Chapter Text
Izuku rides through town on his hand-me-down bike, reveling in the freedom of the wind whipping through his hair. He pedals by the beach, or what was once a beach. It’s more of a dump now, and it serves as the line of demarcation between the haves and the have-nots in town. Musutafu is small. There’s a handful of families that've been here for years, hoarding their wealth, building the town in their image. The Bakugos are one such family, and they are by far the oldest, and most prolific. Then there’s everyone else—which is to say, then there’s Izuku.
The Midoriya family lives in a small house on the wrong side of the tracks, and just about everything he owns was once owned by the youngest Bakugo. His clothes, his toys, his bike—all of it was Kacchan’s. His mom works tirelessly for the Bakugos. She cooks and cleans and makes sure there are always fresh flowers from the garden adorning every glittering surface of the house. On Fridays, Izuku gets to hang out at the house until his mother is dismissed for the weekend.
Izuku loves Fridays. He loves the Bakugo manor—it’s bright entry ways, the expensive furnishings, the house’s inhabitants. Kacchan is his best friend, or… he was. Izuku’s not sure what happened, but he doesn’t get to spend much time with Kacchan at school anymore. He’s not very nice, and he makes a point of calling him a charity case in front of the whole class. Fridays are different because it’s just Izuku and Kacchan. He’s nicer when his other friends aren’t around.
“Oi, Deku!” Kacchan and his friends shuffle onto the road ahead of him, blocking his way. Izuku squeezes the brake, tires skidding on the cement just in time to stop directly in front of Kacchan.
“How’s my old bike, charity case?” Kacchan sneers, his palms gripping the handles of the bike. Izuku frowns. Fridays aren’t supposed to be like this.
“It’s a great bike, Kacchan,” he mumbles, looking out at the piles of junk on the beach.
“I know it is, idiot, and I want it back.”
Izuku’s head snaps up to meet Kacchan’s crimson, disdainful gaze. His friends laugh, like Kacchan is the funniest person in the world. Kacchan can be funny, sometimes, but this doesn’t feel good or right. Izuku isn’t amused, only hurt.
“What? Kacchan—“
“Don’t call me that stupid baby nickname. Get off my bike, Deku.” Kacchan shakes the bike, and Izuku maneuvers himself off of it before Kacchan decides to push him over. He watches as Kacchan rolls the bike away, shoving it down to the beach until it lays among the rest of the forgotten things on the beach. Izuku doesn’t dare try to retrieve the bike until Kacchan and his friends are gone. Izuku rubs his face, doing his best not to let his frustration leak out of his eyes.
He makes his way down the trash pit, wading through abandoned relics—broken microwaves, mangled toys, a garbage bag full of matchless socks. Then, he hears it. Beating drums. Izuku wonders if it’s some old toy, the batteries not entirely run out. His bike is all but forgotten in the wake of this new mystery. He doesn’t stop until he finds it, expecting some keyboard with a drum setting, or something like that. What he finds is an old, wooden box. He yanks it out of the stack of debris, brushing dirt off the top until the finely carved top is visible.
“Jumanji,” he whispers, running a dirty fingertip over the J. The drum beat quickens, as if reacting to its own name, and Izuku is utterly enchanted with the mystery the box provides. He slides the top off the box, finding a board game, and little game pieces carved from ivory—an elephant, a monkey, a rhinoceros, and a crocodile.
“A game for those who seek to find a way to leave their world behind,” Izuku reads, and finds those words so incredibly poignant that his heart clenches, and new moisture wells in the corners of his eyes. Izuku would do anything to go somewhere else—somewhere Kacchan will be his friend again, like when they used to play heroes in the creek behind his house, and they built a secret base underneath an old oak tree. Izuku hasn’t been there in years.
He replaced the top on the box, rubbing the tears off his face, and shoving the game as carefully as he can into his backpack. Maybe he can still salvage this Friday, this friendship. Maybe all they need to be friends again is a new game.
Izuku abandons his bike in the grass, running up to the ornate porch at the front of the manor. He rings the bell, and it chimes faintly on the inside of the house. Before the tune peters out, his mother answers the door in her crisp black uniform, and a white apron.
“Honey, why are you covered in dirt?” His mother’s eyebrows knit in disapproval. He’d been so consumed with the idea of the game, that he’d completely forgotten the fact that he’d found it tromping through the garbage. He looks at his tennis shoes, and finds them caked in grime, a mix of mud, sand, and other unmentionable debris.
“Oh,” he says, because nothing he says would be an apt enough excuse for his appearance. Mom sighs, but her smile is fond.
“Leave your shoes and jacket on the porch. I’d rather not mop the entryway again.”
Izuku nods, shrugging out of his jacket and placing it on the porch swing. His shoes come off next, and Izuku notices the faint smell of rotten food when he kicks them under the swing. He picks up his backpack, and the drum beat persists. He peeks up at his mother, and finds it odd that she hasn’t once commented on the beating box.
“Is Kacchan here yet?”
“He just got home. I think he’s in the attic.”
“Perfect. Thanks, Mom.”
He races up the wraparound staircase, all the way to the top of the house, the drumbeat in line with his heart. The attic isn’t really an attic anymore. Kacchan’s parents converted it into something of a second room, a secret base just for him. The low-ceilinged room has a couch beneath a row of windows, and bookshelves full of comic books, DVD cases, and video game cartridges. Izuku clutches his backpack to his chest, doing his best to temper his hope. He knocks lightly on the wall, stopping just before the top of the stairs.
“Kacchan? Can I come up?”
There’s a long silence, and Izuku imagines Kacchan weighing the pros and cons of allowing him passage.
“Whatever,” he grits out, and it’s about as enthusiastic as Kacchan gets, so Izuku takes it as a win.
He walks the last few steps up to the attic, pulling the game out of his backpack. Kacchan is reading a comic book, his nose buried in the over-saturated cover in an attempt to artfully ignore Izuku’s entire existence. He seats himself on the floor, eyes on the red rug, and waits. Eventually, Kacchan cracks.
“Did you get your bike back?”
“Yes,” Izuku says, pouting again, making patterns in the rug. “I found something else, too. A game.”
As if on cue, the drum beat starts up again, and Kacchan finally looks up from his book.
“The hell is that?”
“It’s the game. It’s called Jumanji. Have you ever heard of it?” Izuku hopes Kacchan doesn’t lose interest. He really wants to play the game, and as much as he loves his mother, playing games with her just isn’t the same.
“No. Sounds stupid.”
“Oh,” Izuku says, the last of the wind going out of his sails. It was worth a try. The drums ratchet up, going faster, getting harder to ignore in the awkward silence, and then his mother calls up to him, and the drums stop so suddenly it actually makes him nervous.
“‘Zuku? Are you ready?”
No, he thinks, but it’s not like he’s welcome here. Izuku sighs, and gathers his things back into his backpack. The drums start up again, beating a slow, steady rhythm. Kacchan stares at the box, eyes narrowed, like the sound personally offends him. He grunts, and Izuku waits with bated breath.
“You can spend the night. I’ll play the stupid game.”
Izuku is so ridiculously happy when his mom kisses him goodnight, and leaves him on the porch as she heads back home.