. On the other are all of the very real emotions that inspired the fact in the first place. Here, they intersect, indistinguishable from each other.

Kacchan shakes his head. “I wouldn’t be askin’ if I knew.”

Izuku blinks in surprise, and it dawns on him that Kacchan hasn’t just said all of this just now for the audience’s sake, to help build up the backstory of the star-crossed lovers. He’s asking for his own understanding. The boy who once fed him bread and the boy who ‘pretended’ to admire him to make him more likeable to a foreign crowd, are not one and the same in Kacchan’s eyes. Izuku thought that he was making things pretty obvious, and that Kacchan had been responding in kind, with his warm gestures and soft kisses. Izuku had kind of forgotten all about the audience, to be honest. And it certainly seemed like Kacchan had, too. But if he’s honestly still confused on why Izuku gave him that bread, as well as all the rest of it, then Izuku really has his work cut out for him.

“All Might said you would take a lot of convincing,” Izuku murmurs.

Kacchan’s brow furrows. “What the fuck does he have to do with it?”

“Nothing,” Izuku says evasively. This is clearly going to take a lot of unpacking. Time to steer the conversation away from the love talk—at least until Izuku can figure out what and how much he can say. He can’t exactly explain to Kacchan how none of this is make-believe for him, while the cameras are still rolling. “So, just Monoma, Yoarashi, and Kendo left, huh?”

“I guess it’s too much to hope that they’ll all simultaneously destroy each other,” Kacchan says grimly.

“I guess so.” He looks at the weary purple shadows under Kacchan’s eyes. “You should get some more rest.”

“Okay. Wake me up if you need me to keep watch.”

“I’ll be fine. I got plenty of rest, thanks to you and All Might,” Izuku says. He can’t quite keep the snark out of his tone at that. He’s been so focused on nursing Kacchan back to health and so caught up in his relief that he survived the feast, that he’s put aside his anger over Kacchan tricking him. But that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten about it. “Speaking of which, don’t ever try something like that again, Kacchan,” Izuku admonishes, securing the sleeping bag more snugly around Kacchan as he burrows down into its warmth.

Kacchan’s eyelids are already fluttering heavily. “Or what?”

“Or…or I’ll, uh…”

But Izuku is spared from having to figure out a comeback, because Kacchan is already fast asleep.

The rain only gets stronger. While Kacchan sleeps, Izuku goes about repositioning the plastic sheet and using the broth pot to catch the water coming in. As the light in the sky starts to change from gray to dark gray, a long yawn pulls out of Izuku. He wakes up Kacchan, helping him sit upright. He sits back on his heels and watches Kacchan rub at his eyes, unable to keep the little smile off his face.

Kacchan is always cute, of course, but there’s something especially precious about Sleepy Kacchan—whether that’s the grumpy Just-About-To-Fall-Asleep Kacchan who can barely hold his eyes open, or the slightly-less-grumpy Just-Woke-Up Kacchan who stretches like a cat and rubs at his sleepy eyes like he’s just a little kid, and not a teenage boy trapped in a battle royale to the death.

“M’ fuckin’ hungry,” Kacchan grumbles.

As if on cue, both his and Izuku’s stomachs groan in perfect unison, so loudly they can hear it over the pounding rain. Izuku’s brows jump, and Kacchan also blinks in surprise, and then quickly looks away from him, pouting a bit in embarrassment, even though Izuku’s pretty sure his stomach growled louder. His body is a lot less used to this whole hunger thing.

Izuku chuckles. “Same here.”

He pulls over Kacchan’s pack and brings out all the food—two pieces of groosling, some roots, and a bit of dried fruit.

“Maybe we ought to try and ration it?” Izuku ponders dubiously.

But Kacchan shakes his head. “The groosling is getting old, and the last thing we need is to get sick off spoiled food. Let’s just finish it. Tomorrow we’ll hunt.”

After Kacchan divides the food into two even piles, Izuku picks up a raisin and sucks on it. “I won’t be much help with that. I’ve never hunted before.”

“Then you can forage.”

Kacchan must have forgotten how lousy he was at plant recognition during their training.

The food is gone within minutes. Izuku looks wistfully out of the mouth of the cave. “I wish there was a bread bush out there.”

Kacchan sighs empathically. “The bread they sent me from District Eleven was still warm.” He pops a few mint leaves in his mouth and hands Izuku a few. “Here, chew these.”

After they watch the sky, which reveals no faces, Kacchan asks, “What’s in the drop-off, on the far side of the Cornucopia clearing?”

“A field,” Izuku tells him, “Full of tall grass as high as your shoulders, as far as you can see. There are patches of different colours; some of them might even be grain.”

“I‘ll bet Yoarashi knows which ones are grain, if any,” Kacchan muses, “Did you go in there?”

Izuku shakes his head. “No. Nobody was keen on tracking him down in that tall grass. There could be anything in there; he might’ve not been the biggest threat.”

Kacchan frowns a bit at that, and is quiet for a time before he says, “Well, Yoarashi is lookin’ better fed now than when we started the Games. Who knows, maybe he found a bread bush, after all.”

“Or he’s got some generous sponsors,” Izuku says, trying very hard not to think about how terrifying a mental image that an even larger Inasa Yoarashi is. Izuku stares out into the rain, trying to think of something else, but all his mind keeps going back to is food. “I wonder what we’d have to do to get All Might to send us some bread.”

After a moment, he feels Kacchan slide his hand on top of his, and intertwine their fingers. Izuku’s brows lift up and he looks down at their joined hands, then up at Kacchan curiously.

He’s giving Izuku a very sly look. “Well, he probably used up a lot of resources helping me knock you out.”

Oh, right. Izuku keeps forgetting to be mad at Kacchan about that. “Oh, we’re bringing that up again, are we?” Izuku retorts, deadpan.

Kacchan grins smugly at him. “What’s the matter? Didn’t come up with a witty enough comeback all that time I was sleepin’?”

“The problem is we’re both alive, which is only going to reinforce the idea in your mind that you did the right thing.”

“But I did do the right thing.”

Izuku thinks of the alternative, the thing that could have so easily happened instead: Kacchan cut down by Toga’s knives, and Izuku waking up in the cave to find himself all alone, and seeing Kacchan’s face in the sky. Dying for nothing, the both of them. It’s too much for Izuku to bear. And now that Izuku is able to focus on his betrayed feelings more than his hunger, he really doesn’t appreciate Kacchan making a joke out of the whole thing.

“No!” Izuku squeezes Kacchan’s hand fiercely. “You didn’t, Kacchan! You won’t be doing me any favours by dying for me.”

The amused look on Kacchan’s face vanishes in an instant at Izuku’s outburst, changing briefly to surprise before he frowns, turning to face him. “Maybe I did it for myself, Deku. Did you ever think of that? Maybe you aren’t the only one who worries about…what would happen if…”

But Kacchan loses steam, his voice trails away, and his expression becomes unreadable as he presses his lips together and stares deeply into Izuku’s eyes.

Izuku finds himself breathless with anticipation to hear the end of that sentence. Could it be that…Kacchan really felt the same way he did? Izuku remembers back to that lovely vision he had seen on the screens that night of the interview. Kacchan’s arrested expression, awed and flushed…looking as genuinely vulnerable as he does right now.

“If what, Kacchan?” Izuku asks encouragingly, leaning in a little closer. He doesn’t want the din of the rain to drown out Kacchan’s words.

Kacchan’s lips move, on the verge of saying something, but no sound comes out. Izuku guesses he’ll just have to fill in the blanks.

Izuku closes the small distance between him and Kacchan, and kisses him.

It’s…different, and only partly because it’s Izuku’s first time initiating, and only partly because Izuku is more conscious, now, of what is happening. Even without being riddled with fever, it only makes it marginally less confusing. It feels mutual and natural and innocent—and also, not innocent at all. Izuku waits a couple of breaths for Kacchan to withdraw, but he doesn’t. His lips are full and warm—so, so warm. Izuku can finally feel their fire, now that his fever is gone. After a moment, Izuku feels Kacchan press his lips further against his, and a dizzying thought jumps into Izuku’s head. Kacchan wants more.

Not sure what he’s really doing, Izuku experimentally moves his mouth and lets the tip of his tongue brush Kacchan’s lower lip. He tastes like mint. Kacchan moves into him a little further, and alarm bells start ringing loudly in Izuku’s head. Something dangerous and disruptive is happening here, big time. Izuku forces himself to pull away, before he forgets all about the audience that is no doubt watching them at this very moment. Toshinori had told them to give them a show, but probably not like this. There were kids watching! Well, they’ve seen a whole lot worse than two teenagers making out, but still. Panem has no right to see this. Izuku wishes the sight before him right now could just be for his eyes alone.

Kacchan’s lips are still parted, his face hazy with confusion and expectation. Izuku’s belly somersaults, and he’s got half a mind to tell those kids to shield their eyes and go right back to kissing him, but then he notices a red stain on the bandage around Kacchan’s head.

Izuku frowns. Oh, right. Battle royale to the death. They’re both a bit too banged up to be getting carried away like this. “I think your wound is bleeding again. Come on, let’s get you back to bed.”

Izuku hastily takes his place in the sleeping bag while Kacchan pulls on his dry socks and gives Izuku back his jacket, which Izuku eagerly accepts. The heat of the kiss had made him forget about the biting cold, momentarily, but now he’s back to shivering.

Kacchan settles in next to him, holding a pair of night vision glasses. “I‘ll take the first watch,” he says, slipping them on.

How had Kacchan gotten those glasses, Izuku wonders? Had he gotten those from the Career camp before he destroyed the supplies? Maybe Kacchan found them in Kaibara’s pack, after he shot him? That thought has Izuku shivering from more than the cold.

Kacchan killed someone. Izuku supposes he had also killed Utsushimi and Nakagame with that nest of tracker jackers, but Kaibara had been Kacchan’s first direct kill.

It doesn’t make Izuku see Kacchan any differently, of course. He’d done it trying to protect Mahoro, but even if that hadn’t been the case, Izuku knows Kacchan would never kill in cold blood. Still, he wonders what Kacchan thought, after his arrow hit its mark. Had he performed rites for Kaibara, too? Maybe not. He still killed Mahoro. But perhaps he arranged his body, after retrieving his arrow. Closed his eyes for him, the same way Izuku had done for Hiryu, and Hagakure.

Izuku wraps his arm around Kacchan’s chest, rests his head on his shoulder, mumbles something out about Kacchan waking him when he is ready for Izuku to take over the watch.

Which doesn’t seem to take long. Before Izuku has even had time to settle into a pleasant dream about kissing Kacchan on a nice, sunny day, Kacchan is nudging him awake. Izuku takes the night glasses from him and Kacchan burrows down into the sleeping bag, pressing his face into Izuku’s neck as he promises to find them a nice, tall tree where they can both sleep in peace tomorrow.

Izuku can’t imagine he’ll be capable of climbing a tree anytime soon, but doesn’t get a chance to say so before Kacchan is fast asleep against him, breathing long and slow against Izuku’s skin, pleasantly warm. Izuku swallows harshly, thankful the people in the Capitol won’t be able to see his blush in the dark.

Kacchan wakes up a few hours later, and is disappointed to see the rain continuing as hard as ever.

“They can’t keep this shit up forever,” he mutters, “The audience must be gettin’ bored.”

But the deluge is relentless. Thick sheets of gray that make visibility—and any hopes of going out to look for food—impossible. There’s nothing much to do but to take their minds off their hunger by taking turns napping, staying hydrated, and gnawing on mint leaves until they’re a fine, gritty green paste. Izuku wishes it wasn’t so cold, otherwise he would leave the sleeping bag and move around a little. It feels like he’s been laying down forever. Eventually he finds a small white rock and discovers that it makes a thin white line, like a piece of chalk, when he scratches it on the cave wall. Izuku doodles absently, considering drawing his favourite foods, but then thinks better of it. Eventually Kacchan takes an interest and asks what he’s drawing.

“Oh, nothing really,” Izuku says, “Animals and flowers, mostly.”

Kacchan watches Izuku sketch out a wobbly sprig of lavender. “You were always doodlin’ in those books of yours,” he says airily, “One of the teachers even had one of your sketches framed.”

Izuku blushes, pleased that Kacchan remembers that. He must not have been ignoring Izuku as much as he initially thought. He scribbles something under the plastic sheet, where the cave wall is the most dry, and then taps Kacchan on the shoulder and points.

KB + IM were here

Kacchan snorts. “Somethin’ for the tourists to find later,” he says sarcastically.

Izuku laughs, but without any mirth. It’s true that this arena will one day become a tourist attraction, a historic site that will open to the public to visit, go on vacation for a month, tour the catacombs, visit the sites where the deaths took place, and take part in re-enactments. Izuku wonders if people will act out his first kiss. Juxtaposed by Kacchan’s first kill.

Apparently the food is excellent.

As an unnerving spate of thunder and lightning starts up, Izuku tries to make a map of the arena, drawing the Cornucopia, the lake, the field, and the encircling woods. He’s not sure where they are in relation to all of it; he can’t remember what direction he went or how far he walked after the tracker jacker attack. But Kacchan takes the rock from him and roughs out where the stream branches off of the lake, as well as the location of several ponds.

The storm makes the air even chillier, and so the two of them abandon the map-making and huddle up in the sleeping bag, shoulder to shoulder.

“Deku,” Kacchan says slowly, “How long have you been crushin’ on me?”

Izuku jumps. “You’ll make fun of me.”

“I promise I won’t.”

Izuku chews on his lip. This should be private; but then, nothing in his life is private anymore. And besides, hasn’t he waited long enough to tell him? If only he’d had the guts to tell Kacchan on the roof that final night, before they got into that stupid fight. Or even long before that—during all those years Izuku wasted, thinking he was being a decent person by giving Kacchan space, when really he was just a coward. It’s taken the arena to see it, and it’s the arena that has given Izuku the courage to finally say it.

Better late than never, he supposes. Izuku sighs wearily and begins, “The first day of school. We were four. You—“

“That long?” Kacchan cries, gaping at him.

Izuku goes red right down to his toes. “You promised not to make fun of me!”

“I’m not. I’m just surprised. How the hell did you know back then? We were only four, Deku.”

Izuku looks away with a pout, deeply embarrassed, squirming in his seat, wishing he could run away. “I know, but—well, my mom pointed you out when we were all waiting to line up outside the school, and—“

“What’d that witch say about me?” Kacchan asks dangerously.

“N-nothing bad!” Izuku assures, head snapping back to look at Kacchan, “She said, ‘See that little boy over there? I wanted to marry his father, but he ran off with the apothecary’s daughter’.”

Kacchan’s eyes slowly go wide while the rest of his face is immovable as stone. “You’re fuckin’ making that up.”

Izuku shakes his head quickly. “No, it’s totally true. And so I asked her what made your dad so special, why did she wanna marry him so bad? And she told me that it was because whenever he sang, the birds would all stop to listen.”

A look of wonder spreads quietly across Kacchan’s face. “They do,” he says, quiet. And then, a little louder. “I mean, they did.”

Images from that day, held so closely and carefully inside of Izuku, flicker now at the surface of his memory. He can smell the fragrant spring air, hear the chatter of young voices, and feel that jolt of a child’s first infatuation. So much stronger than it’s ever given credit for.

“So then, our teacher asked us all who knew the valley song. And your hand shot straight into the air. You stood up and sang it for us.” Izuku smiles warmly, remembering it so specifically—he could never forget it. “And I swear every bird outside the window fell completely silent. And from that moment on, I knew I was a goner.” Izuku blinks on those words, but he doesn’t allow himself to falter now, staring imploringly into Kacchan’s eyes as he continues, silently begging with him to understand that these words are not for the cameras. They are for Kacchan alone. “You were incredible, Kacchan. I wanted to see what you’d become. So that’s why I kept chasing after you. Because you’re amazing.”

Izuku feels like his blush must be burning across all the TV screens in Panem.

As for Kacchan, he’s still looking at Izuku with that same expression of wonderment. For a long, long time, he doesn’t say a word. And then, finally, he says, “You have…a remarkable memory.”

“I remember everything about you. You’re the one who wasn’t paying attention.”

Kacchan’s red eyes burn into him. “I am now.”

Something is about to happen, something Izuku isn’t even sure he’s ready for. So he gives Kacchan an out. “Well, I don’t exactly have much competition here.”

But if Kirishima crosses Kacchan’s mind, he makes no sign of it. Izuku watches his throat bob deeply as Kacchan swallows, his lips part, and then he says, in a near-whisper, “You don’t have much competition anywhere.”

Then Kacchan is leaning in and kissing him, and Izuku closes his eyes, and reminds himself of the cameras and the audience, trying to remember not to go overboard.

But then they’re both laying back in the sleeping bag, and Kacchan maneuvers himself slightly on top of Izuku as he turns his head to the side, deepening the kiss, and his fingers come up to grasp at his curls. Izuku fights back the urge to moan as he grabs onto the back of Kacchan’s shirt with his good hand. He runs his tongue along Kacchan’s bottom lip the way he did before, and in response Kacchan climbs even more on top of him, pressing him right down to the floor.

This time Izuku can’t fight the sound that escapes him, but manages to keep it contained as a soft little sigh. But then Kacchan is gripping at Izuku’s hair with both hands, and when his teeth scrape Izuku’s lower lip, Izuku lets out a throaty groan and curls up into Kacchan, pressing their bodies flush against each other, trying desperately to get even closer. He really wishes he had use of both of his hands right now, so he could—

Clunk.

Kacchan leaps off of Izuku and scrambles for his bow and Izuku snatches up the knife. They’re both on their feet in an instant and wait, weapons poised, staring out the mouth of the cave. But when no further sounds come, Izuku moves over and peers through the small opening and spots a flash of silver. Could it be—? Izuku squints, trying to make sure he’s seeing what he thinks he is. But it is. A silver parachute, draped over a large wicker basket.

Izuku lets out a whoop of victory that makes Kacchan jolt. He should probably be more careful, but hunger and happiness have rendered him temporarily insane, so Izuku squeezes himself out of the cave, grabs the basket and hands it off to Kacchan.

Kacchan has already ripped into the basket when Izuku makes his way back into the cave, looking down at their exorbitant gift with a stunned expression. Fresh baked bread, goat cheese, apples, and Kacchan’s favourite: a tureen of piping-hot spicy lamb curry, laying on a plump bed of white rice.

“I guess All Might finally got tired of watching us starve,” Izuku says, grinning.

“I guess so,” Kacchan murmurs.

Kacchan reaches out for the tureen of curry, and Izuku grasps Kacchan’s arm. “Kacchan, remember that first night on the train? We weren’t even starving then and the food nearly made us sick. We better take it slow.”

Kacchan looks like he might just cry. He hasn’t taken his eyes off the tureen. “But, Deku, it’s lamb curry.”

Izuku rubs his shoulder. “I know, Kacchan.”

“I wanna inhale the whole thing.”

Izuku blinks. “Well, you better leave some for me.”

“You won’t like it.” Kacchan looks close to drooling now and he still won’t look at Izuku. “You can’t handle spice for shit.”

Izuku doesn’t know whether to be affronted about that remark or jealous that Kacchan clearly loves spicy curry more than him. He lands somewhere in the middle as he snaps, “Well, desperate times call for desperate measures!”

Kacchan pulls out the dishes and silverware that were included with the basket and serves them each up a small meal. One roll of bread each, half an apple, and a serving of curry and rice that’s the size of a toddler’s fist. It’s gone in minutes.

“I want more,” Kacchan says.

“Me, too. Let’s give it an hour. If it stays down, we get another serving.”

“It’s gonna be a long fuckin’ hour.”

Izuku is riding high on the inertia of finally getting a meal, not to mention the head rush he’s still reeling from thanks to their kissing from before the meal arrived. It’s the only explanation he’s got for why he manages to do what he does next without turning into a stammering mess. “Maybe not that long,” he says, grinning, “I mean, we got a bit interrupted before the food arrived. I’m sure we could find a way to pass the time.”

Kacchan deadpans. “Oh, sure. Just make out in front of all of fuckin’ Panem, huh? Really know how to set the mood, Deku.”

Clearly Izuku’s flirting needs some work. “Well, you certainly didn’t have a problem with it a minute ago,” he grumbles. He decides to double down on his efforts. “Or we could just go back to talking. What was that you were saying earlier? Something about me…no competition…best thing that ever happened to you…”

“Now I know you’re makin’ shit up,” Kacchan sounds annoyed, but Izuku knows well enough by now it’s a defensive front. While he’s glad for the darkness for concealing them from the audience, Izuku still wishes he could see the colour on Kacchan’s cheeks. “I don’t remember sayin’ that last part.”

“Well, I’m the one with the ‘remarkable memory’ of the two of us, so I guess it’s my word against yours.”

Izuku can practically hear Kacchan’s eyes rolling. “Bet your mom is gonna be thrilled, findin’ out you’re sweet on the boy whose mother stole her man. She already hates Seam kids, but she must hate me even worse because of that. Guess that explains a lot.”

Izuku really doesn’t want to talk about his mother right now. “Well, I couldn’t care less,” Izuku says bluntly, “Besides, when we win, you won’t be a boy from the Seam anymore. You’ll be a boy from the Victor’s Village. .”

“And our only neighbour will be All Might. How romantic.”

Izuku huffs out a laugh. “Yep, you and me and All Might. Very cosy. We can have picnics and birthday parties, and long winter nights around the fire retelling tales about our Games to one another.” He’s joking about it as though it would be terrible, but it actually didn’t sound too bad. Not at all.

Kacchan scoffs lightly. “I told you, he hates me.”

“Well, I’ve never heard him say a negative thing about you when he’s sober.”

“He’s never fuckin’ sober!”

“Oh, right. I must be thinking of Best Jeanist. He really took a shine to you,” Izuku smiles at the memory of seeing the way Kacchan’s shoulders seemed to release some of their tension, whenever the stylist was around. Looks like they’d both made an unlikely friend in the Capitol. And they may actually get to see them again. “As for All Might, well…I just don’t think people in general are his thing. But I stand by my statement from earlier about you being his favourite.”

Kacchan is quiet for a time. Then, Izuku hears him unzip the sleeping bag. “C’mere. I’m freezing.”

Izuku’s heart pounds in his ears at the invitation. He slides into the sleeping bag and snuggles up to Kacchan, resting his cheek on the other boy’s shoulder and wrapping his arms around his small waist. They sit in silence for a time, trying to ignore their gnawing hunger, and the enticing picnic basket sitting in front of them. The smell of the lamb curry still hangs in the air.

It’s only been a half an hour when Kacchan starts to squirm against him. “I can’t fuckin’ wait anymore.”  

Izuku sighs in relief. Oh, thank goodness. “Yes. Let’s have a little more.”

Kacchan jumps up and goes over to the basket just as the anthem starts to play. While he’s dishing out their portions, Izuku moves over to the cave entrance and looks out into the pouring rain.

“There won’t be anything to see,” Kacchan says dismissively, “We would’ve heard a cannon otherwise. Come get some food.”

But Kacchan is wrong. Izuku’s chest pangs sharply as he watches the face appear in the sky. “Kacchan…” he murmurs.

But Kacchan either hasn’t heard him, or is determined not to. “Should we split another roll, too?”

Izuku looks over to see Kacchan is pondering the basket, as though making a point not to meet Izuku’s eyes. “Kacchan.”

“Yeah, let’s split one,” Kacchan concludes, nodding to himself. “But we’ll save the cheese for tomorrow.” Then he finally looks up, and Izuku takes a steadying breath to prepare himself to deliver the news. “What?”

“Yoarashi is dead. We must have missed his cannon, with all the thunder.”

There’s a bright flicker of lightning at that moment which illuminates the shock on Kacchan’s face as he jumps up and hurries to the mouth of the cave, brushing Izuku aside so he can see out the small opening. Kacchan’s breath catches a little, and Izuku knows he managed to catch a glimpse of Inasa Yoarashi’s face before it disappeared.

Kacchan steps away from the opening and presses back against the cave wall, looking devastated as he nearly slides down to the ground. To the Capitol, this will seem like very strange behaviour indeed.

“Are you okay?” Izuku asks.

Kacchan shrugs, and wraps his arms around himself, as if trying to hold in his emotions. Whatever Kacchan is really feeling at this moment, it won’t be something the Capitol will tolerate. The Games are designed to divide the districts; alliances are made to be broken, betrayal is built into them from the beginning. It’s how Izuku’s false alliance with the Careers had gone. But it hadn’t been that way for Kacchan. His alliance with Mahoro ended in tragedy, not deception, and had changed his perspective on the Games. And Yoarashi sparing his life had solidified that perspective.

“If we didn’t win, I wanted him to. Because he let me go. And…because of Mahoro,” Kacchan says quietly, carefully choosing his words. Izuku knows he’s not saying what he’s actually thinking—because he can’t. The Capitol will barely tolerate much more of this talk as it is.

And that’s why the Capitol keeps them all divided and isolated in the first place. Not just district by district, but even amongst their own people. Labourers kept separate from shopkeepers. Even amongst families, love has to be measured, affection withheld, children kept at an arm's length because the Reaping is constantly looming over them all like a death sentence.

But Kacchan…he’s never worked that way. He can’t help making connections, mirroring the cross-district alliance which had formed his own family, his mere existence subverting expectations. He is both Seam and town. A boy from District 12 who is as skilled in combat as any trained Career, and knows more about survival than they ever could. Who comes off as abrasive and selfish on the surface, but is actually gentle and goodhearted at his core.

Izuku thinks of the boy who stood on the Reaping stage and declared his victory to Panem, and sees none of that in the one slumped against the cave wall now. But he knows they are one and the same. That the person in front of Izuku now is who Kacchan has truly been all along. Toshinori had said it himself.

The arena is a living hell that reveals one’s innermost self, allowing it to rise to the surface. It creates an opportunity to show what you’re really made of.

Izuku wonders what kind of person Toshinori had been, before his own Games had pushed him into a state of constant drunkenness to try to escape the guilt of being alive. A boy from the Seam, like Kacchan, who had also subverted the Capitol’s expectations. Does Toshinori see a ghost of the boy he used to be, watching Kacchan now? Or is Kacchan showing him a sort of humanity he had never seen before?

It’s in this moment that Izuku realises that as Mahoro and Yoarashi changed Kacchan’s perspective of the Games, so is Kacchan changing Izuku’s, as well. And now that there is a chance he will survive these Games, he would like nothing more than to smash them.

But none of that can be said, so instead Izuku says, “I know. But…we’re one step closer to District Twelve. And…at least you didn’t have to do it yourself. Monoma saw to that.”

He waits for Kacchan to respond, to push himself upright, but he remains still and silent. Izuku takes Kacchan’s wrist and rubs soothing circles into his palm with his thumb.

“C’mon,” he says gently, “Let’s go eat, while it’s still warm.”

Kacchan nods a little, and lets Izuku guide him back over to the basket. Izuku picks apart his bread into tiny chunks while Kacchan pokes at his curry.

“Monoma will have gotten his supplies back from Yoarashi,” Kacchan says glumly, “Yoarashi stole his pack at the feast. To get Monoma to follow him so I could get away, I think.” A flicker of sadness crosses his face, then his expression turns grim. “Monoma will be hunting us again.”

Izuku nods, mixing his bread bits into the curry. “He’s wounded, I bet. Yoarashi never would have gone down without a fight. Monoma was in his territory. I wonder how Kendo is making out, though.”

“Probably be easier to catch Monoma than her,” Kacchan mutters.

Izuku doesn’t doubt that. “Or maybe they’ll catch each other, and then we can go home. But we better be extra careful about the watches. I dozed off a few times.”

Kacchan nods. “Me, too. But we won’t tonight.”

They finish up their food and put away their dishes. Looking at Kacchan’s strained face, Izuku offers to take the first watch. They settle back into the sleeping bag, Izuku sitting up holding the knife, Kacchan burrowing down deep into the bag with his bow and an arrow at his side, his hood pulled up.

Izuku listens to Kacchan’s steady breath, feels the warmth of his body pressed against his side, and his mind reels with the events of the day. Izuku had grown well-accustomed to the closed-off scowls that had seemed to be permanently adhered to Kacchan’s face, but once again, the boy next to him had subverted his perceptions and expectations. He remembers the mystified look on Kacchan’s face the night Izuku confessed, the open look of wonder when Izuku talked about Uncle Masaru and his reaction to his singing on the first day of school. That distinct disappointment when Izuku pulled away from their kiss, which Izuku is almost completely sure had indicated a desire not to stop. Or is he just fooling himself?

It’s too early to be thinking about such things. They are very close to home now, but they can’t let their guards down. The death of Yoarashi shifts the advantage to him and Kacchan, but it also means that Monoma will be focused on hunting them down the moment the rain stops.

Several hours pass, and Izuku’s stomach groans. He carefully gets out of the sleeping bag and opens up the basket. He cuts an apple up into ragged slices, divides a bread roll in half and covers each one with a layer of goat cheese and slices of apple. He goes back over to Kacchan, coaxing him awake, and holds the snack under his nose.

“Don’t be mad,” Izuku says when Kacchan blinks up at him. “I had to eat again. Here’s your half.”

Kacchan accepts the roll and practically devours the whole thing in one bite, and lets out a pleased hum which pleases Izuku in turn, who takes his own large bite.

“We make a goat cheese and apple tart at the bakery,” Izuku says longingly.

“Bet that’s expensive,” Kacchan says, still chewing.

“Too expensive for me and mom to eat,” Izuku says, finishing up his roll and licking his lips and fingers. “Unless it’s gone very stale. But then, practically everything we eat is stale.”

By the look on Kacchan’s face, it would seem Izuku had shattered a misconception of his. Guess they were both altering each other’s perspectives today.

Satisfied by his luxurious treat, Izuku quickly drops off to sleep.

When he’s woken up, Izuku blinks his eyes open and drowsily looks up to see Kacchan’s face glowing with the pale light of early dawn. He looks so ethereally beautiful, Izuku reaches up, wrapping both arms around Kacchan’s neck and impulsively pulls him down into a sleepy, slow kiss.

Kacchan indulges him, eventually pulling away just enough to say, “We’re wasting precious hunting time.”

“I wouldn’t call it wasting,” Izuku says, grinning dopily.

But before he can capture Kacchan’s lips again, Kacchan extracts himself from Izuku’s arms and moves over to the picnic basket. Izuku sits up and stretches his back, and then looks down at the plate Kacchan holds out to him. He’s divided up the remainder of the curry and rice.

“All of this?” Izuku asks tentatively.

“We’ll need the staying power to hunt.”

“Count me in.”

The food is cold by now, which makes the bits of lamb a bit tough and gamey, but Izuku certainly isn’t going to complain. He’s never going to be particular about food ever again—not that he ever really was. Kacchan inhales his plate with as much gusto as he had when it was still steaming hot, even going as far as scraping up the gravy with his fingers. Izuku is struck by the memory of him on the train to the Capitol, wiping his fingers off on the pristine tablecloth, staining it with mashed potatoes and chocolate.

“I can feel Midnight shuddering at my manners from here,” Kacchan says, sucking some gravy off his thumb.

Grinning, Izuku tosses away his fork and licks his plate clean like a dog, then finishes by blowing a kiss to the air and shouting, “We miss you, Miss Midnight!”

Kacchan surges at Izuku and covers his mouth. “Stop, idiot!” he hisses, but he’s clearly trying hard to keep the scowl on his face for a change, “Monoma could be right outside our cave for all we know.”

Izuku grabs Kacchan by the wrist and starts leaning in for another kiss. “What do I care? I’ve got Kacchan to protect me.”

“We have to hunt, Deku,” Kacchan says, but he doesn’t put very much effort into keeping Izuku from pulling him close.

Izuku kisses Kacchan once, twice, smiling like an idiot between their lips. Kacchan huffs with exasperation, but he’s blushing as he grabs Izuku’s head and shoves him away.

Izuku laughs, and the sound is loud in the small space, but this time Kacchan doesn’t stop him.

His mirth is quick to settle, however, as they’re packing up their supplies. The arena is closing back in on them, and lighthearted flirtation and kisses have no place here. Kacchan hands Izuku the knife, which he slides into his belt, and then they go out to the stream, overflowing after the heavy rain.

“He’ll be hunting us by now,” Izuku says, staring off into the trees, drenched and dazzling green, as Kacchan crouches by the stream to refill their water. “Monoma isn’t one to wait for his prey to wander by. Even if he’s wounded, it won’t matter. If he can move, he’ll be coming.”

Kacchan stands up, and hands Izuku one of the water bottles. “I set a few dozen snares a couple days ago. Let’s start there.”

The snares come up empty, but while Kacchan’s sigh is disappointed, he also seems to have been anticipating this outcome. “We better head back to my old hunting grounds,” he says decisively.

“You’re the boss,” Izuku says, “Just tell me what you need me to do.”

Kacchan points to his left ear. “Be my ears. And keep an eye out. Stay on the rocks as much as possible so we don’t give him any tracks to follow.” He looks back down to the stream and frowns. “I’d say we oughta walk in the water to cover our tracks completely, but I’m not sure your leg can take the current with how much stronger it’s gotten.”

Clambering down the rocks made it clear that they were both still pretty weak, and Izuku’s leg isn’t one hundred percent. Izuku is unsteady on his feet, and Kacchan looks paler than he should.

They make their way past the rocky area of the stream and back into the woods. Izuku follows behind Kacchan, watching him curiously as he creeps along on silent feet, his red eyes darting everywhere, his nose sniffing the air, an arrow pulled back on his bow. He realises that he’s never gotten to see Kacchan hunt before, and he’s so perfectly in his element here, it’s fascinating to watch. But then Kacchan comes to a sudden stop and turns to Izuku, frowning.

Crap. He was supposed to be watching the woods, not Kacchan. “What?”

“You’re stompin’ around like a fucking goliath. Forget about Monoma, you’re scarin’ off all the game.”

“Am I?” Guess he hadn’t been caught not paying attention, at least. “Sorry. I’ll be quieter.”

Izuku tries not to shuffle his feet as they continue, but he’s still favouring his left leg, so his right keeps coming down with extra force he can’t quite control. They only make it a few paces before Kacchan stops them again.

“Take off your boots,” Kacchan orders.

Izuku blinks, and looks down at the ground with all its very pointy looking rocks. “Here?”

“Yes. Do it now.”

Izuku pulls off his boots and socks, stuffs his socks into his boots and ties the boot strings together so he can sling them over his shoulder. Walking feels even more difficult and his tread even harder to control, as every little rock and twig causes sharp pain. There’s only so many things Izuku can do at once, and he can’t exactly watch where he steps and look out for Monoma at the same time.

Several hours pass and Kacchan hasn’t shot a thing. There hasn’t been a sign of so much as a squirrel, and Izuku knows it’s entirely his fault. It’s while they’re taking a breather to drink some water that he comes to a difficult decision.

“Kacchan, we need to split up. I’m scaring away the game. You said before I could forage, right? So show me some plants to gather and then I’ll actually be useful.”

“Won’t be very useful if Monoma comes and kills you.”

Izuku has to laugh at that. That had once been exactly his way of being useful. “Look, I can handle Monoma. I fought him before, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, and look how well that turned out,” Kacchan snaps, “You ended up nearly dying in a mud bank.”

Izuku can tell that Kacchan regrets the words the moment he says them, but he’s completely right, of course. Izuku just continues to smile, because yet again, he was dying in that mud bank to help Kacchan, too.

“Well, I didn’t, thanks to you,” Izuku tells him, “Now, how about you show me what’s edible around here, and then you can go get us some meat?”

Kacchan lets out a long-suffering sigh and gets up. Izuku feels a bit torn between delight in Kacchan’s concern and frustration in his lack of faith in him. But he supposes he hasn’t exactly proven himself to be too capable of looking after himself in Kacchan’s eyes, with all this self-sacrificial stuff he’s been trying to do. Izuku knew it would be a thankless task from the beginning. And he hadn’t exactly planned on making it this far. Now that he has, he’s got an awful lot of catching up to do to get Kacchan to see him as something other than someone who constantly needs saving.

Izuku gets brought over to a clump of grasses which, when Kacchan pulls some of them up, reveal thick and bulbous roots. Kacchan slides his pack off his shoulders and passes it to Izuku.

“Let’s have a signal,” Kacchan says sternly, “We can teach it to the mockingjays, who can send us the message that the other is alright.”

Izuku nods, his heart leaping with anticipation at the prospect of getting to hear Kacchan singing again for the first time in years. “Are you going to sing to them?”

“No.” Izuku wilts a bit in disappointment. “We just need somethin’ simple that both of us can do. Just whistle or something. You can whistle, can’t you?”

Izuku is used to Kacchan being snarky, of course; the way he’s acting now is similar to how he behaved while trying to keep Izuku at an arm’s length during training, but Izuku isn’t so sure he likes being patronized and bossed around, either. But it wouldn’t do for the ‘star-crossed lovers’ to get into a petty argument in the middle of the woods, so Izuku just swallows down his annoyance.

“I can whistle,” he says, “Um, should I try it now?”

Kacchan waves at him in a get on with it kind of way, so Izuku looks up at the trees, seeing if he can spot the black-and-white feathers of Kacchan’s mockingjays as he whistles. They stand in silence for a time, waiting. But eventually they start to hear the notes getting passed around between the trees by maybe two or three birds, Izuku would guess. Once it fades out and normal birdsong resumes, Kacchan lifts his head and whistles out the same two notes, soft and clear.

The trees fall silent at once. After a polite pause, the mockingjays all start to sing the two notes back at them. Izuku’s jaw hangs open, and he gazes at Kacchan in awe. Kacchan meets his reverent stare and colour quickly fills his cheeks and ears as he scowls at Izuku.

“Quit gawkin’ at me like that, you damn fanboy.”

But Izuku can’t look away. “They even love when you whistle. Kacchan is amazing.”

Kacchan reaches out and puts his finger under Izuku’s chin, and pushes Izuku’s mouth closed. “You tryna catch flies?”

“Maybe. Are they good protein?”

“They are,” Kacchan says knowingly. Has Kacchan eaten flies before? “But trust me, I think you’ll prefer the roots.”

Izuku puts his socks and boots back on as Kacchan begins to walk into the trees. After a few paces, Kacchan turns back to him and whistles, even though he’s still within Izuku’s line of sight. Izuku smiles, and whistles back. Kacchan nods, but Izuku notices the worried pinch in his brow before he turns away and continues on.

Pulling open Kacchan’s pack, Izuku digs out the plastic sheet and lays it out on the forest floor. Then he digs up the roots and lays them out on the plastic. This takes him some time, considering how weak he still is, and the fact he has to pull up the roots one-handed. He ends up having to dig around the grasses deeply to loosen the dirt up enough to pry up the roots. When that’s finished, his good hand is caked in dirt, so he walks back to the stream to clean up. He finds a patch of berries growing right next to the water. They look sort of like a blueberry, but plumper and darker. He rubs one between his finger and thumb, and sees it gives off a dark red juice that looks similar to the remnants Izuku had examined in the pot of berry mush and sleep syrup Kacchan has given him.

Were these those sugar berries Kacchan had mentioned? Were they even actually called ‘sugar berries’? Looking back, how had Izuku fallen for that? Kacchan really was a dreadful liar. Izuku really must have been delirious from the blood poisoning by that point.

Shaking his head and smiling to himself, Izuku starts to pick the dark berries. He makes a few trips back and forth from the stream back to the clearing where he’s laid out the plastic sheet, dumping palmfuls of the berries into a neat pile. He’s back at the stream picking another handful of berries when suddenly, a cannon fires.

Izuku’s head snaps up as he gasps, looking around frantically before he darts back into the trees, stumbling awkwardly over tree roots on unsteady feet in his haste.

“Deku?!”

He hears Kacchan’s cries long before he sees him. He’s shouting so loudly Izuku can hear him clearly even over the noisy crashing of tree branches as Izuku scrambles back towards to clearing.

“Deku! De—Izuku!!”

Izuku’s already ballistic heartbeat starts battering the inside of his ribcage at the sound of his actual name ripping out of Kacchan’s mouth. Izuku is just reaching a clearing as he spots telltale ash blond hair. He’s opening his mouth to call out to Kacchan when suddenly the blond whirls around, and there’s a whipping sound right next to Izuku’s ear that makes him instinctively jump back with a shout of surprise, berries flying everywhere. Then there’s a dull, thick thud, and an arrow drills into the tree next to him.

Izuku stares at Kacchan, caught between immense relief and befuddlement. “K-Kacchan, what—“

Kacchan’s bow slips from his fingers and clatters to the forest floor. “I-I heard the cannon…”

“I know, I did too,” Izuku explains quickly, “I was picking some berries by the stream when it went off, so I was about to head back and—“

“I whistled.” Kacchan’s wide, terrified eyes suddenly turn to accusatory slits. “Why didn’t you whistle back?”

“I must not have heard it by the water,” Izuku says rationally, “It’s too loud with the strong current, I guess.”

But Kacchan is furious now. “You were supposed to stay where you were! If two people agree to a signal, they’re supposed to stay in range. Because if one of them doesn’t answer, they’re in trouble.”

Izuku’s eyelashes flutter as he takes in the expression on Kacchan’s face, all anger and fear, all caution thrown to the wind as his voice carries through the woods for anyone to hear. “I know—“

“No, clearly you don’t fuckin’ know!” Kacchan screams at him, “Because the same thing happened with Mahoro and then she died in my fucking arms!”

Pain lances through Izuku at those words, but it’s also in this moment he finds the answer to his questions. Kacchan has proven he cannot lie, and he cannot act. Meaning Kacchan truly does care for him, and this is not just a dramatization for the sake of the cameras. This is completely real. And if this is real, then all of it has been real.

Izuku walks over to Kacchan carefully, noticing the trembling in his shoulders, and it only cements his realizations. “I’m sorry, Kacchan,” he says softly, “I should have stayed in range.”

Kacchan wipes at his face as he bends down to collect his bow. Izuku’s heart, still pounding from the near-miss of Kacchan’s arrow and now with this revelation about Kacchan’s feelings, squeezes in his chest. Is Kacchan crying?

Izuku steps closer and holds out the remaining berries he managed not to drop in a peace offering. “Um, want some?”

Kacchan looks up, frowning in consternation at the berries for a moment before his face transforms into sheer terror and he knocks the berries out of Izuku’s hand with such sudden harshness Izuku can’t help the involuntary flinch.

Kacchan grabs his wrist in a vice grip and shakes him hard, screaming at him. “These are nightlock, Deku! You’d be dead in a minute!”

“I-I’m sorry! I didn’t know!”

If Kacchan hadn’t been crying before, he looks truly in danger of doing so now. Then he’s suddenly throwing his arms around Izuku and pulling him in close.

“You scared me to death,” Kacchan whimpers, “Damn you…”

Izuku is too stunned to move for a time, but finally finds the wherewithal to wrap his left arm around Kacchan’s trembling back, reeling from everything that’s happened in the span of a few minutes.

“I’m sorry, Kacchan…”

He feels awful for scaring Kacchan so badly, but there’s a small part of him in the back of his mind that can’t help but relish this moment. Because it has cleared away all the clouds of doubt in his mind and confirmed for him that Kacchan not only cares deeply for Izuku, he also loves him back.

But it’s no time for celebration. Dread slides over him as another realization reaches the surface, and he grasps Kacchan’s jacket. “Kacchan, if there was a cannon, why haven’t we seen a hovercraft yet?”

Kacchan moves away, still holding Izuku by the shoulders as he looks around at the sky thoughtfully. “Dunno. I was wonderin’ that, too. Maybe it’s too far away to see. But at first I thought—“

“—it was too close,” Izuku says in unison with him, and then the two of them share a knowing look before Kacchan hurries over to the tree to pry his arrow free.

They hurry back to the smaller clearing where Izuku left the pack, roots, and the rest of the nightlock berries. Kacchan tears open the pack, but suddenly stops.

“Hey. Did you eat some of the cheese?” Kacchan asks.

“What? Why’re you—“ Izuku shakes his head. “No, of course not. Kacchan, we have to go.”

But Kacchan ignores him, looking around the clearing for a moment, his eyes landing on something in the bushes just in front of him. He gets up and walks around to the other side of the copse of trees, and Izuku follows close behind. He freezes in place at what he sees.

Itsuka Kendo, her red-orange tresses standing out vibrantly against the green grass, laying flat on her back, her sunken eyes and cracked mouth open, and a trickle of red running from the corner of her blood-stained mouth and down her face.

“Kendo,” Izuku whispers. This is bad. This is very, very bad. Izuku doesn’t see any wounds on Kendo’s emaciated body, but this had to be Monoma’s doing. “Kacchan, we need to get out of here. If she was this close to us, then Monoma will be here any second.”

Kacchan says nothing. He kneels down at Kendo’s side, and gently closes her eyes without an ounce of haste.

“Kacchan, we should climb a tree,” Izuku says, looking around frantically, “We stand a better chance fighting Monoma from above.”

Kacchan’s voice is eerily calm. “She isn’t Monoma’s kill, Deku. She’s yours.”

Izuku stumbles backwards, staring at Kacchan in disbelief, wondering if his head wound has opened back up and had made him disoriented, because he’s making zero sense. “Wh-what? How could I have killed her?”

Kacchan silently points, and Izuku looks down at her open palm, which is stained the same red as her lips. It’s the same as the red on Izuku's own fingers, covered not with blood, but with the blood-red juice of the berries he had picked, that Kendo still holds in death.

The whole horrible puzzle clicks into place.

“Nightlock,” Izuku whispers, “She must have taken them from the pile I made. I never even heard her.”

Was it suicide? Izuku can remember watching Kendo at the edible plants station; the only place she had bothered to show off any skills for the entire three days of training. She had been just as knowledgeable as Kacchan and Mahoro were. Surely she would have known about nightlock, too. So why…?

“She’s very clever,” Kacchan says lowly, still staring at Kendo. Then he looks up at Izuku, his expression blank. “Well, she was. Until you outfoxed her.”

So if Kendo didn’t know about nightlock, then she must not have questioned the safety of berries she watched Izuku pick, preparing to eat himself. That’s even worse—like Kendo trusted him, and Izuku betrayed her somehow.

Izuku feels a tang of bile in the back of his throat as panic and nausea threaten to knock him to the floor. “I didn’t do it on purpose! I didn’t…I…” He bends over, feeling dizzy, clutching at his knees as his vision goes hazy at the edges, fearing he may pass out. He killed her. Maybe not directly, but he was just as complicit in her death as he had been of—

“Figured you woulda seen and done a lot worse than this when you were with the Careers. I mean, what about that girl who started the fire on the first night?”

Izuku’s stomach and heart both lurch at that, and he looks at Kacchan wide-eyed. “Wh-what?” He’s really starting to wonder if Kacchan could read minds or something. “Are you talking about…Hagakure?”

“Whoever the girl from District Eight was. You killed her, right?” Kacchan says, blunt as a stone. “I saw you.”

What?

What? 

“…Saw me how?”

“I was up in a tree nearby and heard the whole thing. Toga stabbed her but she wasn’t dead yet. You went back and finished her off.”

Izuku’s jaw falls, and his eyes bulge out of his skull. Kacchan…had been there that night? Had witnessed Hagakure get killed by Toga, had seen Izuku with the Careers—had known from the very first night in the arena that Izuku was working with them. And had watched on as Izuku, for all Kacchan knew, went back to finish what Toga started.

No wonder he hadn’t thought twice about dropping that nest of tracker jackers on Izuku.

Izuku stands up straight, looking away from the dead girl in the grass, killed by his berries, and from Kacchan, unable to meet his eyes. “I didn’t kill her. She was almost gone when I went back to her, so I just…sat down beside her, and waited.”

“Woulda been kinder of you to make it quick. Like it was for Kendo.”

Is that Kacchan’s strange way of trying to cheer Izuku up? He had said that Izuku would have been ‘dead in a minute’ if he had eaten the nightlock himself. Perhaps Kendo was gone so fast, she didn’t even have a chance to understand what was happening to her. Perhaps she felt no pain. Izuku can only hope that’s the case—though it hardly makes up for the injustice of it all. So much death—and for what? For what?

Izuku looks back down at Kendo sadly. “We should get out of here,” he says quietly, “So they can come get her. Take her home.”

They move back into the small clearing and Izuku goes over to the plastic sheet. “I’ll get rid of the rest of these,” he says, crouching next to the pile of nightlock berries he collected.

“Hold up,” Kacchan says, kneeling in front of his backpack. “I’ve got a better idea.”

He produces a small leather pouch, scoops up the berries, and slips them into the pouch, pulling it shut and tying it to his belt.

Kacchan looks at him and shrugs. “Maybe Monoma likes berries, too.”

“He’ll figure out where we are for sure,” Izuku says grimly, “If he’s anywhere nearby, he’ll see the hovercraft, and come looking for us.”

Kacchan pulls on his pack, and starts to walk away. Izuku finally takes notice of the squirrel and rabbit hanging from his belt, when they sway against his hip as he heads for the trees. “Let’s get just far enough so the hovercraft can come get Kendo, and then I wanna make a fire.”

Izuku follows close behind. “A fire now? Are you trying to lure him out or something? We don’t even have a plan.”

“The plan is to eat, Deku,” Kacchan says matter-of-factly, “And if he knows we’re here, then he knows. But he also knows there’s two of us and probably assumes we were hunting Kendo. Which means you’re recovered. And the fire means we’re not trying to hide.” He looks over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow. “Would you show up if you were him?”

Izuku isn’t so sure logic is the best way to guess Monoma’s motivations, but he agrees to gather wood anyway. He tries his best to find stuff that’s dry, but everything is still somewhat damp from the days of rain. But if Izuku took away anything from their training, it was that he can get a fire going even in the dampest of conditions, and he’s happy to finally be of some use for a change. Kacchan skins his kills and chops up the rabbit, then they both gather some rocks by the stream to prop up skewered bits of rabbit and squirrel.

Kacchan lets the flames die down to coals on one side, and then wraps the roots Izuku gathered up in leaves and places them on the bed of coals to bake. As Kacchan tends to the food, Izuku thinks about how fortunate they both are that Kacchan had Uncle Masaru to teach him these skills.

Once the smell of meat is making Izuku’s mouth water, Kacchan packs most of it up, but leaves them a rabbit leg each. “I wanna move higher into the woods, pick a good tree, and make camp for the night.”

But Izuku shakes his head. “I can’t climb like you, Kacchan, especially not with my leg.” Nevermind that he told them to climb earlier when he thought Monoma was coming for them. Izuku would have given it his best shot, but honestly, he figured he would just make for a good decoy while Kacchan climbed up to safety. “And honestly, I don’t think I could get a wink of sleep hanging so high above the ground.”

“We can’t stay in the open, Deku.”

“Can’t we just go back to the cave? It’s near water, and easy to defend.”

Kacchan sighs gratingly, and looks off into the trees, as if they’re literally calling to him, and thinks it over. When he turns back, his expression has warmed, and he leans in to peck Izuku on the lips. “Sure. Let’s go back to the cave.”

Kacchan likes me back, Izuku thinks, still hardly able to believe it. He actually really likes me. 

“Well, that was easy,” Izuku says, and he can’t help grinning like the besotted fool he is.