Archive of Our Own

Izuku spent a lot of his early childhood doing educational recreation. Whenever break was on and his friends were busy (excluding him, he’d later come to realize), Inko would insist on getting outside, taking in the fresh air. The go-to was the Musutafu Central Zoo.

He’d read somewhere that zoos used to be more common, and usually filled with animals. Musutafu Central had a handful of specimens, mostly collected from the west. Squirrels and armadillos, a big tank full of freshwater fish that gleamed like coins in the artificial light. Mostly it was plaques and information spreads, habitats occupied by models of animals that used to exist.

Izuku read all of it diligently, absorbing the factoids with the same enthusiasm he did everything else. He was fascinated by the concept of adaptation, evolution. What made a creature a good candidate for survival? How did they change as they passed down these traits? How did all of this relate to quirks? His interest was logical to an absurd degree, and his mother would look on as he scribbled down notes with a wry smile. But one thing he could never intellectualize was the exhibit at the heart of the park.

It was the most popular attraction, one of the few that had real animals instead of those faded cardboard standees. The crowd was always big. Izuku only ever had a few seconds at the front of the pack to take it all in, but he can recall the sight so clearly he may as well have been there memorizing it for hours.

The last two red pandas in all of Japan. They were slow moving, docile creatures. A male and a female, the pre-recorded voice of the exhibit explained, though long past the age of breeding. There were more left in their native China and Myanmar, but the number was still dangerously few. They’d be extinct, probably in Izuku’s lifetime. The aim of the zoo was no longer repopulation, but comfort. To keep something safe and happy, despite the inevitable.

One of the pair died, a few years after the Midoriya’s stopped making regular visits. An illness of some kind. Sometimes when Izuku’s mind wandered in class, he’d find himself drawing their soft, smudged faces in the margins of his notebook. Thick bodies and wild whiskers. Not substantial enough to outlive the deforestation or poaching. Too wild to survive encroaching humanity.

And fragile, too. Living things can be so fragile.

...

The first time you ever really hurt someone is an accident. You’re ten, and a classmate has just shoved you to the floor. Your knees are skinned on the reading rug, chest hot with embarrassment and fury.

Your body reacts before your mind can keep up, a foreign sensation overwhelming you, spreading from your throat to every cell in your body. It feels hot, and bright. The blank screen static of a CRT. Your quirk has manifested quickly, violently. Your classmate, arms still outstretched, will carry the neuron-bursts of lichtenberg scars from her fingertips to her shoulders for the rest of her life.

You are switched to another school, quickly and quietly. No one pushes you there. You don’t hurt anyone.

The quirk is called Verve, and it’s ranked S-class in both power and risk. The Commission pokes at you for about a year after your manifestation, testing your grit and strength, your proclivities. But the conclusions they come to are all negative.

They could never turn you into a hero. Your power is simply too volatile.

It’s energy manipulation, which presents in different and unpredictable ways. Sometimes electricity flows out of you in thin, sharp lines, like a lightning strike. Sometimes it’s a static blow with the force of a car crash. Whips and bursts, explosions and rays. Always dangerous. 

The power is tied to your emotions, the stronger the feeling, the stronger the blast. You have no conscious control over it, no direction. To others it must seem instantaneous, but you can always feel the buildup, the slow rise until it finally boils over, slipping through your fingers.

The long and short of it is, when you get mad or sad or upset, you explode.

The Commission, finished with their assessment, pays you a heartfelt warning. Be careful . 

A man in a gray suit sits across from you and reads numbers off a page. One point six billion Joules. Fifteen gigawatts. The strength of ten lightning bolts.

“These are the upper limits of your abilities,” the man tells you. “Death, for anyone within range. Do you understand?”

You clench your hands tight in your lap. Even now you feel the charge of your quirk, the inescapable heat of it circling you like a buzzard. The file is open, and you scan the page, trying to put meaning to the numbers, trying to give them some kind of gravity. Your classmate had been lucky that her only trauma had been disfigurement. 

You could hurt someone so much more.

You grow up avoiding conflict, avoiding anything that might make you trigger your quirk. Anything upsetting. You work from home, in a tiny studio apartment where you live alone. You keep a strict schedule to avoid contact with as many people as possible. You don’t drink or smoke. You don’t even watch scary movies. You find friends online, until even that gets to be too much. Your quirk is a perpetual buzz inside you, and you have to remain vigilant to keep it from leaking out.

Accidents still happen.

You shock the cashier as they hand over your change or you fry someone’s electronics when they get too close. You wake up to find you’ve singed your bedsheets or you melt the buttons on your shirt.

These things can be avoided, with effort and precision. Just keep a firm grip on your quirk and you’ll be fine.

Or so you thought.

—you’re numb as you claw your way out of the crater. It’s not very deep, about waist-height, but the soft, newly unearthed soil keeps shifting under your sneakers, and the jagged cement around you bites into your hands as you haul yourself up.

Car alarms are going off all around you. Otherwise, the area is dark and cavernous, all the power boxes blown.

You manage to heft yourself out of the hole, stagger to standing. The massive discharge has left your body numb, every muscle spent.

Your awareness is hazy, dream-like. You find you can convince yourself not to notice things. The bodies laying limp around the blast site—-dead? The alarms shrieking everywhere, all at once. The power still brewing inside you, hot and sparkling, and how are you not empty after that? How could you not be done? 

You limp away, not thinking about any of it.

...

Deku wasn’t the first on the scene. He’s off duty tonight, and heard the blast from a good six miles away.

Many people are already on the hunt for the culprit. He quietly inserts himself into conversations being had between detectives and heroes, snatching up information agilely.

The initial blast radius was three meters, but the residual shock waves seem to have traveled several blocks.

The quirk appears to be electrical in nature, but I’ve never seen this kind of brute force behind one before.

Three victims, one in critical condition.

Boasts several similarities to Case 3064. More data will need to be collected before we can make any decisions, but even if this wasn’t her we should consider the ramifications of having such a volatile quirk out among civilians.

This last was from an HPSC member, his expression spiritless, dry.

Deku peers over his shoulder.

“Isn’t she a civilian too?” he asks, looking at the child’s face displayed on his tablet. No name, just that number.

“Right now? She’s a liability.”

“This wasn’t an attack,” Deku says. “There was no intention behind it.”

The HPSC member sighs. “That might be worse.”

He needles as much information as he can, until he’s being shooed away so cleanup can begin.

Something about the whole situation eats at him. It’s not his assignment, so he wasn’t handed any of the documents on it, but they’re easy enough to find in the database on his phone.

The report uses the same grab bag of words they do for any b-rank villain. Unstable. Dangerous. At large.

But when Deku finds you, he doesn’t see a villain.

You’re quivering on the ground, curled into yourself like you could disappear into your own chest. Holed up in some alley not all that far from the incident site. You didn’t even change out of what you were wearing, the clothes severely burnt — a villain with a grand scheme wouldn’t let themself be so identifiable.

He clears his throat. When you look up, eyes wide, he gives you a gentle smile, the one he uses around lost children and old ladies.

“Don’t come closer,” you tell him, throwing out an arm. You seem almost shocked to see it, staring at it like it doesn’t belong to you.

Like someone who doesn’t understand their own body.

He’s still coming toward you, hands raised in turn, as if to placate you, settle you. But you can’t stop it. Another charge is already building in your body, your muscles vibrating with the tension of holding holding holding it in.

You pull your arm back, against your chest. You clench your fists, shut your eyes. 

“I’m going to hurt you,” you say. Not a warning. Something more desperate. Frightened.

Deku pauses. He looks at your hands, clenched so hard you must be breaking skin. “You won’t.”

In truth, he has no way of knowing that. He’d read your file and has his theories, but he’s no quirk scientist, doesn’t fully understand the science behind his own quirk, even.

But he has a feeling. That’s enough to push him forward.

Your quirk crackles over your skin, leaking out. You glow like a live wire in the dark, sparks rushing up and down your body. And Deku feels it, the pure energy pushing on him like a strong gust of wind.

He’s right, it doesn’t hurt him. Not the way it could hurt others. You don’t seem to realize, though, eyes squeezed shut, your back flattened hard against the brick wall behind you. 

“It’s okay,” he tells you. “It’s all going to be okay.”

You still haven’t looked at him and your quirk has dissipated completely. All it’s left behind is a slumping body.

He catches you before your head thumps against the wall, unconscious.

Then he hefts you into his arms, plan fully formed. “I’ve gotcha, now.”

...

He’s already on the road before he starts calling in favors. The first to Katsuki, who’s speedster he pulled right out of the other hero’s garage. Deku you fucker, that key was for emergencies only.

But Katsuki drives fast cars, and that’s what Deku needs right now. That, and a whole lot of legal forgiveness.

He could call All Might and have all of this swept under the rug with a wink and a smile, but that feels dirty, somehow. This is Deku’s responsibility. His strange and willful agenda.

He’s met with slack jaws and doubt.

“That is absolutely ludicrous,” says the fourth HPSC member to talk to him. “She’s a safety hazard to anyone within two city blocks of her.”

“Well, where we’re going no one will be within range,” Deku supplies cheerfully.

“And where is that, exactly?”

“Away. Really far away.”

He’s on the phone for two full hours. You’re asleep the entire time.

When you wake you’re already well clear of the city. There’s nothing but pastures for miles and miles, trees dotting the landscape in sparse little bundles. How long has it been since you’ve been out of the city? Not since you were a child. The fact that there are no buildings in any direction makes you a little claustrophobic. The sky looks like it goes on forever.

There’s something heavy draped over you—a quilt. You sit up, pushing it down into your lap so you can turn to look at him. “Where are we?”

“Pretty far, by now,” Deku returns. “We’ve still got a long way to go, if you wanna try and get some more sleep. Seems like you need it.”

You stare at him. The sun is early evening gold, and his unruly hair glints in the light. His freckles are much more prominent up close, or maybe they cover them up for photo shoots. He’s not handsome, not like the other top heroes at least. Still has that boyish charm, disarming, quaint. Japan’s hero; a friendly enigma.

He peeks at you, when you stay silent. “Are you okay?”

You have about a thousand questions. Most pressing — “Why didn’t you take me to the precinct?”

He shrugs. “You’re not a villain— why should you be treated like one?”

You grip the quilt. It’s soft, probably worn from years of use. You’re surprised it held up for so long. “What am I?”

“Someone who needs help.”

The land is flat all around you. You’ve never been able to see for this far, the distance disappearing into washed out color. It’s so...idyllic.

“But—the bodies?” None of this makes any sense. You hurt people. 

Deku nods. “Three people were caught in the blast, but everyone’s okay. A sprained wrist. A couple scrapes and bruises. Everyone was pretty out of it after they were hit, but they’ve recovered. The guy who was closest to you took more damage -- but he’s stable, now. They’ve got him at University Hospital. He’s in good hands.”

He peeks over at you again, trying to glean any information from your expression. You don’t know what he’s seeing. Your hands tremble, gripping the quilt so tight you think it might tear.

Stable . You’ve heard that word in hospital dramas and neo-noir novels. That means there might have been complications, which means—

But—

“They’re alive?”

“All of them,” he confirms.

For some reason it only amps you up more, knowing that. So many possibilities, so many different ways this could have ended badly. And it didn’t. You’re not a murderer. But you came so close.

Your quirk begins to rise, heating your chest.

“Stop the car,” you demand.

He doesn’t. He’s looking at you fully now, face unreadable. Hero placid. “Why?”

You can’t explain. Explaining will only make you more anxious, speed up the process.

You reach for the door handle and Deku immediately slams on the breaks. The car is still rolling as you throw yourself out, landing hard on the asphalt.

Deku is lifting you up again just as soon as it happens, hands beneath your arms like a toddler.

“You’re okay,” he tells you, voice unerringly calm. He doesn’t flinch as you struggle, pushing at massive bulk of him, trying to get away. 

“ I’m going to hurt you .” You’re yelling at this point—how long has it been since you raised your voice? “ Please . Let me go.”

He doesn’t. He pulls you closer, higher. Your feet barely touch the ground. You can feel his words vibrating in your own chest. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

Your quirk is about to burst, raw and stalwart. Inescapable.

“I am,” you whisper, just as it leaves you.

It comes out as a static shock, a wave that rushes right through Deku. He takes a startled breath as the strange sensation hits him. But otherwise, he’s unfazed.

His hold on you hasn’t even wavered.

“You can’t hurt me,” he says. He bounces you, once, as if to prove it. “Not possible.”

You’re dizzy from the discharge, breathing hard. “Put me down,” you say again, with less urgency this time.

Once again, you’re ignored. Deku leans your body against his, chest to chest. You can feel each of his breaths expanding his ribcage, the answering pull of your own. Steady. Steady. Steady.

Minutes pass. There’s no sound out here but the wind through the silver grass and your shared breathing, the blood rushing in your ears.

He’s holding up all of your weight at this point, his arms wound around your upper back. A utilitarian hug from the number one hero. The thought almost makes you laugh.

“It’s my quirk,” he says eventually. “It—there’s a lot of transient energy involved. Not like electricity. Like what you have.”

The sun dips into the tall grass, turning everything orange-red. It looks like the world is on fire, from your vantage point.

“It’s the same type of impulse, just condensed. Our quirks are kind of like...sisters?”

You could never imagine your quirk being related to his in any way, let alone being so similar in nature. Not something so nice and neat.

This is all for your benefit, his calm explanation, his even tone. He’s assuring you of something—you don’t know what.

But you think it’s working.

“My body used to...break, when I used my quirk. The power was too overwhelming, in the beginning. But eventually I adapted to it, and now...” He squeezes you, like he’s demonstrating. But it just feels like a tighter hug.

You tap him on the shoulder. He hums in question.

“Okay,” you say.

He lowers you, his arms slipping from around you slowly. When your gazes meet, he smiles.

“Okay,” he says.

You get back in the car. You keep driving.

...

It’s the middle of the night by the time the car pulls to a stop. There are no lights out here, just a sliver of moon in the sky.

Deku leads you up a dirt path by the light of his phone. “She should be asleep by now, so we’ll have to be quiet. I’ll show you around in the morning, but it shouldn’t be too hard to find your way.”

The scenery seems to be exactly the same as what you’ve been driving through for hours. Flat land. Pastures. A small cottage at the end of the path that Deku opens with a key hidden under a rock.

“She’s only had the place for a couple of years. She travels a lot, so she likes to have someone in residence to take care of things. I figured...”

You’re in a living room. The decor is all western, from what you can make out. Floral patterned couches and wood tables, baskets of flowers scattered throughout.

Deku rubs a hand over his nape, chuckling softly. “I mean, if you want to, anyway.”

You stand facing each other in the dark.

It takes you a moment to find your voice. “Stay here?”

“For a while,” he answers. “Until you get back on your feet.”

He’s nothing but a shadow right now, big and looming. You wonder if he ever thinks about how large he really is, how imposing. He seems smaller, somehow, in videos and pictures.

He waits for your answer, hardly moving.

You don’t know where you are. You’re not even sure you’re allowed to be here, or if he’d plucked you right out of the hands of the law.

Back on your feet. Recover -- but from what? You’ll never not feel guilty for what you’ve done. You’ll never be able to get rid of your quirk. But when you think about your home in the city, all you can see in your minds eye is craters and scars like lightning bolts.

And when you return to the present, all there is is Deku, eyes beacon-bright.

“Okay,” you say. “I will.”

“Okay. Alright.” He smiles, nods. “I’ll show you to your room.”

...

You wake in the afternoon. Deku had left you in a little room with a twin-sized mattress, a heavy quilt tucked over it. He’d slept on the couch. 

You’re a little afraid to crawl out of bed, like maybe this has all been some elaborate trap. But when you follow the sound of voices to the kitchen, you’re met with two smiling faces. Deku and an old woman, drinking tea.

“Ah, good morning.” Deku rises from his seat. He gestures to the old woman. “This is my friend, Abiko Aiko.”

“Aiko, please,” she says. “Was beginning to think you died, with how late you slept.”

Deku pulls out a chair for you, and you take it with thanks. “We had a long day,” he says. 

You’re handed a mug, filled with steaming green tea. You sit quietly as Aiko inspects you, her gaze heavy on your face. 

You’re sure you look awful. You were exhausted again, after the quirk malfunction and the driving. When you arrived you’d simply fallen into bed, ash stains and all.

“My last caretaker left a box of clothes,” Aiko says. “You can rifle through them, if you want. We don’t go into town often, so you’ll have to make due until then. Do you have boots?”

You look to the door, where your burnt sneakers lay. You shake your head.

Aiko nods. “We’ll get you some. You won’t need them until it’s time to clean out the stalls, anyway.”

You look to Deku in askance, but he’s left his seat, flickering around the kitchen, heating up something on the stove. It seems natural, how he navigates the space. Like he’s always been here.

Aiko tells you about the last woman who lived here; the old woman had taken her in off the street. She was recovering, you’re never told from what. She lived here for three years before moving back to her hometown, starting a family of her own. 

“Good woman, bad luck.” She takes a long, loud sip. “Don’t much care how people end up here, so long as they don’t burn the place down.”

Deku places something on the table before you, before returning to his seat. A steaming bowl of porridge. 

You dig into it immediately, feeling like you haven’t eaten in years. It’s sweet, and slightly floral. You can’t hold back the grateful, “ Oh my god” , after the first bite, trying not to curl into yourself when the other two laugh.

“It’s the little things, isn’t it?” Aiko says. 

You pay her a smile before finishing off your bowl in what must be record timing.

…

In the afternoon, Deku shows you one of your duties.

He leads you to the barn, which is smaller than you thought a barn would be. It houses two alpacas, white and silver gray. They hardly glance up as you enter.

“They’re pretty old,” Deku explains. “And very friendly. They shouldn’t give you much trouble.”

The barn is small and dry, sweeter smelling than you would have imagined. Fresh hay blankets the stalls, a bag of feed and some tools in the last, unoccupied one. Deku teaches you the basics of looking after the animals, how to brush them and how often, where to get the water from to change the trough, how much food to dump into the big containers. 

“You moonlight as an alpaca whisperer?” you ask, watching him navigate the animals with ease.

He quirks a smile, the lightest flush to his cheeks. “I like it here. Always have.”

He shows you the right way to offer them treats, flat palm, gently cooing. He murmurs nonsense words to Chika, the shiny gray alpaca, stroking behind her ears when the food is gone. You imagine him in that alley, whispering to you. Would it have been better or worse if he touched you, then?

You flinch when he reaches for you, but he doesn’t pull away. He waits until you hold out your hand for him, offering you a bit of broccoli stalk, for Ume. 

You’re not as comfortable as Deku was, shoulders around your ears as she mouths noisily at the food. When the broccoli is gone she laps at your palm, coating it in viscous spit.

You try not to be disgusted, but it must show on your face because Deku is waving to you with a laugh. “Here, come here.”

You do as you’re told, approaching him with your soggy hand held a safe distance from the rest of your body. Deku does not have the same qualm, taking your hand in his and bringing you closer so he can mop up the spot with the hem of his shirt.

“Think she likes you,” he whispers.

You turn, looking back  at the alpaca. She’s retreated to the back of her stall, content to ignore you both again. You almost laugh. “I like her too.”

…

There are other things for you to take care of, chickens and vegetable gardens. Rose bushes that need to be trimmed lest they consume the whole yard. Aiko walks you through it all, guiding you with an ancient hand soft against your back, or around your wrist. You flinch, sometimes, but she doesn’t seem to care. Other times your gaze automatically seeks out Deku, who hovers in your peripherals the whole day, offering a reassuring smile whenever your eyes meet. Your quirk buzzes beneath your skin, but it’s light, ignorable. 

Aiko goes to bed early, but you’ve spent a week's worth of time asleep these past few days, it feels like. You sit on the couch, staring at the blank screen of the tv, trying not to think about anything that’s happened. 

Deku doesn’t let you meditate for long. He settles down beside you, peering at you. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

You sigh. “I can’t tell if I’m exhausted or not.” 

He smiles, of course. His default for dealing with you, or maybe with anyone difficult. It’s soft at the edges, his brow downturned. Sympathetic. “I can imagine,” he says. 

He makes a cup of hot chocolate for you both, rambling about the nearby town as he works. He asks you to come outside.

It’s still mostly warm, even so late. You think you’re a decent ways inland, and out here the brutally hot days drift into mild nights. 

You sit on the porch together, staring out into the night. There’s no streetlights out here, no other houses for miles. Aiko’s cottage is dark save for a few lamps dotting the rooms. 

Out here it’s easy to see why people feared the dark, ages ago. How many unknowns are lurking out there? How many things are hiding right in front of your face?

But Deku’s presence is solid beside you. You’re not sure if it’s a hero thing, or if it’s a him thing, but he feels safe. Not like nothing frightening is out there in the dark, but like they’re miniscule compared to the giant at your side.

“There’s not much of a nightlife out here,” Deku says. “But the stars are pretty.”

“Wasn’t exactly a social butterfly,” you tell him. You pull the cup against your chest, let it heat you there. “I went out at night to buy groceries. Sometimes the bookstore, if I was feeling reckless.”

Deku is looking at you, searching, curious. “Because it wasn’t safe?”

You shake your head. “It’s never safe.”

He hums. “I wonder about that.”

A bird calls, somewhere in the distance. You wonder how many nights it will take for you to learn the animals out here, if you’ll ever know what’s making that sound. Would you even be here long enough to find out?

“It’s easier to just not mess with it. Keep to myself,” you tell him. “Why take the risk?”

He’s silent for a moment. Then you hear him shift, sigh. “I don’t think that’s what it would be.”

You read somewhere, about a Christian myth. The nephilim, children of angels and humans. They towered over normal people, made them seem miniscule in comparison, as small as grasshoppers. That’s how you feel now. Like he could hold you in one hand, up and away from the world.

“Yeah, well.” You close your eyes, make the darkness complete. “You’re not the villain, here.”

His voice cuts through the quiet. As gentle as the soft touch of the wind. “Neither are you.”

In the morning he’ll be gone. Probably before you wake, he told you. You’re surprised he could be away for even this long, that the city hasn’t already gone tp pieces. But you guess the villains don’t know he’s away.

“What if—“ You peer down into your cooling drink. The surface has gone mirrored in the moonlight, a foggy reflection of your face staring back. “What if I lose control again?”

“You might,” he tells you. “And if you do, we’ll deal with it.”

Even the thought has your quirk rattling inside of you, the short wave making you clasp your cup tighter.

“We’re all born into different challenges. That’s just life, y’know?” Deku says. He rubs a hand along his nape, staring out at the field, at the barn where Ume is sleeping. “Moving forward isn’t a declaration, it’s a choice we make every day.”

You peer at him in the dark. He looks back at you, smile subdued, gentle. You wonder if it’s the moon softening his features, or if he’s just tired, now. If he’s been tired forever. 

You’re not sure how to respond. You sip your drink. You say, “Thanks, Deku.” 

He just hums again, then goes quiet. 

...

In the week that follows, you learn the cottage and it’s land inside and out. You’re up with the sun, toiling all day. You relearn the scent of dirt. Not the ginger smell of houseplants, or planters on the sidewalk. Dirt how you knew when you were a kid, up to your elbows, thick and cool. Dirt smudged against your cheeks and under your fingernails. Dirt that lingers the whole day. 

It’s quiet, out here. There are no neighbors for miles in any direction, only the occasional car meandering by on the road. Aiko has you walk with her to the closest neighbor. It takes the whole afternoon. She’s an apiarist, and she passes on a jar of honey in exchange for some knitting made from Chika’s soft wool. 

They talk about the things you always imagined people talked about in the country, soil quality and weather patterns. Who bought what livestock. The rain.

“Easy year,” the beekeeper says. “Good storms.”

“Good year for growing,” Aiko agrees. She glances at you. “Won’t have any trouble.”

Aiko is kind. She makes three meals a day, warm, hardy dishes that keep you full while you work. She doesn’t ask you why you still flinch in her presence, or why you insist on being alone for long periods of time. When you come back she greets you with a smile each time, offers you a cup of tea. 

She asks you to take long walks with her. You discover new parts of the property like this, alcoves hidden in the surrounding woods, a cellar full of gardening equipment, an old well. You imagine her leading Deku around just like this, his indulgent smile as she pulled him along. 

Aiko shows you each of her trees, fruiting, flowering. Each one is its own monument, sprouting up in the middle of empty, flat land like someone had dropped them there. Some of them she’s raised, other’s she’s collected. All of them are bright, turned vibrant with the season.

The magnolia tree is her favorite. It’s older than she is by an unutterable number, and it’s limbs are huge, gnarled clubs, the umbrella of them enormous. The air around it swims with the scent of the blooms, earthy and supple. 

“Ancient,” Aiko says, fingers tracing the lace edge of a petal. “Magnolias have been around longer than anyone can say.”

The sun is high and bright and the air is still. It feels like there’s nothing in the world except for you and Aiko and the magnolia tree. 

She tells you they’re so old they existed before bees did, all the creatures that pollinated them are long extinct. 

“How do they survive?” you ask her. 

“The wind, mostly,” she returns. “Scatters the pollen. Otherwise they need a helping hand.”

You reach out, touch one of the low hanging petals. It’s soft. Softer than you expected. 

“You know, he saved me too,” Aiko says, after a moment.

You look at her, pinching the petal between two fingers like it might just float away from you. “I can’t believe you needed to be saved from anything.”

“We all do, sometimes.” Aiko sniffs, turns to look out over her fields. “He didn’t look much like a hero when it happened. Like a stray. Looked like he hadn’t slept in ten years. Thought something was wrong with him, to be honest. But he still chased off the guy trying to boss me around. Made sure I made it to my hotel alright.”

You can picture it. Deku, frayed and tired, putting on that guileless smile just to make everyone feel better. “Sounds like him.”

“It’s all of us,” Aiko says. “Humanity at its core. That’s what I think, at least.”

She starts down the hill, and you trail her easily. The earth is soft beneath your sneakers. All of the burnt bits have been smudged over with mud.

“What is?” you ask.

Aiko smiles, like there’s some secret joke you’re not privy to. “We all want each other to get home safe” 

…

An attack leaves an entire city block in flames. The rescue effort is messy, unorganized. There are three heroes on the scene, none of them well versed in this type of rescue, and a fire brigade trying their best to calm the inferno. It isn’t working. 

The given estimate is 250 civilians in the area. No one can say how many made it out before things got rough, and any attempt to guess would just muddle his own observations. What he sees—it’s bad. 

Fire is one of the most finicky environmental disasters, because it's never just the flames themselves. It’s smoke and ash, ruining lungs. It’s support beams, letting loose rubble over hiding places, crushing limbs, suffocating. Door handles melting, glass shattering. People are trapped, and it’s hard to hear them over the ambient clamor. People are in deep trouble. 

He keeps going back, spends hours collecting stragglers until his body gives out, and Katsuki scrapes him off the pavement with a vicious curse. 

“What's gonna happen if you die, dumbass?” he demands. Deku is delirious at this point, barely registering that he’s being carried somewhere. All he can think about is how long they have until the buildings crumble completely. Then he can’t think at all.

40% of his body is severely burnt. 

It takes three sessions with a healing quirk to fix him. He can hardly talk during that time, his throat is so badly damaged from the smoke. 

He accepts the ministrations of the nurses, nearly shaking with the urge to get up, do something, anything. But he can only look at them, wide eyed and silent as they poke at his injuries. 

As soon as he can, he’s asking questions, calling anyone who might have intel. 

“The villains, what do we know about them? Number? Purpose?” 

The answer is: not much. Their members are few, but their quirks are powerful. Right now, the only thing they seem to want is to set things on fire. 

“Including you, as it were,” Aizawa rumbles. There’s shouting in the background, the sound of combat practice at UA. Deku remembers that, how vital it seemed, how everything hinged on the outcome of each and every spar. “You could have died, Midoriya.” 

He swallows. His new vocal cords feel strange inside him, like they’re the wrong shape. He says, “Other people did.”

Aizawa lowers the phone to call to someone, a student. Good work. Deku remembers that too, the constant promise of praise hanging over them. The acknowledgment, precursor to...something. None of the students really knew, but they all chased after it with abandon. The thing that came after being seen, being something . 

Fulfillment, maybe. Wholeness. 

When Aizawa returns to Deku, his voice is the staid tone of someone used to delivering bad news. “How would it have looked if you died during a rescue?”

The nurses had begrudgingly given Deku a notepad so he could write down all the information he gathers, start making a plan. He runs a pinky along the most recent line. 

The script doesn’t look like his. It’s shaky, nigh unreadable. His body is still exhausted from the healing process, not ready for fine motor function. 

When it’s clear he’ll get no answer, Aizawa sighs. “It would look like you lost.” 

Deku flips through the pages. Twelve, so far. Mostly it’s his own inferences, punctuated with theories and possibilities. In the corner of the second page there’s a little doodle. A sloppy, smiling alpaca. A caretaker, feeding her broccoli stalk. 

“You can’t lose, Number One,” Aizawa tells him. “Not like that.”

Deku scribbles another thought down, right beneath the drawing. It’s probably nothing, but best to be thorough. 

“I didn't,” he returns. 

Though he hardly believes it. 

...

Aiko is gone. She’ll be gone for a long time. A few weeks at least, she’d fill you in on the details. It’s her way, both she and Deku had warned you. Visiting and traveling, coming home only long enough to check on her animals, see that everything is right where she left it.

Your job is to make sure it is.

In the morning you let out the chickens, then Ume and Chika. You call to them the way Deku taught you, greeting them like old friends, not startling them. When only the soft animal sound of their shuffling answers you, you realize something. 

You are really truly alone, for the first time in your life. 

You release the alpacas into the pasture. They take off full tilt, sprinting into the open space. You follow them. 

You run, slipping on the fresh dew, barely catching yourself. You keep going. 

You feel the wind break against your cheeks, numbing and sweet. You watch it sway the sheaves of silver grass, carrying the scent of growing things across the plain. You’ve had dreams like this, you think. You’re not sure how, but you’re sure you’ve always known this place. It feels like recognition, standing here in the budding dawn. Like homecoming.

You stop at the top of the pasture’s hill, looking out over the land, the barn, the magnolia tree. Your heart thuds in your chest, your lungs aching with the cold morning air.

Ume noses at the back of your head, lips nibbling your nape. And you’re laughing or crying. You can’t tell which.

...

You’re out when he arrives. 

They’d asked where he wanted to settle down for the next two days, expecting him to say what he always says when he gets roughed up—his apartment, or Katsuki’s penthouse, if he’s feeling particularly listless. 

When he said here , a cottage in the middle of nowhere, there was a moment of inquisitive silence. Then a suggestion that they borrow a quirk to open up a portal for easy access. He’s in no condition to be driving for hours through the countryside. 

The portal will stay open for a few months or so. It’s hard to pin it to a particular place from such a distance, so the location was approximate. It landed a few meters from the dead well.  

He’s not surprised to see you’re not in the cottage; Aiko was always busy, whenever he came to visit. He could look for you, but it would take hours to search the whole property. Instead he starts on dinner.

It’s something his mom taught him to make, simple and filling. He hasn’t made real food since he was here last, too busy to stand still for so long. He’s subsisted on pre-made meals and bread, cups of coffee Hitoshi brings him between patrols. 

He doesn’t miss it, he supposes, though it feels like he should. Really, he’s just never stopped to consider it. This -- settling, rusticating -- feels necessary in a distant way. He’s standing at the stove and he’s living someone else’s life. 

Hero work is his calling. He’ll take anything that comes with it, store-bought dinners and all nighters, getting beaten up on a daily basis. All of it, a part of who he is.

He feels the distant brush of your quirk, disrupting the air, before anything. Your surprise at seeing his bag in by the door mellowing out as you come to lean against the counter at his side.

“Come back for the peach harvest?” you ask. Your arms are folded against your middle, your tone deceptively nonchalant. Worried for him.

He looks at you, his own thoughts interrupted by the notion that this, too, is someone else’s life. “Are you hungry?” he asks, turning off the burner. 

You smile at him, a little too big. Letting him move on without hesitation.

The two of you chat during dinner, about the cottage and its idiosyncrasies, the alpacas, the fruit trees. You ask him questions about the city, vague and open-ended. Purposefully avoiding anything too prying. It’s so easy to talk to you. So painless.

You’re good at it. Kindness without qualm. Treading lightly without any pity or suspicion. He wonders what you would have been, if you’d been allowed to be this bright in your old life. He wonders what you’ll be when this is all over.

“I’m on forced leave,” he says, looking up at you through his lashes. He waits like that, for your questions.

But you say, “You don’t have to tell me,” shrugging when he blinks at you. “If you don’t want to.” 

He sits up a little. Looks at the bowl before him. Aiko bought this set at a flea market; she’d asked him to help carry them home. Accoutrements for a different world. 

“Okay,” he says. 

You sit together on the couch after washing up, surfing through mindless channels, laughing at nothing at all. There’s not much to watch out here, but neither of you mind. Neither of you are paying very close attention. 

He flips to a nature documentary. A man narrates a scene in the skies over Kenya, amur falcons passing over on their way to breeding grounds in East Asia. Thousands of birds flock the sky, finding their way in the dark.

“But they’re not blind in their journey,” the narrator explains, his voice bed-time story soft. Time lapses onscreen. The sky becomes a beacon, the Milky Way cutting a glowing river through it. “Ornithologists mapping the behavior of these birds discovered that they use the stars to navigate. Much the same as our ancestors.”

You look at Deku, lips parted, ready to reiterate what you’ve just heard. It seems important somehow. It makes you feel connected, like you can look at those birds as they take to the sky in the dead of night, and say yeah, me too.

But he’s already looking at you. “Birds look at the stars,” he says.

You don’t really know what else there is to add. That feels like the beginning and end of it. “Yeah,” you say. “Birds look at the stars.”

…

In the morning you catch him nearly bent backwards in the bathroom. He’s shirtless, only in a pair of low-riding sweatpants. He’s wriggling like a fish, arms folded up behind him. 

“You okay there?” you ask, coming to stand in the doorway. 

He doesn’t flinch—you suppose it’s hard to sneak up on someone like him. He straightens, smiles. “Morning.”

“Are you doing yoga in the bathroom, now?” you ask. “And good morning. How did you sleep?” 

He turns away from you slightly. “Good, it was...good.”

You lean a shoulder against the door jam, waiting for an explanation. 

Deku glances at the counter, where a small jar sits open. “I got...sort of injured, a few days ago. It’s mostly healed, but I’m supposed to apply this lotion to finish the process.”

“ On your back?” You try to catch a glimpse of the area, but he’s blocking your view adeptly. “Can you even reach it?” 

“I’ll be okay,” he assures you with a wave. “Don’t worry.” 

You look at him, looking at you. He seems smaller somehow. The way he’s holding himself, maybe. Chest tilted inward, shoulders slightly slumped. 

“Can I help?” you ask. You might have laughed at the look of shock on his face, if the situation were any different. But it leaves you feeling restless. A little hollow. Who offers to help the heroes? Whose job is that? 

You shut the door, slip past him, toward the tub. You turn on the shower, the hottest it can go, pull back the curtain so the room begins to steam. 

Deku is still hovering by the sink. He’s fiddling with something, the smooth lid of the lotion. “Are you, um—taking a shower?” 

“It’ll sting if you apply it to dry skin,” you say. “I thought steam might help.” 

“Probably not worse than the fire.” He says it lightly, almost a joke. But it lingers a second too long when you don’t respond, the words settling with their true weight. 

He looks at you, face still canted downward. Bashful. A hint of embarrassment.

“Not everything has to hurt,” you tell him. 

You hold a hand out for the jar. He passes it to you without argument. 

“Where?” you ask. 

“My shoulder,” he says, lifting the one in question. “And my back.”

When he doesn’t move to let you get to work, you just peer at him. 

“It’s not...pretty,” he says. There’s no self pity in it, just understanding. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

You look at his arms, the ladder of old wounds leading up them. It must be something he’s used to at this point, guessing which injuries will leave a mark. 

“Turn around, please,” you say quietly. 

He does. 

He wasn’t lying. His left shoulder and the better part of his upper back is all scar tissue now. The skin is discolored, and oddly textured. Gnarled or perfectly smooth, riveted like tree bark. In some places the new skin grew over old scars, puckered and dry. 

You really hope the steam has softened it a little, as you scoop out a dollop of the cream. You’re no medical expert, but at least he’s not contorting himself to get this done. You can make things that tiny bit more comfortable for him. 

You start with the rise of his shoulder, where the muscle rounds out around the bone. You pause after the first touch, fingers just barely grazing him. 

“Okay?” 

He nods. 

You continue, long smooth strokes across his skin. He holds perfectly still. He hardly seems to breathe. 

He truly does have the physique of a hero. Lean waist, broad shoulders. His back is corded with firm muscle, only the slightest give under your fingers. And the scars scattered over him, proof of something. Resilience, or fortitude. A raw acceptance of pain. 

Fire , he said. Just the word nearly makes you cringe. You wonder how he could go on, after that. 

Heroes get hurt. It’s an indisputable fact—half of fighting is how well you can take a punch. You’ve always known that, but—

It’s almost hard to look at him. Not for the reason he expected, just because every part of him seems to be a brutal reminder. The world is full of so many things that can destroy you—and you all wade through them regardless of what they do to you. That’s just life. 

Your fingers glide down, to where his shoulders begin to taper into rib cage. 

“Are you tired?” you ask. You’re not even sure what you mean. Tired of getting hit? Of everything?

“It’s a privilege to do this work,” he says. He’s gripping one of his own fingers, squeezing, rolling the knuckle back and forth. “And… I have to.” 

He shrugs, jostling your hand. His smile is unassuming, guileless. What can you do , his expression says. As if the two of you were talking about the weather. 

You don’t think you’ll ever really understand the kind of stress that goes with being the Savior of Japan. But the idea is forming, where all the pieces fall, how they fit together. You’re looking at Deku’s life from a birds eye view, and it’s tragic and heartening all at the same time. 

Because isn't devotion equal parts love and sacrifice? Who else would, if not him? Who else could ?  

Deku would always be there when the people need him. A hero under any circumstances, against all odds. 

That’s the image they cultivated for him, have been rounding out ever since his days in UA. The media made the students out to be some untouchable creatures. A whole new tier of heroes, capable of defeating an army in their school blazers . But they were still just kids. 

And now Deku is standing here with you, hair ruffled, half naked, burned— he seems like an ordinary person. Just a man.

You finish working in silence, the humid air swaddling you both. It’s serene, almost, even as your fingers snag along the raised veins of his flesh. He holds still through it all, even though it must be tender everywhere you touch. 

When you’re done you continue to stroke him, hands moving over freshly treated skin like you’re petting him. He must feel this too, that you’re revisiting spots. There’s really no purpose to you touching him any more, but neither of you stop it. You just feel like you should, after all this. Like you could replace it all with something gentler. 

When you pull away, he lets out a breath you didn’t know he was holding.

“How does it feel?” you ask, leaning around him to meet his eyes.

But he’s looking at his hands, scarred and clenched against his thighs. “Doesn’t hurt.”

...

It’s four am and he leaves soon. He should be getting all the sleep he can, before he’s back to the breakneck pace of hero work. But he can’t sit still for more than a minute. 

There’s too much on his mind, and none of it is productive. Part of it’s fear. For the future, the unknown, every person in the world tonight who might not get another one. And part of it is frustration with the fear. Worrying is a pointless endeavor. That’s a lesson hard learned for heroes, and not one that comes with instructions.

At UA the notion had driven Class 1-A nearly insane. 

“You have to clear your mind of anything but the situation at hand,” Aizawa told them endlessly. “You’re useless if you’re not fully present. The results of losing concentration could be deadly.”

It was a simple enough idea. Focus . Don’t let the possibilities get in the way of what’s in front of you. But the how of it eluded some of them well into their official hero careers. 

You just do it . That was all any of them could offer each other, a sympathetic smile, a quiet assurance. Then you do it all the time.

It’s easier when there’s something to face. In the heat of a fight he can simply channel all of that energy into something else. Mind adrenaline-quiet, concentration driven by his body. Eventually it all comes down to getting a hit in. That’s simple. That’s easy. 

Part of his mind is toiling over you. 

He doesn’t know why -- your face keeps popping up in between thoughts of ideas for motives and possible escalations. You interrupt them like a shock. As if he’d left the stove on, the door unlocked. Like he’s in a hurry to nowhere.  

He paces, back and forth in Aiko’s empty room. Over and over. He’s trying not to wake you, but rattling around the small space might just be making it worse. He’s considering leaving altogether, going back to the city early, when he hears a quiet knock on his door.

You’re standing there in the dark, hair mussed, clothes rumpled. You’re looking up at him like you know exactly what he’s thinking, like you understand everything that’s troubling him.

You place one hand, softly, softly, against his healing shoulder. “Let’s go for a walk.” 

The air is cool this morning, damp but not humid. It smells like fresh dew and silver grass, the distant musk of the animals. Neither of you talk for a long while. It feels almost wrong to, like you’re interrupting something. The stillness of the morning. Each other’s silent musings.

You stop to let critters pass distantly in front of you. You take a second to breathe any time the wind comes up from behind you. Eventually you make it to the place you both were unconsciously heading, standing beneath the magnolia tree, hidden from the world under its cavernous branches.

The petals turn the sunlight through them soft. You’re both dusted in the blushing color, a particular unreality to everything inside this small space. You stand there looking at him expectantly. You look like something he’d dreamed up, ethereal and immortal. Something beyond this world.

“Sometimes--” he huffs, frustrated with himself for his own weakness. Frustrated that he has the gall to admit something like this, set the burden on anyone else. That more than anyone else, he wants you to be the one to listen. “Sometimes I don’t know what to do.”

You wait for him to continue, silent. You watch expressions play on his face, a hundred different emotions in every small detail. 

He says, “No matter what, people get hurt. I can try my hardest, and people will still get hurt.”

You hum, considering his words. “Well, it’s not like you can stop,” you muse. “You’ll always be the best person for the job. Even in the worst circumstances.”

When did you come to understand him like this? It feels instinctive, the way you know him. Like you always have, like you’ve just been waiting for him to lay himself bare.

He’s looking at you like he feels the same.

“So you keep going. And you do the best you can,” you say. “Then you come back here, and drink tea, and know that you did what you could. And the world will always, always be better for it.”

He takes a step closer, and another. He takes your hand, slowly, as if giving you time to pull away. You don’t.

“Your fingers are cold,” he says, grip tightening. 

“You’re really warm,” you return. 

He pulls you forward. The two of you keep walking.

He must have to shorten his stride for you. He does it so simply that you never considered that until now, the differences in your height not even registering. You two fit into each other’s lives so seamlessly. He comes and goes, and your days curve around him like a river stone. You don’t think anything he does could ever throw you off balance.

The walk is long and winding. You go until the sun has fully risen, and the day starts to warm. Until there are chores that can no longer be ignored.

He stops you at the door to the cottage, squeezing your hand.

“Can I ask you a favor?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Anything.”

“Can you, um, not watch the hero news?” He seems embarrassed to have said it, waving a hand as if to get rid of the thought. “Sorry, that’s dumb. It’s just, hero stuff and here—they kind of feel like two separate things, you know? But it doesn’t matter. You don’t have to—“

“Deku.” You touch his arm, stop his stammering. “I won’t. Promise.”

He looks at your hand on him, and at you. “Can I ask you another favor?” 

You smile in aquiessence. 

“Can you call me Izuku?” 

…

You’re invited to meet the apiarist’s new hive. 

“Well, not really a hive, yet,” she says, leading you through her property. It’s the same as Aiko’s, indecipherable except to those who’ve lived among it. 

“It’s a swarm,” the beekeeper explains. “No queen.”

She’d collected it from another neighboring farm that morning. They’d congregated under the roof of an old silo, hundreds of fluttering little insects flashing like waves in the light. 

“They won’t attack when there’s no queen to protect. Very docile.”

She’d simply removed the big metal sheet they were on, brought the whole thing with her. She lowered what she could of it into a slatted crate, a brood box. The bees filled it easily. 

You watch her navigate the box, murmuring to it the same way you do Ume and Chika. She reaches in, slowly, slowly. She brings her hand out cupped, full of fretting bees, beckoning you closer with a hand on your back. “They won’t hurt you.”

You lean over them, watching the shape they form together shift and bend. So many of them it almost makes you dizzy thinking about it, how they could possibly live and move inside a hive like that. How they coexist, as one thing, and as many. 

Their coloring is not what you expected, not quite yellow. Darker, almost amber. Their wings look almost liquid in the midday light. 

The sound of them, of the buzzing swarm, is so similar to your quirk, rattling in your skull. It makes you clench your teeth. It makes the energy well up in you, brimming so fast you can hardly contain it. 

You try to pull away, but you’re not quick enough. It comes out in a quick burst, shocking the hand that’s on you with a hiss of electricity.

The apiarist gasps at the sensation, a quick startled breath. Then she blinks at you, waiting for an explanation. 

“It’s, uh--” You take a step back, looking down at your hands like you could simply will them to fall off. “My quirk. Sorry.”

She laughs. “That right? Well, I’ve had worse, don’t worry.” 

Your expression must be incredulous, because she laughs again, louder. 

She says, “My job entails getting up close and personal with a few thousand poisonous little boys. Your sting ain’t nothing in comparison.”

And -- that makes sense. The power behind that last discharge didn’t hold a candle to what you’ve let out involuntarily before. Almost like a static shock. Not dangerous, just annoying.

The apiarist throws an arm around your shoulder, pulling you forward. “C’mon. Let’s go have some tea.”

You follow after her, confused, relieved. 

…

It’s been a long day. That must be why his filter is so lousy. 

They stand together on a building top in the west side of the city, their last lead a dead end. There’s nothing out here but rubble and low level buildings, ash that had settled months ago. 

Intel warned that there would be another attack soon. Maybe bigger, showing themselves up. Maybe the same simple, destructive force. A few dozen lives lost. A handful caught up in the mess.

“Have you ever thought about the future?” 

Katsuki throws him a glare. “Hah?”

“Like--” Izuku sighs. He shuffles a little bit, boots catching on the tile. “What’s going to happen to us.”

“You talkin’ about retirement?”

“No,” he says, not sure what he means himself anymore. The future, the vague concept of it. What could be. Anything at all. 

“We get stronger,” Katsuki says. “Bring down more bad guys.”

He sees Izuku’s droll smile, and scoffs.

“If you’re looking for fucking poetry, go someplace else,” he sighs. 

“No, that’s exactly right.” Izuku waves at him, feeling suddenly embarrassed for asking. “The natural progression of things.” 

Katsuki inspects him for a moment, then turns away. “All I know is that we’ve got a job to do. So I’m gonna do it.”

Izuku just nods. Because, yeah. That’s right. 

…

He’s waiting for you on the front steps when you return from tending the garden. You come to stand before him, place one hand on the crown of his head.

“Finally get sick of being beaten up?” you ask, ruffling his hair.

He peers up at you, cheeks pink. “Are the peaches ripe?”

The two of you meander towards the tree, bumping into each other playfully all the way there. The day is pleasantly warm, and very bright. Absently, you wonder if the weather is so beautiful in the city, if he misses out on days like this when he’s gone.

Aiko had given you instructions for each of her trees, the span of time when each one would be best for harvest. This one is almost at its peak of ripeness.

It’s a Hakuho peach tree, and the fruit is plump and fragrant. He hands one down to you, collects another for himself. You settle down in the short grass beside it, in the sun.

You’d forgotten the texture of peaches, the stubble of the skin, soft like fur. It’s very ripe, and you find yourself flinching as you eat, worried about the way the nectar is pooling inside the pink flesh.

Deku is peering at you, green eyes bright, inquisitive.

You lick up a bead of juice, threatening to fall. “What?”

“Nothing it’s just...” He glances at the fruit settled in his lap. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten a peach?”

Fruit was expensive in your city, especially peaches. Your freelancer budget didn’t account for the luxury. Your understanding of peaches was synthetic, flavored boba and popsicles.

You shrug. “Years.”

You nibble at the flesh. He holds your eye contact as he takes a bite himself.

It’s—messy. Juice leaks instantly, falling in rivulets down his hand, a match for the scars there. It pools in his palm, and he takes a moment to lick it up.

You don’t really have anything to prove. Deku didn’t bring you here to teach you a lesson about fruit etiquette. But your next bite is less careful, more indulgent.

The meat of it fills your cheeks, soft and sun warm. You’re left with a mess as well. Juice running down your chin, your wrists. Fat, sticky drops landing in the grass. It’s an absolute mess—it tastes better than anything you’ve ever eaten.

You laugh, trying to lick up everything hopelessly. You look at Izuku, but he’s not smiling. He’s staring at you, warm and drowsy, slightly flushed beneath his freckles. He takes your wrist, so gently. 

He brings his face in close, pink tongue dragging along your skin, catching a trail of juice running from your elbow to your palm. He pauses to nibble at one knuckle, then another, eyes slanted closed, spit hot on your skin.

You don’t know what’s residue from the peach and what’s him, anymore. All of it congregates into one restless feeling. Sweet. Warm.

He pulls back, licks his lips. You lick yours.

“It’s good,” you say. “Really good.”

“Mm,” he agrees.

Then you keep eating, until there’s nothing left but pit and quiet longing.

…

You think you should be lonelier, out here. Aiko comes and goes. Izuku had brought you a phone after your first week here, and she calls you almost daily to report on where she’s heading, where she’s been. She sends you postcards, asks you to write her back. Sometimes she tells you to bring the receiver to the pasture, so you can tell the alpacas she loves them. You ask her to do a bit of digging for you, hunting down the names and locations. She agrees easily.

You visit the beekeeper weekly, now, for tea and long walks. You’ve learned not to be afraid of the hive, or any swarm. You haven’t shocked her since the first time.

Mostly when you think of craving someone’s company, the face in your mind belongs to Izuku. 

You’ve taken to going out at night, just because you can. There’s a freedom here that you weren’t afforded in the city, beyond the isolation. You’re never afraid, going out at night, laying yourself down on a hill in the pitch dark.

The grass is always chilly against your skin. Sometimes, like tonight, the sky is cloudless and bright. A million stars blink back at you, each one a mystery, a promise.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you pick up without checking the ID.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi,” Izuku returns.

“Are you okay?”.

“It’s storming in the city,” he says. So quiet you feel like you have to hold your breath just to hear him. “It reminded me of you.”

You just listen to the ambient sounds of each other as the minutes wear on, both of you lost in your own thoughts. 

It’s all you can think about, looking at the clear, cool sky. Somewhere else it’s raining. 

It’s always raining, somewhere else.

“It’s a beautiful night, here” you tell him eventually. “I’m looking at the stars right now.”

“Like a bird?” he asks. 

“Like a bird,” you agree.

...

Fire lights up the city again. They’d been extra vigilant lately. Someone had spotted it early, and the heroes on duty managed to put it out quickly. 

It still makes everyone antsy. Partially because it’s clear there’s an agenda here, though no one can quite put together the pieces past the desire for endless inferno. Partially because...fire is simply unpleasant. 

Izuku watches from the rooftop of a nearby building as cleanup on the city block that had been ravaged ensues. The crew hauls away truckloads of rubble, things burnt beyond recognition. His own back had been similarly ruined. Made new by the flames. There’s some pretty metaphor there, he knows, but all he can think about is that everything looks the same after fire is done with it. A great and unstoppable equalizer. 

He’s been taking double, triple shifts on patrol since he got back. He can’t seem to sit still long enough for a break to really be of use. His time is better spent looking into these incidents.

Shinsou disagrees. 

He’s trailed after Izuku since this morning, when he’d disregarded the pleading of his staff for him to go home, get some rest. The other hero says nothing about anything, simply watching with those dark unfathomable eyes. Izuku almost thinks that he’s just coming along for fun, but he knows better. He has a strange, unintrusive way of looking after people. So similar to Aizawa, care without admitting it.

They stand together, watching the city workers dig through what must be endless ash. Izuku is muttering to himself, which Shinsou tactfully ignores. It’s an old habit they’d trained out of him, in his early career. At least, they’d hoped to. 

Shinsou asks, “Do you think they’re close to finding out who’s behind all this?”

Izuku glances at him over his shoulder, eyes wide, like he’d forgotten the other man was there. He bites his lip. “I’d like to say yes,” he says, “but I’m probably the closest to knowing anything about anything, and I still don’t have any solid leads.”

Shinsou hums. “Not surprising. Hard to pull evidence out of a crime scene like this .”

Down below a worker motions to a truck. The air fills with rhythmic trilling as it backs up, carrying a mountain of debris with it. A plume of dust rises from it. 

“Hard to pull anything from it,” Izuku says. 

Shinsou blinks at him, hooded eyes unreadable. “That girl you took,” he says, “how is she?”

Very few people know who or where you are; Shinsou was not supposed to be one of them. The whole situation is need to know, everything talked about in abbreviated assurances. Not that he doesn’t trust his friends, he would lay his life on the line for any of them. But all of this feels private, delicate. Like one wrong move and the bubble will burst. 

Izuku shifts, the reminder of you making him feel restless again, uneasy. “She’s doing good.”

Of course Shinsou would find out eventually. Izuku would never doubt his ability to seemingly manifest secrets out of thin air. A part of him wants to ask -- who? Who gave it away. Another part of him doesn’t want to know, feels a strange, lopsided frustration about this whole situation.  

Wind picks up, scattering more debris as people shout in response. The smell of it is acrid, dry. Nothing like a campfire, or a hearth. Industrial down to the bearings.

“What does she do?”

Izuku cocks his head. “Why are you interested?”

“Friendly concern,” Shinsou drawls. “Maybe you should get her a collar, while you’re at it.” It’s said with the plainness of an insult, but it’s not actually meant to be cruel. The statement is fishing for information, digging for an indicative response.

Clever. Prying.

“I don’t like this conversation,” Izuku murmurs, chewing on his cheek. 

“You have to admit, it’s not exactly good press for the number one hero to be keeping a civilian like a pet.”

Izuku shifts again. Bizarrely, his mind immediately returns to that first day, seeing your name on the HPSC member’s tablet. He never asked you why they were concerned with you in the first place. He never asked you a lot of things. “She's free to leave whenever she wants.”

Shinsou lets out a sharp breath at that, almost a laugh. “I don’t know a single person in Japan who could say no to you, golden boy.” 

“I don’t like this conversation,” Izuku says again. 

He looks at Shinsou, who’s looking back at him, one brow raised. Then he’s gone, leaping to another building, leaving his friend staring after him, curious, wry. 

He’s off duty (or at least he’s supposed to be), but he meanders through the city, trying to sniff out any sign of trouble. The streets are unusually calm today, petty crime significantly down. The fires have made everyone cautious, civilians and ne’er-do-wells alike. Everyone’s inside, avoiding incident. Trying to stay safe.

Mindlessly, Izuku ends up outside Musutafu Central. 

The zoo is just shutting down. Most of the animals have been returned to their inside enclosures. Only a few straggling guests are left, making their way to the exits. 

It’s been a long time since he was last here. Middle school, on a field trip. It had been interrupted by a villain attack in the vicinity, answered by All Might. The evacuation was quick-- they hadn’t gotten the chance to see any of the action. Izuku was vibrating the whole way back to campus, trying to catch a glimpse of the No. 1’s dark form somewhere in the sky. 

He shuffles through the zoo grounds, just to get to the other side of the park. Some of the exhibits have been updated, but mostly things are the same. It’s almost like walking through a memory.

He pauses at the flat glass front of the red panda house. A handful of guests are still peering inside, trying to catch one last glimpse of the creature before it’s put away. A handler is already inside, trying to get it where it needs to go. 

He watches the woman pick up the panda, it’s little legs dangling limply, it’s face passive. It’s smaller than he remembered, it’s body so insubstantial compared to the human handling it. She carries it to the hidden door in the back, and disappears with it. 

Izuku thinks about texting you—he thinks you might like to know about the panda and its little furry paws, its soft face and dark eyes. 

Then he thinks better of it. 

...

Aiko comes back to you with the information you asked her to gather. She’d found two of the people you’d hurt, their names and addresses.

“Don’t know what you want with them,” she says. “But be good.”

“I’ll try,” you promise her.

You have to hunt for the portal. You’ve never actually seen Izuku use it -- he always left too early or late for you to see him off. When you locate it, tucked away in some bushes a few meters from the well, you don’t give yourself a chance to doubt. You hold your breath and you step through.

You arrive in Izuku’s agency. You have no reason to assume that’s what this tastefully decorated office on the other side of the portal is, other than context clues. But you can see him everywhere in the space, the little scribbled notes on the desk, the computer monitor with a crack in the screen, the hoodie draped over the chair that you're pretty sure belongs to you.

But this is the first time you’ve ever been in his work space, and you feel like you should close your eyes, let it be a secret. It has none of the sleek mystique you’d expected of a hero agency. It just looks like an office space. 

You’re quick to leave. No one notices you exiting the bosses room. The agency flutters with life, people chattering and moving through the halls with ease. It’s simple enough for you to slip out and onto the street without drawing attention.

You haven’t been back to the city in months. You haven’t really thought about it. The cacophonous sounds, the rush of people that used to frighten you -- none of it seems to matter in the face of what you’re here to do. None of it seems to matter in the face of what you have to go home to.

Early on in your stay at Aiko’s Izuku had brought you the incident logs, at your insistence. You still couldn’t believe that only one person was severely injured in that event, but seeing the short list of minor scrapes and bruises the others had accrued in writing made it impossible to deny. 

It was those two that Aiko had managed to track down through her large network of friends. The first you visit lives in Musutafu, a housewife, in her mid thirties. Your heart feels like a hot coal in your chest as you knock on her apartment door. It takes her a full three minutes to answer, the whole time you’re left staring at the tasteful paper wreath on her door, listening to the commotion beyond the walls, sweating through your shirt.

When she answers, it’s with a small child propped on her hip. It’s hands are so small, thick little fingers without any fine motor function. They’re covered in color, paint you think, orange and blue and red and green. It’s on their face, and the mother’s too. After opening the door she smiles first at the child, then at you.

“Apologies for the wait. We’re having arts and crafts time,” she says. “How can I help you?”

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, before realizing how insane you sound. 

You wince, but the woman just smiles blankly at you, bounces the child in her arms. “For what?”

You clench your fists, thinking about all the possible things you could say. Explaining your own predicament, all the pain you’ve caused. She doesn’t even recognize you -- you would have to remind her. You look at her and her child, waiting patiently for you to say something, anything. 

But you don’t. You give an awkward little wave. Take a step back. “Nothing,” you say. “I must have mistaken you for someone else.”

The woman is still smiling, confused but kind. She says goodbye. She shuts the door.

The second address is a bakery. It’s a fair distance outside the city proper, and you have to take two trains to get there, walk a few blocks further. The shop is pleasantly situated, a corner glass front with tables and chairs outside, flower boxes lining the windows.

You spot the man from outside, behind one of the pastry counters. You probably wouldn’t have recognized him, if not for delving into those records. He looks… normal. You don’t know what you were expecting. Were you even expecting anything?

You’re already inside before you have a plan formulated. The shop is empty besides the two of you, and his eyes find you immediately. “What can I get for you today?”

You think about waiting for a minute, seeing if he knows you, understands your presence. He doesn’t, though. Of course he doesn’t -- how presumptuous of you to assume, to wander back into these people's lives like a ghost and expect anything of them.

You say, “What do you recommend?”

The man takes his time explaining what’s on offer today, pleased to have company during his slow period. You listen to him describe each cut, the type of chocolate, the origins of the fruits topping each tart, the different countries where he learned how to bake each item. You interject when it’s appropriate, nod and smile when he starts to ramble.

Eventually he ends up on the same side of the counter as you, insisting you taste ingredients, filling a plate for you to share. You sit and talk with him for hours, listening to the stories of all the places he’s been, the people he’s encountered. He reminds you a bit of Aiko, both of them so excited for adventure, so drawn to risk. Your quirk doesn’t even come close to the most dangerous things that have crossed his path. 

The encounter ends when a group of chattering people come in, peering into the glass cases. The man leaves you with a smile and a wink, calling out a greeting to the new patrons.

You leave in a daze. 

None of this went the way you thought it would. But -- how did you think it would go, anyway? They both have lives, rich and full. You’re not the villain of their stories. You’re not in those stories at all.

Somehow, you find your way back to Izuku’s agency. It’s dark, near closing time for most businesses, but the agency is still buzzing with life. You’d read an article about this place years ago. It houses an absurd number of heroes, more than what could ever be practical. Izuku has collected all the odd men out of the hero world, people who no one ever gave a chance but deserved one. People he thought had potential, or heart, or anything wholesome, glorious, kind. That’s just his way, you suppose.

You sit on the couch in the waiting room, knowing he’ll find you eventually. In the meantime, you chat with other visitors, offering them some of the pastries the baker insisted you take, or stare off into space. You hardly notice when he approaches you, but he looks like you’re the one sneaking up on him.

He’s in civilian clothes. He smells like clinical soap. Freshly off duty.

“I thought it must be you,” he says, offering a hand to help you up, eyes enormous. “Hi-- hello. What are you doing here?”

“Hi, hello,” you say. “Let’s go get a coffee.”

He takes you someplace nearby. There’s no name on the storefront, just big windows, a handful of square tables set up inside. The owner knows him by his real name.

He orders for you both while you pick out a place to sit, and when he returns you take a sip and smile. Of course he knew exactly what you would want. 

There’s a moment of settling before he asks, “So, do I get to know what happened?” 

You pick at the paper rim of your cup. You don’t know how to begin, how necessary this all felt, though you’re embarrassed and ashamed to have come here at all. How messy and freeing everything is.

“Amends,” you say, your smile small, self deprecating. “Or something like that.”

He sits up a little straighter, then leans back in his chair. Trying not to look too eager for information. “How did it go?”

You tell him about the mother and the baker, how lovely they both were, how their lives seem so special. He lets you tell it the whole way through, never interrupting. Even when you’re done, he’s silent for a moment, looking at his own hands, folded around his cup.

“So you never actually got to apologize,” he says.

“Well, I kind of did,” you say. “But not really.”

His gaze flickers to your face, bright shrewd. “How do you feel?”

The question takes you by surprise. You hadn’t even thought to ask yourself that question, although now it seems silly not to. What was the point of this exercise -- was it for you, or for them? “The same,” you say, realizing that it’s true. “I don’t feel any different.”

He nods, the gesture empty. “I’ve been wondering something…”

You sip your coffee, waiting for him to sort through his thoughts, figure out what he wants to say.

The words come slow, like he’s waiting for you to interrupt him, finish the thought. “I’ve never seen you come close to that level of discharge before, even when you felt like you were gonna kill me.”

You tap your cup, wanting inexplicably to get up and pace. Maybe he’s rubbing off on you.

“It was -- I was frightened,” you say, frowning at the way you’ve begun. Feeling like there was a different, better way to tell it.

But Izuku simply nods, encouraging.

You continue, “I’m always a little scared. I’ve accepted it, that’s just who I am. But this… I saw him in the store. I didn’t think anything about it, at first. Just some guy. And then I left. And then he left at the same time. We turned the same direction, and then again. Weird coincidence, I thought. He stood really close to me at the crosswalk. I turned again, just to let him pass, it was going out of my way to do that, but --”

You let out a sharp exhale. Even the memory of the events makes you a bit jittery. You swallow down your quirk, let it disappear into the ether.

Izuku just watches you, so still he must not even be breathing. 

“He was following me, which, like, duh. But it didn’t seem so obvious at the time. And when he grabbed me and tried to pull me into a building I…”

You can hardly remember what it felt like in the moment. All you know is the big, concrete details. You were grabbed. You exploded. You ended up in the pastoral countryside, looking after a pair of alpacas.

You wait for a reaction, something kind and motivational. It doesn’t come. He just looks sad, a little pained. The muscles of his arms strain, like he’d be trembling to the touch. 

He closes his eyes. “You didn’t deserve to be treated like a villain for that.”

“I hurt people,” you say plainly. You close your eyes too. You don’t want to look at him, to see his face as you explain it all again.

“ You were hurt,” he says. “You.”

He reaches for you, cups his hand around yours. Your quirk greets him first, the static of it like touch before touch. A warning. A welcome.

He has nice hands, you think. Not pretty, after everything they’ve been through. But strong and warm. Beautiful for their sheer functionality, the way big horses are, or wildflowers. 

He asks, “When was the last time you really used your quirk?” 

You describe it, how you were startled a few days ago and let off a few sparks. No horrifying disasters.

He peers at you, a single finger tracing circles on the table. “When was the last time you did it on purpose?”

You know it’s not the answer he wants to hear. You hesitate for a moment before saying, “Never.”

He nods again, gaze pinned to where you’re touching. Where he’s wrapped around you, large enough to block out the world. His brow is furrowed, and you know he’s making the decision to put something off, save it for later. You’re pretty sure you know what it is.

But he says, “Let’s go home,” and none of it seems to matter so much, anymore. 

…

It feels like the situation is racing toward the end. The villains can only wait so long between attacks before people forget about them, before the statement they were trying to make is null and void. The timeline indicates something unfortunate. 

They still don’t know much about anything.

Izuku and Katsuki climb across buildings again. Ground Zero had been away, in Kyoto, where his quirk was needed against a particular flavor of bad guy. Now that he’s back the situation feels more and less complicated. It reminds him of what they’ve already been through, desperately trying to defend against an enemy they didn’t understand. Echoes and echoes.

Seeing Katsuki in the dim light of the evening, he looks older. All of them do. A few more scars, a bit more confidence. They, all of them, walk like people who know what might be around every corner. Well equipped but wary. Constantly vigilant, constantly minding their steps to make as little sound as possible.

“Saw you with a girl,” Katsuki says. “She the one you’ve been shacking up with?”

Izuku doesn’t correct him. He knows Katsuki knows it’s not like that.

“The future, huh.” 

“It’s a long way off,” Izuku says. 

“Be careful, dumbass.” 

“Do you think--” He hesitates, wonders if he really wants an answer. He asks, “Do you think this is going to end badly?”

Katsuki looks at him, then out over the city. The lights flicker, electric, neon. “This life, what we do… you wanna ask someone to put up with this shit?”

The word hovers over them both, a ghost. Fair . When has anything in this world ever been fair? Not everyone is born equal, they’ve always been aware of that. It’s something they understand down to their bones. 

And...it’s hard. It was always going to be hard. That’s what they signed up for, what they asked for. Sleepless nights and skipped meals. Weeks without a chance to catch a breath. Sometimes they get hit. Sometimes they get hit with the force of a train. Sometimes they don’t get up.

Izuku thinks of you, your face when you look at the stars, or when you take your first sip of coffee in the morning, or right before you fall asleep. It fills him with warmth. With dread.

...

It’s been five weeks since his last visit, two since you showed up in the city. He came without warning again. You found him making lunch for the two of you, muttering to himself about something. 

In the afternoon the two of you finish picking the peaches, him handing them down to you as you wait with a basket ready. 

“Are you ready to go home?”

The question nearly makes you drop it. “What?”

Izuku doesn’t pause, reaching for another peach. “Just...are you ready?” 

It hardly sounds like a question, the way he says it. Almost rhetorical. Part of you wants to say Am I? 

But it’s not his fault you’ve gotten attached to this place. 

“I can be,” you say slowly. You shift the basket against your belly, the fruits rolling against each other inside. Their fragrance is heavy in the heat. So sweet it’s almost overbearing. 

Izuku inspects the fruit in his hand, turning it around before tossing it into the un-eatable pile. “No—I don’t mean to rush you. I just figure… maybe you’re getting a little antsy, being stuck here. You seemed fine when you visited, the other day.”

Without the peach, he’s just staring at his hand. It’s the more scarred one, and they’re stark in the bright afternoon light, almost ghostly. 

“Do you want me to leave?” 

It’s not a question you should be asking, but you can’t help it. You don’t think you could stand to be here another second if he wants you gone. 

His reaction is fast. A glance up at you, his eyes strangely sharp. “No.”

A bird calls in the distance. You know this one, a native bird of prey. You’d learned that recently, wading through a wildlife book Aiko had on her shelf. Your mind continually strayed to the man before you, wondering if this was information you’d ever get to share with him. 

“Can I ask you something?” you say. 

He nods, slowly. Cautiously. 

You say, “Why am I here?” 

He’s not looking at you. “You needed help.”

It’s the answer you were expecting. You knew that from the beginning. He saved you. Like a hero. Like Deku. 

But for some reason hearing those words makes your throat burn.

You don’t even notice your quirk building up. It's a tiny spark, but it’s enough. The basket catches fire, and you drop it, sending fruit rolling as you fall to your knees, patting out the flame with your bare hands. 

You sit there in the aftermath, in the grass and scattered peaches, palms stinging. 

He’s standing over you, his shadow long.  

You start reaching for the tumbled peaches, dropping them back into the basket with hands cupped, as if they were water. Izuku follows suit, folding them into his big arms until he has a jumble to put back. 

“The tree is almost cleared,” you say, just to say something. “I can’t believe there was so much fruit on it.”

“It depends on the year, I think,” he returns. “It’s not always like this.”

“Then we’re lucky,” you say. You touch the woven edge of the basket, where it’s turned gray and brittle from your quirk. “I wish things were different.” 

You’d caught him in the middle of placing a peach, and his thumb strokes the soft fur of it, back and forth. His brow creases, troubled. He’s not looking at you. “Why?” he asks. 

But you don’t know. You don’t wish everything were different. Not most things, even. Just the things that cause you grief, and fear, and hurt. 

You wish the world were softer, maybe. That you could touch everything as gently as a magnolia bloom, as peach flesh, and not be scared of it biting back. Not be scared of setting things on fire. 

And Izuku thinks you should be gone. He won’t say it, too kind to ever let you go. Too kind for clean breaks. You wish he weren’t. You wish for that, too. 

You stand, dusting your hands off on your pants. Sticky residue from bad fruits coat your fingers. Dirt and grass stick to them. You give him a polite smile. “I think let’s call it a day.”

...

You hide yourself in the barn, crouching in the empty stall next to Ume’s. You fiddle absently with the tools left there, the old hay that lines the floor. The alpaca’s shift and snuffle. Birds continue to coo outside. Otherwise it’s quiet. 

That’s something it took you a while to get used to, out here. The fact that you’re alone and you can hear it . No one around but you and Izuku and the bee keeper miles off. In the city you were constantly crowded by noise. People buzzing around in the street below your apartment, cars and pedestrians, and ambient city sounds. 

You don’t really miss it. But you miss the familiarity of it. Knowing the shape of your surroundings so instinctively, having lived there for forever. 

How long will it take you to get back to that, when you go home?

You wonder how long it takes Izuku to adjust, if he ever really lands in any of the places his work takes him. Does he think about birds when he’s gone?

You mope for as long as you can. You should have known he would find you, eventually. 

You hear him coming, his sneakers crunching on the stray hay. When he reaches your stall, he doesn’t say anything, just leans there, one arm propped against the frame. 

You look up at him from your spot on the floor, feeling like you’re in trouble, somehow. “Hi.”

“It’s getting dark,” he says. “You should come inside. I’ll make dinner.” 

You glance at your lap, where your hands sit limply. You curl your fingers inward, against the red spot where you put out the fire. It doesn’t hurt, exactly— more of a strange warmth. You dig your nails in until it does. “I’ll be in, in a few.” 

He steps into the stall, sinks to his knees in front of you. 

“Can I see?” he asks, but he’s already reaching for you. 

He cups your hand, thumb gently stroking, edging in toward the red, swollen area, but not touching. “Does it hurt?”

Your quirk dances along your skin, little pulses that glow in the dusk light, too dull to hurt anyone. He doesn’t even seem to notice. 

“No,” you lie, because you don’t think you could bear to let him take care of you right now. 

He runs his thumb over your knuckles, your fingertips. “I’m sorry,” he says. 

You turn your hand in his, gripping his pointer finger like a child. “Don’t be sorry,” you say. “Let’s go eat.”

...

His hands find you in the dark, pull you out of an unhappy sleep. You cover his knuckles, where they rest on your shoulder. He’s leaning over you like some monster in the dark, bare chested, face so serious. 

“You’re mad at me,” he says, fingers flexing under yours. 

You know what he’s talking about instantly, like the conversation never ended. Like you’ve both done nothing but think about it since you’ve said goodnight.

Of course he couldn’t leave it alone. Of course he would be the one to do something about the things that make him uncomfortable.

“I’m not mad,” you say. You don’t mean it. But what right do you have to be upset? 

“I don’t want you to be mad,” he murmurs. “I just...want you to be okay.” 

Your frustration robs you of your filter. “You want me to leave,” you say, then instantly regret it.

He leans closer, almost on top of you at this point. His face is just centimeters from yours, as if he could simply breathe his thoughts into you, like if he just gets close enough you wouldn’t have to talk about any of this. “That’s not true.”

“Izuku--” you sigh. “You just said…”

His forehead touches yours. His wild hair halos you both. “Not true.”

You reach around to bury a hand in the locks at his nape, grip tightening as his eyes shutter closed, so pleased. You press in further, rub your temple against his. “Then why did you ask?”

He smells nice. He’d showered earlier that evening, and the scent of soap has mellowed, left behind a sweet muskiness. You breathe him in, open mouthed. He does the same. 

“Why are you here?” he whispers against your cheek. “Is this really helping you -- or is it just helping me?”

Your other arm snakes around his midriff. You pull him even closer. “I’m okay.”

His hand clenches in the fabric of your sleep shirt, so tight you hear a few of the seams pop. His lips press the barest pressure against you, his breath hot and moist. His eyelashes a soft flutter against your skin.

“You’re afraid of yourself,” he says. “And I’m a crutch.”

Then-- he’s lifting off you, pulling away. And you’re letting him go. Watching him retreat until he’s standing across the room, one hand pulling at the roots of his hair.

You can barely see him in the dark. He looks like a ghost, something that could fade out of existence in a heartbeat. You feel the raw thrumming of your quirk in your fingertips, electric, alive. 

“I am mad,” you say. You don’t expect the words to come out so strong, but the anger has given you a voice. Made it solid, somehow; like you’ve been waiting for this. 

You climb out of bed in nothing but your sleep shirt and panties, push past him even as he grabs for you again. It’s raining and the sound muffles his words as he trails after you. All you hear is quiet desperation and the summer storm, apologies lost in the torrent. 

Your pace quickens as he tries to close the distance between you, until you’re running, throwing yourself out the door and into the freezing weather. You slip through the wet grass, the fresh mud. You push yourself forward, forward, knowing that he’s following.

You come to a halt in the gray downpour, in the middle of the pasture. You are soaked to the bone and your quirk crackles around you, snapping back at the rain. You feel alive with it, resurrected with the latent energy. How much have you been stockpiling? How much have you held on to, kept cloistered away like a secret? Always reining it in.

You take a breath. And for the first time in your life, you push. 

You throw out energy in big, thrashing waves. A halo around you. It tears the grass and lights up the dark. It sings like a bottle rocket, a high, pulsing shriek. You empty yourself out. You set it all free. 

It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt, release and relief, so pure it leaves your skin tender, hyper aware of the world, the rain, the air, like you’ve never been touched before. Everything, everything, everything— brand new. 

And when you’re done, chest heaving, quirk spent, Izuku is at your side. He takes your trembling hand, a gentle clasp like he’s waiting for you to pull away. You don’t. 

“Cold,” he murmurs. 

You can barely speak. “You did this.” But you’re laughing, exhausted and weightless. 

You let him pull you along, hardly registering that you’re moving at all. You could just close your eyes, have him lead you blind. He’d get you where you need to go—you’re sure down to your bones. 

Inside the entryway, you let yourself fall against him, let him prop you up with hands on your hips. 

He kisses your forehead. “I want you to stay,” he says. “I want you to stay for a really, really long time.” 

You gather yourself onto your toes, cup his cheeks, press your lips to his, soft as sunlight. “Izuku,” you whisper. “Warm me up.” 

He holds onto your hands, holds them there against his face, like he’s afraid you’re going to let go. His answering kiss is just as gentle, the barest pressure melting into more, and more, and more. He opens you up like neither of you are even thinking about it, a natural balance to it like the tides. 

You let him press you back, one step at a time, until you hit a wall. There he curls around you, arms on either side of your head, and he’s so big in this moment, taking up all of your vision, all the space in your mind. Like his shoulders are the roof to your world. 

His touch is gentle, but it seems so heavy though your wet shirt as his big palms caress you, warming you back up, stroking your back, your sides, your throat.

He falls to his knees before you, starts nosing at the soft hair on your belly, the elastic of your panties.

And this is new. You’re not sure what to do. Your hands drift down, rest awkwardly on his head, the pressure too light, afraid of anything more substantial. 

His eyes trail up your body, to your face. He just stares at you for a moment, hands clenched around your hips, keeping you steady. 

“Can I?” he asks. 

You’ve never done this before, not even close. You were always too afraid of harming your partner. What if you panicked and shocked them? But—this is Izuku. He won’t be hurt by you. 

You swallow. Nod. 

His eyes drift shut as he nuzzles you, the pressure of his lips just barely peeling down your panties. 

His breath is hot against you. Not quite sensual. It tickles a bit, and you can’t get used to the sensation of someone else’s skin where no one else has visited before. 

He pulls down your panties, the slow rasp of it on your bare legs making you shiver. He peeks up at you again, smiles. Then he buries his face between your thighs.

He’s patient with you, nibbling at everything he can reach, laving hotly at your opening, flicking your clit with the very tip of his tongue. At first all you feel is sensations, piling on top of each other. You start to lose track of it, what he’s doing, how you’re feeling. 

But Izuku is watching you, eyes cat-like and glossy. Taking in all of your expression, learning what you like. He knows better than you do, pushing you toward your peak as you’re barely holding on, hips twitching in his grip. 

A moan catches in your throat as you tumble over the edge, whole body tensing up. He’s holding up your entire body weight by the end of it, lowering you to his lap with one arm, wiping his mouth off on his other wrist. 

He cradles you there, against him, kissing your nose, petting the curve of your belly. He’s grinning, cheeks flushed. “Wow.” 

The trip to your bedroom is clumsy. It takes a couple tries to crawl out of your wet clothes, the fabric catching on limbs, slapping against the floor when Izuku tosses it away. His hands are on you, always, the whole way there. It feels like he’s touching a thousand places at once, and as he piles you on the bed, crawls on top of you, you take one of his hands in yours, bring it to your mouth.

The skin is rough, all over. Calloused and dry, but so warm as you tongue at his fingertips, nibble at the soft webbing between them.

His face hovers over yours. You’re almost kissing through his hand.

“What do you want?” he whispers.

“You,” you tell him. You drag his wet fingers down and down, to where more moisture pools at the apex of your thighs. “Inside.”

He swallows once, twice. Two of his fingers are already teasing into you when he says, “Okay.”

Everything is a warm blur until he enters you. All sensations new, fever hot, piling on top of each other until you’re not really sure of yourself, where your own limbs are. Only that Izuku’s cock is pressing into you, and he’s gazing down at you like you hold his life in your hands. 

You’re tight and it kind of hurts, kind of doesn’t. It’s a pressure, and the knowledge that something is there, where it wasn’t before. Something inside you that isn't you. 

Barely any of him is inside you when he pauses, kisses both of your cheeks, the dip of your upper lip. You feel the flutter of his lashes against your skin, the heat of his cheeks reflected back at him. 

His eyes are so bright as he looks at you, the flecks of other color, gold and hazel and a ring of black, so much more prominent up close. It reminds you of wilderness, how the magnolia tree must look before bloom. 

“Hold on to me?” he asks. 

You raise your arms, shaking slightly, to wrap around his shoulders. Your grip is light at first, then clutching as he pulls out the tiniest bit, then presses back in, slightly further this time. 

He pauses again, one hand stroking your flank, nails dragging lightly. He waits like that, petting, patient, until you tap him. 

You press your lips to his jaw. “More.” 

He gives it to you, the pressure of it heavy, but not unpleasant. You almost don’t notice when he’s all the way inside you, only that he’s stopped again, nuzzling against your jaw. He breathes in shallow pants. 

You’re a little overwhelmed by the feeling, the simple notion that he’s inside of you. Izuku is inside you. Strange but right. Inevitable. 

You thread a hand through his hair, tugging a bit. He bites your chin softly in return. 

“What does it feel like?” you whisper. 

He lets out a breathy chuckle. “Warm. Good ,” he tells you. There’s a downward tilt to each of his words—he’s almost slurring. “You’re so soft, so perfect. God .”  

It’s praise you're not sure you deserve, but his face is all earnesty, all secrets revealed. You don’t think it’s even possible for him to lie, in this moment. 

You squeeze experimentally around him, snorting at his shuddering oh . That makes him shift inside you, again, the weight of him still odd but promising . 

With a hand on his flank you urge him to thrust, a gentle roll of his hips that leaves you curious more than anything. You press back up into him, taking him deeper, harder. He answers in kind. 

He’s watching you, hooded eyes steady on your face. He’s pressing in and in and in, hardly seeming to leave you at all. He’s rubbing against something that makes you clench around him, makes your hands fist against his skin.

His filter starts to fade the deeper he gets, a constant stream of babble drifting over you, through you. He praises you. Tells you you’re beautiful, the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Nothing has ever felt as good as you, this. You’re taking him so well, he’s so proud of you, you’re such a good girl, so brave, sweet, lovely, everything everything everything . 

You’re everything. 

“I think I must have dreamed you up,” he murmurs. “I just don’t know how it’s possible, that you could exist.”

His breath fans against your cheeks, your faces so close you can feel each word being formed against your own lips. Like he’s passing them directly into you, like you could swallow them down, keep them forever. 

“I think I was waiting my whole life for you and I never even knew,” he says. His nose bumps yours. His hand fingers go firm against your clit. “I missed you always, before I met you. Always. I’ve always wanted — can’t believe I have you like this. Mm— “ 

His hands twitch against your skin, hot, calloused. 

He kisses you, tongue wet and soft in your mouth. His hips roll continuously against that spot inside you that makes you gasp, makes your toes curl. He wants you to cum and there’s nothing you can do but yeild, let it wash over you like a gasp. 

Your peak is bright and hot as starlight. It radiates from your core, making your whole body feel elastic, electric. Your quirk goes off, sharp little bursts that flutter between your bodies like fireworks. You hold onto him so tight, jerking back against his thrusts, keening softly when he finally stills inside you. 

When he cums it’s with a whisper of your name, tremors that shake his whole body, that you feel inside of you. 

“Love you,” he says, pulling out. He collapses beside you, hand reaching blindly for yours. When he catches it, he squeezes. “I love you,” he says again. He looks almost like he’s going to cry, brow furrowed, expression so relieved. “Love you. Thank you.” 

You squeeze his hand, sore and sated. More content than you’ve ever been. 

“Love you,” he says, as you begin to sink into sleep. “Love you.” 

...

When you wake, he’s holding you against him, arms bracketed around your middle, hand holding your own up in front of his face. He traces over the grooves of your palm, the little details. It tickles a bit, but you don’t tell him that, just let him keep stroking you like a worry stone. 

“Are you hungry?” he murmurs. “Do you want to take a bath?” 

You shake your head. “Just want to lay here.” 

He squeezes you gently, lets out a content sigh. “ ‘Kay.” 

You press your hand into his, your fingers linking seamlessly. With your thumb you rub the mottled skin, where the discolored skin wraps around like snake teeth. So much of him is made up of past injuries, like he’s half scar tissue at this point. It makes you think about that old story about the ship, replacing it board by board until you’re not sure it’s the same ship anymore. You wonder if he knew things would turn out like this, during his time at UA, if he could foresee all the things that would change him. All the hurt that would make him a different ship. 

You know he wears all of it without regret. Part of him welcomes the scars and the mistakes that wrought them. They taught him things. How to do better. Get hit less, or bear more. Stronger, faster, more wily. Things that heroes learn on the job, or perish without. Things that make a hero. 

But not all lessons have to be learned from pain. 

Your other hand comes around his, so you’re cupping him, bringing him closer to kiss the dry skin of his knuckles. 

He’s smiling at you, a pleased little tilt to his lips. 

“What?” you whisper. 

He leans forward, presses a kiss against your cheek. He says, “You’re warm.” 

You’d be content to stay here, like this, forever. But eventually you have to get up and rinse off, drink a big glass of water and chew on the porridge Izuku makes. 

He dotes on you through the whole process, guiding you with a hand on your lower back, simply plucking you off the ground and into his arms when you mention being a little sore. 

He won’t stop touching you. Fingers always ghosting along yours, your hair, your lips. He’s got the gooiest smile, all soft at the edges, all warm. 

“What?” you ask, holding up a spoonful of porridge for him. 

He eats it with a huff of a laugh. “Just thinking how weird this is.”

“Eating breakfast after a nice romp?” you say, taking your own bite. 

“Slowing down,” he murmurs. “Being... happy.” 

Your expression must be similarly smitten, because he can’t keep himself from touching, running a finger down your cheek, kissing your forehead, your lips. Breakfast takes a whole hour to finish.

Of course it couldn’t last forever, though. 

You’re interrupted with your hands in the dirty dish water. The sound of Izuku’s phone is louder than you knew any phone could be. Work , he explains, already running for it. 

Within seconds of answering he’s sprinting for the living room, vaulting the sofa to turn on the TV. The news reel is like a bucket of ice water. 

Tokyo is burning. 

It’s an aerial shot, the voice over describing the last half hour that had rapidly evolved into something out of an apocalypse movie. The whole screen is red, dotted by little black specks that must have been something once.

Izuku is faster than you on the intake, already hurrying to put on his shoes, chattering quickly with whoever is on the other line. You catch him at the door.

“What are you going to do?” you ask.

He gives you as much time as he can, a handful of precious seconds, a smile over his shoulder. It’s not his toothy hero grin. Softer, a little less bold. A little more human. “Whatever I can.”

And he’s gone.

The whole thing takes fourteen hours. You watch the news coverage, sparks popping off your skin as your heart hammers in your chest. It’s all you can do, sit there, watching it unfold. You run through the most necessary of your chores blindly, feeling like any second spent away from the screen might be the most dire, the most important. But there’s never any development. 

None of the broadcasts can get close enough to gleen any real information. No one could survive wandering into the inferno to try to scout things out. It seems impossible that a fight could be happening somewhere in those flames, like all any of you are doing is sitting here, watching a fire ravage the city. No point in fighting at all.

You wait up all night for him. Morning rolls around, and you wait through that too. Eventually you can’t watch anymore of the clips they keep replaying. They must be burned into your brain by now, anyway. 

You feed the animals. Pull a few weeds in the garden. In the afternoon you make tea, and sit on the front steps. 

The season is coming to a close, and the days have begun to cool. Some of the birds have already begun to move out of the area. Nests and burrows left empty. The cicadas are quieter now. Only a handful above ground, crooning. 

This will be another thing he has to recover from. But then again, life in general seems to be something you both are recovering from. Existing how you do. How you have no choice but to exist. The world turns. You drink tea with honey in the mornings, look at the stars at night, grow closer to peace each day despite the odds. 

You’ll fill the bathroom with steam when he’s hurt, and walk with him in the early morning when he can’t sleep. Whatever it is, you’ll do it. You’ll welcome him back into the cradle of this place whenever you can.

It’s just noon when he appears at the end of the path to the pasture, coming from the old well. He’s limping slightly, favoring his left side in a way that makes you wince. He’s in civilian clothing, but soot still streaks his face. He must have come straight here as soon as he could.

“Welcome home, hero,” you call. Half irony, half heartbreak. 

You only know what the news was reporting on, which wasn’t much. Grainy, distant footage. Speculation about what might be happening inside the flames. But you know. Can see it in the weary slope of his gait, the trembling smile he pays you in greeting. He won and he lost. Same as always. 

And you’re just how he left you. You look at him, all kind and beautiful, all soft hands and good rest. You make everything so simple. 

He loves you and he loves you and he loves you. That’s it. That’s all.

He kneels in the dirt before you, takes your hand in his. He presses a kiss to each one of your knuckles, rubs his cheek against them like he’s trying to absorb your heat. 

“Let’s go inside. Please,” he murmurs. “Let’s go to bed.”