Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

December

Deku wanted to be with everyone.

He chatted with the losers of Class A, joked with Nabu island citizens, smiled and laughed with the damn pros, and visited the brats like they were his siblings. The nerd was out the door before Bakugou could wake and out of reach long past the time the blond went to bed. There always seemed to be something else to do, something else to draw the green-haired teen away, something that made Bakugou yearn for the color green.

The nerd’s packed schedule made it difficult to notice things going wrong. Bakugou doubted anyone but himself noticed two glaring issues:

1. The nerd didn’t use his quirk.
2. He was avoiding Bakugou.

Of course, the two things are heavily connected. There is reason to hate, to hurt, and avoid – which is far more than the damage Bakugou created during their childhood.

Deku didn’t look his way when they cleaned the agency living room, didn’t glance when Bakugou suited up to aid the brats in some stupid need, and even went so far as to even leave the fucking room when Bakugou approached.

Despite Shitty Hair and the usual posse practically hanging off his shoulders, Bakugou has never felt so alone.

“Young Midoriya,” All Might said on the ferry when the island inhabitants were nothing more than dots on the shore. “We need to prepare young Bakugou for his future as your successor.”

At the former number one hero’s words, everything about Deku pinched with an expression Bakugou couldn’t read in its entirety. He saw hurt and betrayal, and underneath it all, a layer of resignation.

As if Bakugou was going to win it all – was always going to win it all.

Hadn’t Bakugou sworn to be number one and win, no matter the cost?

The blond didn’t think that expression would be such a hefty price to pay. Bakugou sure as hell didn’t think he would ever befriend the nerd enough to be trusted with an inheritable quirk.

“Kacchan is your successor, All Might,” Deku said, eyes averted from the towering blond. “I was never a fully-fledged pro. I couldn’t even come close to you. I’m not – I’m not anything, so please, until we step onto the mainland, will you let me live my dream for a little longer?”

The nerd didn’t wait for an answer, not that Bakugou would deny Deku a final request. If the explosive hero lost the very thing that held up the foundation to his life goals and aspirations, he’d hold onto the dream for as long as he could, trying to fit every goal to a new and hastily built structure.

“I’m going to be a support course student once winter break is over,” Deku tells Bakugou after night training in gym Gamma. The explosive teen stares at the green eyes and freckles, finally looking his way once more. He stares and stares because the words can’t ever add up, no matter how many times he repeats them in his head. Support Course? After everything Bakugou had seen on the island? Deku was more hero than any pro Bakugou has ever known, not that he’d admit it.

“All Might and Nedzu came up with a cover story; I lost my quirk in the battle. But Nedzu saw my notebooks, you know the ones,” Deku smiled like those damn notebooks were something fond between the both of them. Bakugou is not fond. Bakugou would rather fight that damn Nine villain a dozen times over for Deku to stay. “I’ll be in training to be a support strategist, which means I’ll still sit in on your hero exercises. I hear there’s going to be a huge training with Class A versus Class B when we get back. Wish I could participate.”

Something in Deku’s eyes dulls, despite the broad smile on his face. Bakugou may have wanted this look a long time ago, back when he harassed the nerd into realistic dreams, but he doesn’t want it now. He never realized how chilling it would be to see Deku without hope or inspiration. Bakugou feels something inside of himself crumbling at the sight. He wants to grab the nerd and hold on for dear life as if he could keep both their dreams afloat.

But Bakugou holds back, confused by what the desire could mean.

“I’m spending Christmas at home with my mother,” Deku announces to the Class A losers with a broad smile. “I’m a little homesick, so I’m sorry I’ll be missing the festivities. I’ll only be gone a few days; maybe we can celebrate something when I get back.”

Bakugou wakes in the early morning pre-dawn when the sky is at its darkest. It’s the blond’s favorite time to train, running around the U.A. campus, while the nerd did leg exercises near the dorm. But this morning is different. He senses it when changing. The blond knows there’s something terribly wrong when he trips over a box of collectible All Might figurines into the hall.

The fuck? These are Deku’s.

Bakugou kicks the box inside his dorm before making his way to the lower floors to pound at the nerd’s door. The idiot is unresponsive to his pounding fist, which can only mean Deku is already gone.

Gone where?

Bakugou runs, indoor shoes slapping on pavement, hands clawing in preparation to explode into the sky for a better vantage point to look for dark green in the darker night.

Something wild is raging in his chest and clawing up his throat. Bakugou’s mind is alert, frantically searching for the cure to the wildness within him, unclear if answers even exist. Some part of him knows – what part? Is it body? Mind? Soul? – that the answer lies in Deku.

Would the sight be enough? Would it be an assurance that the nerd doesn’t answer the goading of the ghost Bakugou used to be? If the blond were the type to pray, he’d beg the rooftops to hold Deku safe.

And then, with the gray promise of daylight, Bakugou sees Deku at the school gate with a suitcase and his shitty yellow backpack in hand, looking like the biggest reject. The blond doesn’t need glasses to guess what the luggage has inside. Every shitty piece of clothing, every bedspread, every ridiculous notebook, and dumbass promise is packed inside.

If the nerd leaves through that gate, Bakugou is going to lose.

Lose what, he doesn’t know, only that he needs to stop Deku from taking another step forward.

“Oi, what are you doing trying to disappear in the dead of night?” Bakugou demands, skidding to a stop in front of the nerd and jerking the suitcase out of his hand.

Deku startles, standing a little straighter to look Bakugou in the eye. “Home,” The nerd says, cocking his head to the side, brows furrowing. The blond can see bright tears in darkness.

Deku is not going home. He may be going to that shitty apartment with his mother, but that sure as hell isn’t home.

 “For a little while, at least. And then,” The nerd shrugs, “who knows.”

“How the hell am I going to keep pushing forward without you here to follow me?” Bakugou snaps, knowing he wants to say different words with feelings he has yet to sort. But he’s past the point of sorting, not when Deku is standing on this threshold between the world of heroes and the world of extras.

“You’re going to be number one all on your own. You never needed me, Kacchan,” Deku beams, form shaking with unshed tears.

Like hell Bakugou doesn’t.

Then, instead of words and thoughts and whatever the hell else there is, Bakugou surges to kiss the nerd. It’s terrible and rough, more of a smashing of mouths than anything else. His calloused hand reaches up, palm cupping the nerd’s jaw, thumb resting just before the ear, and fingers tangled in curls.

Bakugou hears the luggage drop, feels Deku fall into him with strong hands gripping the back of his shirt. He feels the nerd kiss back and tastes tears as they finally break free.

This, Bakugou thinks as he breaks for the briefest breath before diving in for a gentler kiss, is home.

By the way Deku kisses back, the nerd must think so too.

06: 32
Good Morning Kacchan! We can talk more about what happened yesterday when I call tomorrow. Mom’s been so excited that I’m home; I’ve barely had time to say anything.

14:08
Telling Mom about what happened – per Nedzu. I’m also going to tell her about us.

16:43
Mom’s playing songs by this old American singer. It’s sort of soothing.

17:04
There’s this one song she keeps repeating. All I can understand is Orpheus.

17:07
Weird myth I’ll tell you about it when I get back.

17:09
Found the lyric translation. You’d hate it.

20:32
Night Kacchan!

22:51
Amidst the Chaos

22:51
Sorry

22:51
Shared location

Bakugou stares up at the burning apartment complex in full hero costume, held back by Aizawa. He struggles against the iron grip, hears the police announce codes that means Bakugou is unsuited for rescue. An explosion quirk in a fire is ill-advised, but like hell is he going to let that stop him.

“He’s up there!” Bakugou yells, glaring up at the fire that’s quickly dying from the torrent of water flooding broken windows. “I’m not leaving him behind!”

“Bakugou!” The hobo holds fast. “I need you to focus! You’ll do Midoriya no good like this!”

The hero doesn’t understand. No one can. Not the police or firefighters, or fucking All Might. That’s Deku up there burning. There’s a nerd up there with so much hope, and Bakugou is letting him down.

The mere thought of Deku burning pushes the blond underwater. Every moment of not knowing is another gallon of water down his throat. He can’t come up for air.

10-67.

The explosive hero whirls at the code repeated into a radio.

“Bakugou,” The hobo warns.

All the blond can do is stare. 10-67 is the report of death. Who?

10-57. A new code, missing person. Who?

The radio repeats the code again with a name: 10-57, Midoriya Izuku.

Deku isn’t anywhere.

January

February

March

April 2nd

It’s the last mission before the new semester, and Bakugou is ready to tear apart the city for a trace of Deku somewhere, anywhere. A few weeks after Deku’s disappearance, heroes and police alike were able to associate the controlled fire to someone with a quirk like Scar Face from the League of Villains or Endeavor. It was shitty Half and Half’s old man who identified the burning pattern, claiming it a similar style to his own. Like that isn’t suspicious as fuck. Why would a villain have the same blazing style as Endeavor? Did Scar Face copy the style from watching Endeavor like Deku copied Bakugou? Or did the pro hero unknowingly teach the villain? Suspicious.

But at least it’s a lead.

U.A.’s been chasing the League throughout winter, in and out of work studies, entrance exams for new first years, and prepping graduation for the third years. All Might’s taken a leave of absence from the school, working with the hero commission and police for any clues to Deku’s whereabouts with little success.

The nerd could be dead in a ditch somewhere, and no one would ever know. Deku doesn’t even have a quirk to defend himself anymore. Bakugou feels One for All thrum angrily beneath his skin, reminding him that Deku never needed a quirk to be a hero.

“Listen up,” Aizawa announces from beside Endeavor and Present Mic, “We know, under good authority, that the League of Villains is in the process of securing a partnership with another villain group. It’s a partnership that’s been slowed by something on the League’s end, but they’ve redoubled their efforts in the past couple of weeks. Our source doesn’t have irrefutable proof, but they claim there is a new member among the League with Nomu qualities, more enhanced than Kurogiri. If this figure comes onto the field, students must retreat at the first call. Nomu’s are powerful on their own; intelligent ones like Kurogiri pose even greater risks. Do you understand?”

A chorus of agreements echoes through the crowd. Bakugou makes no promise. If this new nomu is smart enough to speak, then Bakugou can beat the shit out of it until it confesses where the League took Deku.

An explosion in the distance turns every hero gaze to the small city below, a pair of red wings high in the sky.

“That’s our cue,” Endeavor says, hands clenching into fists, “Let’s go.”

Bakugou nearly has that shitty hand villain in his grasp when a figure from the sky tackles him, sending the blond tumbling down the side of a building, staring at his own reflection in an iridescent metal visor that covers most of his attacker’s face.

“You fucker!” Bakugou roars, reaching forward, hand covering the villain’s face, and sets off an explosion. The villain rips away from him, leaving Bakugou in a plummet. He throws his arms behind himself, setting off a series of explosions to slow his descent, eyes firm on the villain above him before landing hard on the roof of a car.

His body shivers, something inside him calling out for a response. It’s fucking One for All, cooing at his attacker. What the hell?

The villain hovers mid-air, flapping wings near identical to Hawks, if not for the forest green feathers. They wear a black and green outfit, every piece of metal iridescent from gray to purple to green. The metal chest plate is woven; a loose green haori hides most of their build, while a dark hood hides most of their head. Bakugou notes the seven bands wrapping around their forearm, each with a different design but too far to distinguish features.

This is the nomu, Bakugou thinks, staring at the green wings. Wing quirk mutations are far and few between; they are cumbersome mutations that occasionally get worse treatments than the quirkless. It wasn’t until Hawks came on the scene did the mutation become widely accepted. Any winged mutation after Hawks’ debut would be aiming for the hero track; any before would most likely be dead or too beaten down to pursue anything past a boring as fuck life.

So what or who is this creature in front of him?

The villain dives, Bakugou leaps from the car. The vehicle nearly explodes on impact, but Bakugou is already moving in, throwing a volley of explosions as the villain regains their footing.

Bakugou hears a call for the class to retreat. He hears a demand from the hobo to disengage, but Bakugou made no promises to the teacher, and he sure as hell isn’t going to stop when One for All is reaching out for the nomu.

He grapples with the villain, making mental notes with every kick, dodge, and punch. He catalogues every possible quirk: The nomu has mutated wings (duh); they have a healing quirk based on how quickly open wounds stitch themselves back together, superstrength because Bakugou knows broken ribs when he feels them, and something strange with fire. The nomu seems to suck out the flame and intensity of every explosion Bakugou sends its way. Either a quirk negating power or a fire quirk, Bakugou isn’t too sure.

The villain stops Bakugou mid explosion, slamming him into a pile of broken rubble. Bakugou cries out, gritting his teeth as his body spasms, limbs incapable of listening to his brain. What the hell, what the hell?

Standing above him, the nomu halts in their movements, tilting their head to the side as if considering Bakugou. Their lips twitch from neutral into a frown, the only readable feature on their body. Slowly, the nomu bends over, one hand resting on their knee, the other outstretched towards Bakugou.

“What the fuck?” Bakugou snarls, but the nomu doesn’t flinch, doesn’t do anything other than patiently wait for Bakugou to take its hand.

Finally, one of the blond’s limbs respond, and he throws an arm forward, blasting the nomu in the face once again. The face shield cracks as the villain takes a couple stumbling steps back as half of it shatters and falls.

Bakugou forgets how to breathe, or maybe his broken ribs have finally punctured his lung.

Freckles.

Forest green eyes.

Eyes that hold no recognition, dull and uncaring – a way Bakugou must have looked in middle school when sparing a glance at the nerd.

“Deku,” Bakugou rasps, but the nerd – no, nomu – doesn’t so much as twitch to the name.

“Oh, whoops!” Knife Buns comes skipping into view, half of her face covered in blood, her school uniform utterly wrecked. “You weren’t supposed to see that! Time to go!” She tugs at Deku’s arm. When the nerd doesn’t move, Knife Buns turns her gaze to Bakugou, a feral grin taking up her face. “Guess it’s time for a little nap!”

She skips up to Bakugou, and the last thing he remembers is her nasty ass shoe connecting with his face.

Chapter Text

Tengu Aomori is not his name; he’s sure of it.

But there’s nothing to he’s ever experienced to say otherwise. That is until that strange blond hero with grenades on his arms called him useless. Of course, Aomori is anything but useless; he has multiple quirks to prove it.

Twice offers Aomori a new helmet, which he takes with quiet thanks. His life before the League is piecemeal, mostly a blanket of fog. Any glimpses he has of his face is a reminder of that blankness. He prefers not to look at his features on the off chance the sight will cripple him with memories he doesn’t quite understand.

Shigaraki complains about the heroes getting in the way, often glaring at Aomori for some reason, probably pointing fingers at the new guy. As Aomori listens to the rest of the League plan their next move, he can’t help but wonder if he’s missing something important. Maybe it is something about those heroes who were eager to maim his companions.For now, he’ll continue as usual and work on getting that liberation army under the League’s thumb.

Aomori sees the blond again a couple weeks later. It’s from afar, the explosive hero chasing down petty criminals who sell illegal equipment. Equipment Aomori is charged with acquiring, regardless of money changing hands. Shigaraki has been losing patience with him lately whenever U.A. is mentioned. He destroyed a few of Aomori’s feathers and three visors, which Twice keeps yelling and crying about because they’re running low on materials.

He sucks in a breath, counting to ten as he waits for more heroes to back up the blond. Nothing. Hopefully, they’ll be too preoccupied with the criminals to notice Aomori.

Aomori sticks to the shadows, partially hidden by a dumpster in an alleyway as the explosive teen starts cuffing the criminals, ignoring the discarded duffle bag out in the open. Then, he activates one of his many quirks. It’s a telekinesis quirk he likes to call Attraction. At first, Aomori thought it could only attract small objects – for some odd and bizarre reason – but that was quickly proven wrong when he used it to throw an armored vehicle in a recent battle.

Holding one hand out, Aomori curls two fingers in a come here motion. The duffle starts to move, slow and halting at first. It picks up speed the more it moves, gradually sliding Aomori’s way at the gentle pace of an escalator.

Except that pace is too fast because the explosive hero turns and leaps at the bag. Aomori hurls a green feather from his wing, catching the blond in the shoulder. Stalling just enough to burst out of the alley, grab the duffle and flee.

As he flies away, Aomori thinks he hears the blond calling out a name.

The blond’s name is Bakugou Katsuki, Aomori learns, staring at the small television screen streaming the U.A. sports festival. He’s been ordered to analyze every student he can, especially those who align with the hero course. It’s an odd order, especially when he doesn’t have an analysis quirk. Or, at least, Aomori doesn’t think he has an analysis quirk.

His left forearm has seven bands of tattoos, each band illustrated with icons and illustrations that hint at one of his quirks. Seven bands, seven tattoos. Toga is proud to claim she’s done every single one, though Aomori doesn’t know when she could have done it. He’s had them since he woke up to the League finding him.

No band illustrates something close to analyzing or observing, though the Intention band gets pretty close. Toga hints at an eighth quirk, purposely uninked for the danger it possesses. Surely analysis isn’t that dangerous.

But Aomori follows the rules as much as possible, so he sits and watches, notebook in hand, making notes on every student he sees. He briefly writes Bakugou Katsudon, frowns at the blatant misspelling, and rewrites Katsuki. Aomori mentally notes that Bakugou Katsuki is pretty and has a laughable inkling the blond might explode if he uttered the words aloud. He does write that Bakugou Katsuki’s anger is a defense mechanism and that his biggest weaknesses are his allies.

“Look that them,” Shigaraki hisses, scratching at his throat at heroes fight nomu’s along the coast. Aomori wonders if he should be there too. He knows nomu’s are lab-created, but they’re the only other beings like him with multiple quirks. What if he’s a nomu too? But nomu’s are mindless creatures, and Aomori can still think for himself.

It’s dizzying to think about.

“Look at them fighting a lost cause.” Shigaraki rasps. “Like what they believe matters.”

Shigaraki’s words give Aomori pause. What’s wrong with believing? He has an inkling he once believed in impossible dreams. Maybe he still does because his heart lurches every time he sees a hero like Aomori wants to be rescued. Or like he’s one of them.

But it’s the League who accepted him, took him in when the world left him to die. Aomori has no one else.

And yet…

“What’s wrong with believing?” He asks as a hero’s arm is crushed under a nomu’s grip.

“You simpleton. You save point reject,” Shigaraki snarls, scratching vigorously. “Belief is a myth your mother told you to sleep at night. Belief is undeserved trust. Belief is a disappointment in the making.”

That night, Aomori decides on a little act of defiance. He hums a song, the only thing in his mind when he woke as an almost blank slate. He chooses, dismissing Shigaraki’s words, to believe in the lyrics because he knows someone is trying to find him. And he hopes they find him soon.

It’s decided.

Aomori hates the hero with a tape quirk. It’s mildly gross – what part of his body produces that tape? Is it basically vomit? – and it sticks to his wings as if attempting to pluck every single feather. Doesn’t this hero know he needs these feathers to fly?

Or maybe he does know, and that’s a point.

He hates the tape quirk hero.

On the other hand, Aomori has a soft spot for the heroine in pink and black and white. She’s very fierce, no-nonsense, and has cheeks he’s very tempted to pinch if her fingers weren’t such a hazard. He likes his current relationship with gravity and doesn’t need a new one, thank you very much.

It’s the heroine whose only weapon is a book that surprises him the most. He watched her during the sports festival, but the cameras always cut to other students before he could see her use her quirk. Based on her fighting style, he’d assume she’s quirkless. Except, no, she creates.

If only she could create a solution to get the vomit tape off his wings.

Instead, she makes a white material that looks like bandages. Aomori squints at it, dodging another piece of flying tape. Eraserhead’s capture scarf.

Well, that’s his cue to leave.

Maybe Dabi can burn the tape off, Toga and Spinner could cut it. Twice might actually have a solution with his surprising knowledge of fabrics and glues.

In his distraction, Aomori misses when a scarf latches onto his ankle and drags him down. He yells, unsheathing a knife to cut through the fabric, only for another scarf to latch onto his cutting arm while two more grab hold.

Soon, there’s enough capture scarf to mummify him, and he’s glaring up at the handful of student heroes standing above him. Not that they can see with the reflective visor, but it’s the thought that counts.

“We’re bringing you home,” The anti-gravity heroine soothes.

Aomori doesn’t know enough about himself to guess if that’s a lie. His intention quirk registers the words as truth, but he reserves his doubts. Plenty of people do bad things with good intentions; he’s not sure where this heroine lies on that line.

They take his weapons, his clothes, and visor – which makes him squint at too bright lights. An old lady, the size of a stuffed animal, hobbles to check him over. She takes extra care examining his arms, head, and back, leaving a kiss on his forehead that makes him surprisingly tired. She, at least, looks tired too, and Aomori wonders if that’s a win.

A scarecrow of a man visits briefly in the moments Aomori is between waking. Sometimes there’s a bear-rat-hamster-thing by his side, sometimes it’s a man in a muzzle.

Once, Eraserhead visits, taping worksheets to Aomori’s glass prison wall and sliding in a dry erase marker for Aomori to ‘write’ on the sheets.

He does – if only to pass the time.

They're looking for someone. Some sort of useless moss or tree, offering it to Aomori like it's his only choice.

No matter how many visitors offer the name, it filters in one ear and out the other. There’s almost no purchase in his mind for the word – because it is more word than name – except for the grim knowledge that Midoriya is similar to Aomori. A forest versus the green woods. The connection makes him shiver.

Bakugou Katsuki is there one morning when Aomori wakes. He stands at the glass, glaring, with arms crossed and stance strong. He wears a gray uniform with green pants that hang way too low and a white shirt that looks carelessly put together.

Cute, Aomori thinks, sitting up from his cot. The blond’s lips tick towards a frown; how utterly kissable.

“Come back to me, nerd,” The teen says, his voice soft and tinny from the speakers overhead.

Some part of Aomori leans back on his defiance with Shigaraki, letting the song he believes take hold as he impulsively says, “You’ve got to find me first.”

Chapter Text

“You’ve got to find me first.”

Bakugou is the first one to get words out of him, and he knows the Deku he cares for; the Deku he kissed isn’t in the person in prison.

Sure, it’s disturbing to see Deku in a U.A. gym uniform and look like he’s being held against his will. He is held captive, but U.A. has always been his dream. The nerd should be excited to wear the uniform. Instead, he looks like it burns him.

Despite the fire several months ago, it looks like Deku has no visible signs of burn injuries. What new marks he does have are a series of black bands along his left forearm with intricate illustrations inside. They’re a code to Deku’s life away, but drawings can only tell so much.  

The nerd looks hollowed out, from his distant stare to the controlled smile and the prominent cheekbones. He looks like a stranger, but that can’t be helped when Deku has wings the color of his hair, miraculously sprouting from his back.

Hawks, Bakugou thinks. These wings aren’t just a usual winged mutation quirk. The exact size and shape is identical to the pro.

What the hell happened to the nerd while he was missing?

“He doesn’t recognize us,” Pink Cheeks bemoans in the common room. “He didn’t even want to come with us.”

“At least he still likes you,” Flat Face grumbles. “The moment he saw me, they had to sedate him; he was so angry. It’s hard to imagine Midoriya that way.”

“What do you think happened to him?” Invisible Chick asks quietly.

“If we want to help Midoriya,” Glasses steps into the center of the common room, surprisingly gentle in contrast to his short and orderly words, “I suppose that’s something we’ll have to find out.”

The nerd sent three messages before he disappeared. Three messages when shit went down and Bakugou was startled from sleep. They’re still the three most recent messages from the nerd. Bakugou found Deku’s phone in the wreckage of the apartment, cracked and half-melted.

A shared location, an apology, and three words that meant nothing.

The shared location isn’t new. Everyone in Class A got it when Deku disappeared. It’s his classic call for help, a repeat of his stunt in Hosu.

The apology is more of the same. The nerd apologizes for everything, though Bakugou is sure it’s more about not coming back and hashing out exactly what they wanted out of a relationship.

The three words, Bakugou thinks, were an accidental text. The nerd was probably trying to text for help and accidentally copy and pasted something he searched earlier. So Bakugou searched too and found an American singer with a song called Orpheus under that three-word album name. It’s not a code for anything. Just a bit of standard Deku mumbling before he disappeared off the face of the earth.

Then, months later, he reappeared as an ally of the League of Villains with new quirks and wings.

Somehow, Bakugou knows, this is all his fault.

After Bakugou’s success at getting Deku to talk, All Might and the principal give the all-clear for the Class A losers to visit one at a time. The nerd brightens at Pink Cheeks but says nothing, asks a million and five questions to Ponytail about her quirk that she leaves before answering a single question, and throws his bed frame at Flat Face, which bounces off harmlessly with the transparent separating prison wall.

He offers nothing to most of the class, just a nod – if that. Deku smirks at Half and Half and compliments his scar.

This changes at the sight of Shitty Hair. The nerd actually holds a conversation, and Shitty Hair is all too happy to oblige. They talk about the weather, the workout routines, followed by music. Deku admits he doesn’t know much about music, other than his first memory held a song, so Shitty Hair pulls out his phone, and the two sit facing each other as the redhead plays music for nearly an hour.

Bakugou sits in on Hound Dog’s sessions with Deku. Sort of. He watches from the feed when it happens, and the daily sessions are typically largely uneventful. It usually ends with the muzzled hero asking a bunch of questions that go nowhere and Deku sketching Hound Dog’s face on the transparent glass.

“What would you like to be called?” Hound Dog asks, and Deku stops mid-stroke of creating the hero’s muzzle.

Maybe time with Shitty Hair has loosened the nerd’s lips because he actually replies. “What does it matter? You all think I’m this Midoriya kid. Which, kind of on the nose name, isn’t it? Green hair? Forest? Could it be any more obvious?”

“Be that as it may, that’s not the person you are now, and I’d like to respect that.” Hound Dog rumbles.

Deku frowns, pockets the marker, and paces his jail cell twice. He touches his temple as if considering his next words.

“I’m told it’s Tengu Aomori.” Blue-green woods, how the fuck is that any different than Midoriya?

“Well, Tengu-san – ”

“Don’t like that. Call me Aomori.”

“Aomori-san, thank you for sharing your name with me. I’m sure our conversations will go much smoother in the future now that I know.”

Deku snorts, crossing his arms firmly over his chest. Bakugou can’t see the nerd’s eyes, but he can guess they are just as hard and unwavering as his stance. “Don’t count on it.”

“We’ll get more out of him if we spar,” Bakugou tells All Might and the hobo.

“You can’t guarantee that,” The erasure hero states flatly. “We’ve recorded at four of his quirks and correlated them to the tattoos on his arm. He’s a nomu. How he was able to maintain his body and appears to have a sense of will, I don’t know. But that’s a nomu in there, and there’s a high probability we won’t get Midoriya back.”

“I don’t accept that.” Bakugou glares.

“It’s not for you to accept,” The hobo glares back. “It’s a fact. Facts don’t change through belief systems.”

“But they start that way.”

The hobo sighs, pinching his nose. “That’s an absurd way to describe the scientific method, but fine. I choose who spars, and I’m there the entire time.”

Deku looks sour being led into Gym Gamma by the hobo. All Might covers one blue eye with his hand, and Bakugou thinks there may be a tell-tale sign of a bruise on the former number one’s face.

“I’m not your fodder for training your so-called heroes,” Deku glares at Bakugou, Half and Half and Frog Face.

“Midoriya,” Half and Half calls, and Deku flinches away, the sour look growing stronger. Bakugou has seen this anger directed at villains – at Nine but not his friends – not Bakugou.

Bakugou’s home is right there, but he’s sure as hell not welcome in it.

The spar ends badly. Bakugou wars with One for All the entire time. It refuses to fight against its former holder, which makes the blond hesitate and ultimately lose. Deku is on the verge of escaping when Midnight uses her quirk to knock out the room.

Bakugou keeps a close eye on the surveillance footage for any hint of the Deku he knows.

“What do you remember, Aomori-san? Before the League?” Hound Dog asks in another session. This time, Deku is curled in a corner, wings shielding all but his face. The nerd seems to contemplate the question, probably debating if answering will compromise the villains. The green does that a lot. If he deems the information harmless, he’ll talk a mile a minute, but the second anyone at U.A. gets close to the League, he clams up.

At least Deku’s sense of loyalty never changes.

“Rooftops, followed by a desire to fall,” Deku says quietly, “heat, where it shouldn’t exist. Something cold at my knees and reaching out for something dear and precious. A song covered in the color red.”

It sounds like a puzzle; Bakugou stares at the screen. If that’s all Deku remembers, it’s no wonder his name is such a sore spot. There’s nothing to grasp before his time with the villains.

“Can you recall any words from the song? Does it contain words?”

This seems to give Deku pause. He tilts his head, humming. When the humming stops, the nerd turns his gaze to the camera instead of Hound Dog, as if he knows Bakugou is watching.

“Don’t you turn like Orpheus.”

If Bakugou were the sentimental type – which he isn’t – he would read into it. However, Deku is the sentimental type, so he does it anyway.

The nerd must have held onto the song since he went missing, maybe repeated it like a mantra until the League fucked his brain over. What choice did he have? The nerd had been quirkless in the League’s hold.

The words, you have to find me first, was a call to the song: Find Deku amidst the chaos.

Don’t you turn like Orpheus. The nerd had been right; Bakugou hated the myth. He hated the doubt and weakness of the hero. He hated Orpheus for not believing and trusting he could make it through. The hero turned and lost it all. Orpheus is a notion of staying the course and believing what one does is right, like Deku passing One for All to Bakugou.

A song wrapped in red.

The nerd’s shitty shoes, his awful red belt, always the exact shade of red at Bakugou’s eyes. It had been annoying growing up, but to see Deku without a hint of red on him now is far worse.

Wrapped in red, maybe Deku thought the song was meant for Bakugou, meant for this shitty situation. And fuck, Bakugou is going to do everything he can to find Deku buried in that person.

Chapter Text

All right, he’ll admit it; these U.A. people are kind of sort of fun. Aomori can’t remember if he was ever treated this nicely with the League, but these heroes have a lot more money – so they can afford to be nice. Even if it’s just pretend.

For the most part, he doesn’t acknowledge the people who visit. Aomori likes to listen to them talk because it’s far more interesting than staring at white walls. It’s also more information to piece together fragments of himself instead of the blank stares he receives from the League.

Granted, these heroes might be giving him propaganda, but Aomori prides himself on the ability to detect lies. It’s why he likes Eraserhead, the most honest hero he’s ever met and has a work ethic to die for. It’s why he hates that scarecrow who’s supposedly All Might. That haggard figure would say anything if it meant a specific result.

It’s also why he likes a student with red hair. There’s something so inherently simple and kind about him; Aomori suspects the redhead would cry or confess immediately if asked to lie. The teen said his name as one word, but Aomori has an itch at his sternum that – while true – the redhead answers to multiple names that separate into two words.

“Hi, Sharp Objects,” Aomori stretches his wings.

“Hey, bro! Good to see you again!” The redhead smiles, showing off sharp pointed teeth. Sharp objects indeed. “How’ve you been?”

“Why do you ask me that every time? I’m stuck here. You all know when I eat, sleep, and shower. You know how I am.”

“Dude, you’re my bro. Nothing’s going to change that.” Sharp Objects shakes his head before the smile broadens. “That’s all physical. What’s going on in that big brain of yours, you okay?”

“Eraserhead gives me worksheets,” Aomori shrugs. “I think they’re your class’ school work since the topics range from math to English. He gives me a lot of stuff on quirk law. If this jail cell didn’t numb my brain before, the law stuff does the trick.”

Sharp Objects startles, concern filling his features. So simple and kind. “That’s no good. Maybe I can ask Aizawa-sensei to tone down the law stuff. Don’t think we’re covering it in class, but I’m pretty low in class rankings.” He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You should get extra credit because I tolerate you.”

“Bro,” Sharp Objects tears up. Is he hurt? Is he going to mock offense? “That’s just so nice of you to say. I’m so glad we’re friends.” What the hell? What kind of idiot is Sharp Objects? That was an insult to the rest of his class. “Not even Bakubro says those kinds of things.”

“Maybe he’s not a friend.” Aomori frowns. Bakubro? Bakugou Katsuki. Yeah, he doesn’t look the type to say nice things. But Aomori has a feeling the blond is gentle in other ways. Gestures grand and small, care shown in subtle actions. Fragile kindness that the other side must take care to notice and encourage.

Aomori’s frown deepens. What was that? He holds up a staying hand to Sharp Objects, running a hand through his curls, using the same hand to feel his forehead, slide down his cheek and shift until two fingers press against his mouth.

That kind of knowledge doesn’t come from analyzing someone through a television screen. That kind of knowledge comes from knowing a person far more intimately than Aomori knows anyone.

“Is,” Aomori draws out, dropping his hands, “Is Bakugou Katsuki my,” he hesitates, “my friend?”

Sharp Objects leans forward, his brows going so high they nearly disappear into his hair. “Huh? Yeah. Kind of. No, actually, I don’t know how to answer that, bro.” He laughs, scratching his cheek with one finger.

Aomori flops to the ground, face first, groaning to the floor. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Bakubro, he uh, doesn’t really think anyone is his friend, even though that’s totally not true.” Sharp Objects looks nervous. “He has these tiers of respect with people, and it’s really strange.” He raises a hand high above his head. “Like there’s ‘people he actually respects,’ man what I’d give to be on that tier. He actually calls people by their names. Wonder what you have to do to get there – ”

“He doesn’t sound like a good person,” Aomori grimaces. Hound Dog had the decency to ask for his name.

“And then there are Authority Extras,” Sharp Objects lowers his hand a little. “He has to show some respect to these people because he can’t be a hero otherwise, but they’ve done nothing to be memorable or earn their respect. He treats civilians in need as Authority Extras because he’s too scary for them if he doesn’t.”

“He really just keeps getting worse,” Aomori smirks, sitting up. Sharp Objects laughs as he lowers his hand a bit more.

“Then there’s like peer level. I call it the Loser level. And that’s where most of us sit, including me. He’ll use our real names in dire consequences, but he has nicknames for all of us. The more versions of the nicknames he has for you, the more he likes you ‘cause he’s trying to figure out the best way to describe you.”

“Does he have multiple names for you?” The green teen asks.

“Ah, no. His nickname is about my hair, and that’s pretty spot on. Besides, it’s one of the things I’m proud of. Helps shape who I am and who I choose to become.” Sharp Objects’ smile is blinding.

“Under Losers is extras, which is essentially the rest of the world not worth his time or attention.”

“Wow, so you’re a step above an extra. How does that feel?”

Sharp Objects laughs again. “Great, actually. Do you know what it takes to graduate from extra to Loser?”

Aomori doesn’t know, but he can guess it takes a lot of hard work based on the red head's smile.

“What about family?” He finds himself needling, moving to his feet to walk closer to the transparent wall. “What about the person he likes?”

At this, Sharp Objects grimaces, “Bakubro has a really hard exterior to crack. I don’t know anyone he’d willingly let it down for, and I don’t know anyone willing enough to break through.”

“He likes someone,” Aomori says with utmost certainty. “He does.”

“Look, bro, I’m one of his closest friends. I think I would know if – ”

“Bakugou Katsuki likes someone,” The winged teen slams his fist into the prison wall, causing Sharp Objects to stumble back. “You don’t create those levels without creating one for the people you care about. It doesn’t matter if you hide it well. He likes someone because no one can move with his drive on the reason of becoming a useless hero alone. If you don’t know this, maybe you aren’t really his friend, and you’re a loser after all.”

Aomori has regrets. He didn’t mean to lose his temper at Sharp Objects; something just came over him. He couldn’t be wrong about Bakugou Katsuki liking someone because if he were, then it would mean some pillar of truth inside him would break.

Just like he’s certain Tengu Aomori isn’t the first name he’s had, he knows Bakugou Katsuki likes someone.

It’s stupid and irrational and ridiculous. What does he care for crushes and teenage angst? But it’s important for Aomori to know this fact. Why?

Facts are strange things because they’re only true until they’re disproven. Facts are, oddly enough, things the world chooses to believe in. The simple idea of a fact is that it is a truth that cannot be budged or argued. And yet they are every single day.

The winged teen goes by Aomori – Truth. Fact.

He has no concrete memories before waking up with the League – Truth. Fact.

The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. – Truth. Fact.

Roses are red. Fact.

Forests are blue. True.

Bakugou Katsuki loves you.

Aomori sits up from his bed, startled. He searches the bare room for evidence of who whispered in his mind. He checks his forehead for a temperature. Presses both hands to his cheeks, which emit a scalding heat.

That’s not a fact, is it?

There’s a little girl in the room.

A small thing with big eyes the color of warning signs. Her long silver hair is tied up in a neat ponytail, and a small horn at her hairline. She wears long sleeves and leggings covering all her hands and face. Aomori catches sight of small scars on her fingers, and he suspects they’re not the only markings on her. Who would hurt such a small child?

“Deku!” She cries, running to the glass wall, hands pressing firm. Her red eyes fill with tears, chin trembling in a refusal to sob. “I missed you so much!”

“Using a child,” Aomori tells the camera, “that’s a new low.”

“Deku! Do you remember me? You saved me!” her tiny little hands slap at the glass. Aomori shifts from the bed and slinks to the floor, pressing a single finger against the glass on the opposing side of her hand.

“I’m sorry little one,” Aomori leans their head against the wall, “I don’t know who Deku is. I think Bakugou Katsuki said that name once. You may have to ask him.”

“You!” She sobs. “You’re Deku! You saved me and brought me to U.A.! You gave me a candied apple and gave me a home with papa!”

“Well,” He can’t help but chuckle. “That sure sounds fun. Tell me, what do candied apples taste like?”

The little girl talks and talks. She’s adorable in the way she mimics her memories, distracted with a tangent one moment and hard focused the next. She keeps referencing him as this Deku person, and while it’s easy to alter the memories of someone this age, it’s difficult to alter so many anecdotes from her life. She’s convinced Aomori is this Deku person, and he’s inclined to believe that it’s her truth. Aomori could be Deku, or just a similar look alike. As far as she talks about the hero, Deku doesn’t have wings.

“- and Kacchan braids my hair now. He’s your friend; he misses you a lot. Sometimes my hair looks silly, sometimes it’s very pretty, like a princess!” She practically glows with happiness. Maybe the heroes aren’t all bad if this girl is happy. Aomori sees the fractures in her eyes, sees how her smile falters before picking up again. He’s familiar with these sights through muscle memory. She was hurt as a child, and his past life was exactly like her.

“Papa helps me control my quirk, so it’s not so scary anymore!” She hops up and down in excitement. “He was kind of scary at first, but he’s always nice and protects me and you and all of your friends!”

“Your papa sounds like a good person, little one,”

“Eri.”

“Sorry?” The name roots in his mind. Such a simple set of syllables, a typical combination, and it’s freezing the smile on Aomori’s face.

“My name is Eri, and you’re Deku, and Papa is Eraserhead and Kacchan is the one with angry eyes. And your friends are all upstairs waiting for you!”

Eri. Eri. Eri. Eri. Sweet little Eri. The best girl. Someone he’d fight monsters for just for a smile. Aomori knows the name but can’t dredge up the memory.

He thinks of the color purple, soft and feathery, and the intention to hurt, which shifts into green and purple electricity behind his eyes. Different children come to mind, and Aomori feels short of breath. He presses a hand to his chest, seeing sweet little Eri’s brilliant expression shift to teary fear. There’s a sound like screaming ringing in his ears, but all Aomori’s lips are closed, and all he knows is pain and reaching out for someone to take everything he is for the sake of victory.

Aomori is losing to the purple, losing the green, and unable to breathe. He chokes, letting himself fall over, propping himself up by his elbows as his forehead rests on the cool ground, heaving for air. He pushes past fragments of moments he doesn’t understand, pushes past emotions and sensations compounding on one another. His arms feel shattered, practically noodles, but they’re still supporting him. His legs feel numb, and everything burns. Everything hurts. He’s losing something precious that made him worthwhile. He’s losing what made him belong.

Did he forget in the aftermath of loss?

Was that life even worth holding on to?

Who did he trust enough to take care of whatever he gave away?

Turning his head, Aomori blearily catches sight of red, sweet, and candied.

The color eases purple’s hold on his lungs. He trusts this color and doesn’t know why. Aomori has missed this color since he woke up with the League, free of a name and sense of direction. Red, unlike what most people think, is the color of safety, and he lets himself slip away under the soothing shade.

Chapter Text

The nerd’s remembering.

Whatever happened after learning Eri’s name spurred a panic attack. And in that panic attack are nearly sixteen years of memories bursting through an opening of a sinking ship; who knows what order it’s coming in. And who knows if it’ll result in the Deku of his childhood. The blond wonders if that’s even an option. How wrong would it be to dismiss this Aomori the nerd has become?  

Bakugou sits on the other side of the prison cell scratching through homework. He's been here since Eri was ushered out in tears and the nerd tucked into bed. He's been here long enough to see dinner dropped off, then replaced with breakfast a few minutes ago.

“Can you turn the lights down? They’re killing my eyes.” Deku groans awake from his spot on the bed. Bakugou moves from his place on the floor to the light switch by the wall, dimming it until Deku no longer seems to be in pain. “Thanks.” The nerd mumbles.

Bakugou trudges back to his seat, reviewing math problems. Not that he’d dare to admit it, but Deku has always been a little better at math. Bakugou can calculate trajectories on instinct, but the nerd always had those equations on speed dial.

“Who’s babysitting me now?” Deku asks, slowly sitting up. He looks at his glass wall and the tray of fresh food on a table. The green teen chooses food, quiet as he picks apart his meal. Bakugou writes out three problems in the time it takes for the nerd to finish eating.

“Oh, it’s you again,” Deku’s voice is so honeyed and warm that Bakugou nearly forgets that it’s a stranger before him. He looks up, expecting a smile so huge that it scrunches the nerd’s nose, and instead sees ahead tilted in curiosity and lips pressed thin. He watches the nerd glance down at the textbooks and sheets on the floor, then at the documents taped to his cell.

“Look, new ones. Don’t suppose dear Eraserhead is giving you the same work? Think I can bum a few answers off of you?” The nerd frowns, “No, never mind. I need the challenge, or I’ll go crazy in this space.”

Stop frowning.

In the few days Deku’s been back, the nerd has frowned more times than smiled. The nerd smiles about everything; a memory wipe shouldn’t affect such a reflex. Or is it that every easy smile was consciously forced, and Bakugou never knew Deku at all?

No. Bakugou refuses to believe a decade of whatever they shared could be falsified. Bakugou knew, knows, Deku. A new name and new quirks isn’t going to change that.

“You look like you’re thinking hard. What’s got you stumped on paper?”

When was the nerd ever this smooth and calm? It sets Bakugou’s nerves on edge.

Deku sits at the glass edge of the prison, leaning his forehead against it so the glass panel flattens his curls. “I think I trusted you with something important. Do you know what it is?”

Fuck, it could be a million and one things if Deku has scattered memories. Bakugou can’t mention One for All. There was that All Might figure Deku trusted him to keep, which Bakugou promptly lost as kids. There are all those All Might figurines he left in Bakugou’s care before leaving. The nerd probably trusted Bakugou to be his friend throughout their childhood, and the blond knows how bad he fucked that up. The nerd may have trusted him with his heart, but they never got the chance to talk about how they wanted to be together.

“I take your silence as confirmation.” Deku hums, leaning back on his palms. “Can I trust you now?”

Bakugou meets Deku’s eyes, refusing to look away. He sees the green change from near black to mint. He sees cracks in the dim lighting, fragments of knowing, and an entire galaxy swallowed by a black hole. The nerd is trying for something, and Bakugou won’t turn away, won’t back down.

“I see.”

And, like that, the nerd jabbers whenever Bakugou is in the room.

“All Might is a piece of work, isn’t he?” Deku greets with a bitter laugh one morning.

“Eraserhead is fixated on my arms. You’d think he’d focus on his own since he needs the upper body strength for his scarf,” He says in the afternoon.

“If you bring that tape bastard in here one more time, I will break out and make it my mission to make his life a living hell.” The nerd glares when Bakugou returns from training.

“What the hell did Flat Face ever do to you?” Bakugou grunts, utilizing the time for cool-down stretches.

“Ah! He speaks!” Deku looks positively giddy; a sudden flap of his wings lifts him a foot or so off the ground. “He has vomit elbows. I don’t want his gross – likely acidic –  tape messing with my wings. They take forever to heal.”

Then, when Bakugou arrives while All Might is storming out, he sees Deku curled in a corner with brows furrowed, staring at nothing. Bakugou sits as close as he can, waiting for the nerd to speak.

“Is the League of Villains really all that bad?” Comes a fragile and soft question, minutes before Bakugou needs to leave.

“They kidnapped me and tried to make me join them.” Bakugou scoffs. This seems to perk the nerd’s attention because he unravels a little, turning to face Bakugou with a lit-up expression.

“You’d be great with them!” The teen says, beaming.

“Pass.”

“Why not?” Deku pouts. “They’re family! They look after each other. They’re trying to make right with what hero society failed to do! They protect anyone with a misunderstood quirk! They protect the quirkless!”

“Alright, I’ll bite.” Bakugou leans back on his hands. “I’ve never seen them protect anyone but themselves. Never seen them defend the quirkless. How do you know?”

“Well,” The nerd looks equally defensive and confused as he sits ramrod straight, hands seemingly counting off fingers, while his face scrunches and his pout becomes more defined. It’s almost endearing. “They protected me.”

“You ain’t quirkless. Or have you forgotten the wings on your back, nerd?” Bakugou asks, trying to keep his breathing steady and heart even. Deku remembers being quirkless. How could he not? He spent nearly fifteen years of his life that way.

“I mean,” Deku waves his hands wildly, in a familiar way like he’s about to ramble and explain something clumsily. “Well, I – I can’t – I mean, I know I’m not, but uh. I mean, they had to. But when I was found – well, that doesn’t make sense. I don’t know. I really don’t.”

The nerd looks at his hands, the worksheets on the wall, then Bakugou, and back at his hands. “I had to have met them before when I was quirkless, right? Nothing’s making sense anymore. I don’t know who to trust.”

Bakugou knows if he responds, he’ll sound like a pandering fool. So he stays silent and seated far into first period.

“I think I liked being part of a family. Might even be nice here, drinking whatever nonsense you’re drinking.” Deku sits on one side of his large cell, hands outstretched, using his telekinesis quirk to push and pull his bed from the wall. The way his hands move is reminiscent of the nerd’s mother picking up litter with Deku on the way to the park, school, or grocery store. “Do you have a family?”

“Yeah,” Bakugou gravels out. The old hag is still torn up about Deku and his mother. Bakugou doesn’t want to give her hope when Deku is like this.

“What are they like?” Deku’s expression softens, or maybe that’s the tone of his voice.

“The old hag is a lot like me,” Bakugou settles on the floor, resting his elbows on his knees. “Loud, angry, annoying, always right.” He scoffs. “But she’s different too, nice in a way I don’t know how to be.

“The old man is either a saint, brain damaged, or is in a hostage situation,” Deku smirks at Bakugou’s description. “Nicest pushover you’d ever meet. Booksmart, organized as hell, cries a lot.” Bakugou mulls over the traits, looking at the teen inside the cell. The nerd had a lot of those traits too.

“No brothers or sisters? No one you pushed down who always came back for more?” Deku looks wistful and amused.

“Not a dumbass sibling,” Bakugou admits, leaning back on his hands. “But I had someone. They believed in me when I doubted myself. They didn’t understand what it was like to have power, and I didn’t want them to know. I got it in my head that power would corrupt them like it did me, and I said things I shouldn’t have. At first, I didn’t think anything of it, he always bounced back, but then I remembered that anything could cause a structural failure if it hits in the right place. Then, before I could fully realize that thought, I was attacked, and that idiot rescued me without a quirk or power or sense. And after that, he stopped looking my way.”

The nerd is quiet for some time, brows furrowing as he seems to process the words.

“I,” Deku croaks out. He sighs, running a hand through his curls. Fuck, he needs a haircut; it’s a wild disaster. “Who are you?” The nerd purses his lips, staring at Bakugou. “Because what you’re saying is strange, and I know it didn’t happen in that way for them, and you’re sick in the head thinking the world revolves around you.” His wings flare out before quickly pressing to his back.

The nerd shifts until he’s sitting parallel with the prison wall, pressing his shoulder and head against the glass. “I think,” He grimaces, tilting his head down and making his face unreadable. “I remember you,” Bakugou’s breath hitches in his throat. “Not the way you expect. I don’t really get it either.

“I remember you as pain and fear.” Bakugou flinches, and Deku heaves a breath. “I remember you as the sensation of falling and covering my face. I see you, and I see a warning sign, and I can’t tell if that’s a villain thing or because of who you are to me. Am I anything to you?” The nerd lifts his gaze to scan Bakugou’s face before dropping again.

The winged teen’s hands clench into fists. “I see you, and I remember hope and fortune and looking up and up, expecting you to be high above me. The notion of you makes me feel weightless and somehow also anchored underwater.”

Deku huffs, shifting to his feet and pacing. All Bakugou can do is stare. The nerd doesn’t have memories of the blond, but he has feelings and sensations that sound so complicated and so utterly Deku; it must be how the nerd really feels.

“You’re an addiction, I think.” Deku states angrily, tugging at his curls with both hands. “When you win, I’m the richest person alive. But when you lose,” He snarls, “I am less than the dirt you walk on.

“But you’re red. You’re red, and I think you’re so much a part of me that I know you without actually knowing you.” Deku slams a hand against the wall. “And I’m not even upset about it.”

Bakugou raises a brow, staring at the fist that’s managed to dent the wall. “Well,” Deku tearily laughs. “I’m upset about not understanding. But I see you,” The nerd gestures at Bakugou as if grasping an invisible ball between both his hands. “And I know we hurt each other. That’s all we know how to do. But we’re not enemies; I’ve known that since I saw you on the battlefield.

“And I know,” The nerd’s voice shakes, tears streaming down his face with a trembling smile. “And I know for you to succeed, to reach heights unknown, I have to fall. I must have done it a million times, and I’ll gladly do it again and again.”

“I don’t hate you,” He sniffs, rubbing at his eyes before meeting Bakugou’s gaze. “I should, I totally should, but I don’t. I look at you, and I want more.”

Chapter Text

“Eraserhead,” Aomori says to the empty room as he finishes the last of the worksheets. “I’d like to bargain, you and me. I’ll even offer something up in a gesture of goodwill.”

Eraserhead arrives sometime later, looking disheveled in his hero costume with pink butterfly clips in his hair. That’s right; he’s Eri’s Papa.

“I didn’t interrupt bedtime, did I?” Aomori wraps himself in his wings.

“You said you’d like to bargain,” Eraserhead says instead, dark eyes flat, expression neutral. The winged teen senses good in him. This man won’t sell him out to the hero commission. This man won’t torture him for answers or try to make Aomori believe he’s something he’s not. This man will take Aomori as he is.

“I want to hang out with Bakugou Katsuki. You know the one. Spiky hair, bad attitude, soft on the inside.” The teen paces his cell. “In person, no glass.”

“In exchange for?”

“I can’t give you every League secret, Shigaraki didn’t exactly find me trustworthy, but I’ll offer what I know. I’ll even be on my best behavior to help you find this Midoriya doppelganger you’re all obsessed with.”

“Right,” Eraserhead crosses his arms. “Let me get this straight: I get you freedom, and in exchange, you’ll give me out-of-date League information and might not fight me?”

“Well, it’s not much of a deal when you say it like that.” Aomori shrugs. “Fine, I’m told I’m pretty good at analysis. I can tell you all the weaknesses I spotted in your students this past Sports Festival. I’ll tell you what I know about my quirks, and I won’t run away. If I get Bakugou Katsuki, I won’t run away.”

“You weren’t running before.”

“Didn’t really feel like it until now.” Aomori offers another shrug.

“Why Bakugou? You’re more receptive to other visitors.”

“I want to know why I remember him as strange things.”

“I’ll think about it, but first, I’ll need some evidence that you’ll hold up your end of the bargain.”

“Yeah, the gesture of good will,” Aomori stretches his wings, which touch the cell from end to end. “You’re looking for what these mean,” He holds up his tattooed arm, gesturing at the second band from his wrist. He knows the heroes have deciphered a couple of bands, though many of them still seem up to speculation. “This marks my quirk called Intention. I can look at someone and determine if their intention is good or bad. Liars have bad intentions. Heroes tend to say good things with bad intentions. All Might,” Aomori glares at Aizawa, “Is the worst.”

“And what about me?”

The winged teen folds the wings tightly on his back as he makes his way to his cot.

“Doesn’t matter what I think,” Aomori leans back on his hands. “That Eri girl trusts you. If I were willing to buy into the hero garbage life, I’d do everything I could to protect her. But you’re already doing that.” He hums, running a hand through his hair. “And I sense you’d do everything in your power to protect me too.”

“Do you know why that is?” Eraserhead asks, fingers tapping against his bicep.

“No,” The green teen admits before taking a deep breath to lie, “I couldn’t care less.”

When Bakugou Katsuki is on the other side of the glass, he looks at Aomori like the teen has all the answers to the world. It leaves the green-haired villain feeling helpless and desperate to find what the red eyes hero is looking for. But even then, Bakugou Katsuki looks like Aomori has everything, that he is the answer to a question he doesn’t know.

How does Bakugou Katsuki look at others? How does he look when his eyes aren’t fixated on green?

The fire in the blond’s eyes is captivating. They flicker like embers in a campfire at each opponent. Aomori can’t see the color too well from his distance across the gym – finally free of the freezing and sterile prison – but he senses the red-eyed sharpness, looking towards their next position before Bakugou Katsuki even moves. He recalls the hero’s feral face up close and personal, with a miscommunicated grudge that left Aomori with a broken arm.

The winged teen frowns, looks at Eraserhead, then the battle, and stares at his feet.

When did Aomori have a broken arm? He has scars on them for sure and aches that he stretches out every day, but he can’t recall having an injury so bad he needed bandages and a sling.

Aomori remembers more when Katsuki is around. It’s frightening because with every new memory is a sense of losing what he already is. What if the person he used to be was weak and useless? What if he shied away from everything? What if he couldn’t make it in the world on his own? What if Aomori has to destroy who he is now to be who he used to be?

But that’s why he’s asking for these in-person meetings, isn’t it? The world is confusing, from the League’s strange comradery to the overly affectionate heroes, and Aomori wants some semblance of stability.

With Bakugou Katsuki, Aomori knows a constant. He must fall for the other to thrive, a sacrifice he’s more than willing to make.

Why is that? What makes Bakugou Katsuki so special?

“You get a button,” Aomori tells the blond after training. Eraserhead walked them to a netted training city. If the green teen attempts to fly, he’ll be caught in the net above that hums with electricity. He’s still a prisoner with U.A. This city is just another cage, but at least he can extend his wings to their full width. “You get to shock me to death if I try anything funny.”

“I might as well press it now,” Bakugou Katsuki frowns at the object in hand.

“Still bitter about the sparring match, I see.”

“Why the change?” The blond leads the way, walking through a training city.

“The last time we saw each other, I told you I wanted more. This is me getting more.” Aomori shrugs. “You’re a hard person to read, Bakugou Katsuki.”

He watches the blond stiffen and snarl, the pain on his features worse than the hits he took in training. “Don’t call me that.”

“It’s your name.”

“You don’t call me that.”

“I’m unaware there’s something else to call you.” Aomori might as well twist a knife by how bright and fragile the blond’s eyes become. The teen can’t sense much intention from the explosion hero. Want and regret stick out the most. “Who am I from your past?”

It’s not the first time Aomori has asked the question, but Bakugou Katsuki is the only one he’s asked; the hero is the only person he trusts that won’t be clouded with annoying hope of finding this Midoriya Izuku person. The memory of this person is a mold he can’t fit. Though, he suspects that whatever person Bakugou Katsuki describes will be different somehow. It will still be wrong in so many ways, but Aomori thinks he knows how to read this teen.

“Before you went missing,” The blond drags out the words slowly, “I kissed you. We were going to talk it out when you got back and make sense of everything. I didn’t know what I was doing then, and I don’t know what was going through your mumbling head. Maybe you thought I pitied you or some stupid shit like that. Maybe I wanted you to stay. We had some shit we needed to sort out, starting with the lifetime of bullshit I pushed on you. Don’t know, doesn’t matter anymore since you’re this now. We’re both different after the fire, so who the fuck knows if that shitty talk ever happens.”

He doesn’t describe past Aomori’s personality. It doesn’t tell anything past the potential thought of pity, which is a probable train of thought regardless of memories or not. Does Bakugou Katsuki know how amazing and handsome he is? He’s practically untouchable. If the blond were to kiss him now, he’d think it a pity gift.

“And now that I’m here,” Aomori opens his arms wide, “what do you want?”

“I want you to remember,” Bakugou growls, stomping over and gripping the winged teen by the front of his shirt. “So I don’t have to tell you shit. I want you to yell at me, fight me when you do. I want you to have all the information so we both know you’re not denying shit. I want you to tell me what you want because I’m waiting, and you know I’m about to explode under the pressure. I want – ”

Aomori leans forward, cutting him off with a quick peck on the lips. It’s an entirely foreign sensation, but his body soars at the touch. The green teen is practically gliding through the skyscrapers despite his feet on the ground. He pushes in for more, hands latching on to Bakugou Katsukii’s waist, gasping for air between hungry kisses as his blood sings and skin tingles from the contact.

Bakugou Katsuki’s lips drift to his cheeks, where freckles stand out on pale skin, to his nose and brow. Aomori is at the mercy of his touch as the blond moves his hand to cup the winged teen’s face.

Aomori feels himself cry, eyes burning and hot tears spilling free as Bakugou Katsuki’s lips map his face. His limbs feel weak as the pressure in his chest increases to bursting. He holds on as tight as he can to the blond, especially when his knees feel like giving out.

He gasps when Bakugou Katsuki finds his mouth again, struggling to breathe under affection that doesn’t add up in his empty mind but feels more genuine than most things he knows. “Ka,” Aomori manages between a kiss. “Ka,” He stammers, chasing warmth the next time the blond pulls back for a breath.

“Kacchan.”

The pressure in Aomori’s chest bursts like ice exploding. It freezes every notion of heat beneath his skin while ice shrapnel severs the few strings holding the winged teen together as his knees fold underneath him. He loses grip on Kacchan’s waist and finds the world drifting away.

He hears Kacchan demanding something and distantly feels the hero’s hands catch him from hitting the ground. He sees sharp red eyes near pinpricks in panic before Aomori lets the darkness take him.

“ –  under the influence of several mental quirks, maybe as a way to manage the impossible number he possesses. He’ll break if we press against those quirks. We’ll need to find ways to dismantle them.”

“That makes no sense; that implies the quirks are making him unstable, but he’s perfectly fine. His DNA is untouched; it’s as if someone coated it in quirk DNA, which can be removed at any time. It’s unlike anything I’ve seen. His DNA interacts with the coating, but it’s not rewritten or changed.”

“You’re all being annoyingly loud.” Aomori groans. His head throbs, and his body aches. He feels like he’s broken every bone in his body and wonders why the sensation is familiar.

“How are you feeling?” Hound Dog’s voice drifts over the suddenly quiet room.

How is Aomori feeling? He understands the physical pain but emotionally? Confused, disoriented. There’s a sensation of wanting that’s quickly chased by the grief of loss. He feels like crying and doesn’t know why. He wants to reach out a hand and have someone take it in return.

He squints up at the blinding lights above and buries his face in his pillow.

“I want Kacchan.”

“We’re going to keep you separate for a while. Just until we can figure out what’s going on, Aomori-san.” The grandma nurse eases.

“I want Kacchan,” He feels the hot tears on his pillow before recognizing the ache in his eyes. “Please, please.”

“Aomori-san,” Hound Dog begins.

“Please,” He begs, knowing it’s an obvious weakness. The heroes could use this against him. But Kacchan is the solution. Aomori knows this pain is something he’s familiar with and knows that those red eyes can tame these wild emotions. “Please.”

“Heard you were crying,” Bakugou Katsuki is at Aomori’s side when he wakes again. The sun is setting or rising; time is a strange thing. The world is spinning, even from the green teen’s prone position. His head aches from a mounting pressure, but he’s thankful it doesn’t throb like vague memories coming unbidden. Every inch of Aomori’s skin prickles like millions of invisible splinters beneath his skin – a sensation of a body broken and remade. Why is that feeling familiar?

He stares with bleary eyes, limbs leaden with phantom pains. “Everything hurts,” Aomori rasps, “But you save everyone because Kacchan is always victorious.”

Something in the blond’s face softens, though the red-eyed glare is as fierce as ever. “And you want me to save you, is that it?”

Is that it? He just wants the aching to stop, physically and emotionally. Everything hurts less when Bakugou Katsuki is around. Maybe that’s saving, or maybe that’s the addiction talking and seeing the explosive hero is making things worse.

“I’m not scared when you’re around,” Aomori whispers. “I mean, I am, in different ways, but whatever’s going on, it’s not scary anymore.”

“You’re such a crybaby,” Bakugou Katsuki leans forward in his seat, resting a warm palm against Aomori’s cheek. A calloused thumb brushes away a stray tear as the green teen gasps at the overwhelming burn to too sensitive skin. “Come here; I want to show you something.” He holds out his other hand.

“Can’t,” Aomori looks the blond in the eye. He tries to convey the desire to be in the hero’s arms once more and the inability to find the strength to move from the weighty aches and pains pinning him to the bed. “Everything hurts.”

“I know nothing’s wrong with you; you can move if you want to.”

“It,” The green teen heaves from breath. “I can’t. I want to. It hurts, Kacchan.”

Red eyes scan his face, flickering to the tears and the tremble on his lips before he leans over Aomori’s form and pulls him into his arms. “Don’t say I never did nothing for you.” Aomori leans against Kacchan’s collarbone, eyes drifting shut as the blond carries him from the room.

He opens his eyes blearily when the air around him changes, signaling wind to ruffle his feathers instead of the controlled air of indoors.

“Oh,” Aomori gasps at the sun lowering over the horizon, burning reds bruising into purples and blues. He remembers an island with warm sunsets. He remembers having everything except Kacchan and the sensation of losing it all under the same warm colors.

He watches even as Kacchan settles at the rooftop’s edge, holding Izuku in his lap as the warmth dips lower in favor of a hazy moon lighting up a darkened forest.

“I’m going to find you,” Kacchan gravels out some time later when Aomori wraps his wings around them both for warmth. “I won’t lose you this time or ever again.”

Chapter Text

Bakugou hears Deku’s laughter for the first time in months as it echoes through the sky. It’s happy and full of heart, which he imagines takes up the entire chest. He looks up to a bright blue sky as he walks from the practice city surrounded by the rest of the Class A losers when he sees bright red wings, followed by forest green.

“Hawks!” Emo Bird gasps as the avians dip and dive and spin high above. Bakugou can imagine the nerd happy, smiling toward the wind and sun. The last time he saw something close to that was after their first kiss and before missing. Even the memory of that ridiculous fucking smile felt like basking in the sun's warmth.

Red and green dive once more, aiming for the class, wings identical in all but color. Hawks grabs Emo Bird and Half and Half while Deku manages to fasten an arm around Bakugou’s waist before pulling up, struggling to keep them airborne.

“What the hell?” Bakugou demands as Deku pulls higher and higher over city walls and lands on a solid rooftop.

“Welcome, birdlings!” Hawks grins, flashing a smile as he sets Emo Bird and Half and Half beside Bakugou. “You’ve been chosen because – wait, where’s the small one with the pink hair? No wait, not pink hair, pink clothes.”

“I couldn’t grab her without ruining the dive.” Deku shrugs. Hawks hums, offering a similar gesture in return. Is that a bird thing?

“Guess so. You’ve been catching on to this so fast; I almost forgot you’re still new to flying.” Deku makes a face as if to challenge the words but says nothing. Right. The nerd may be slowly remembering, but as far as he knows, he’s had his wings all his life. “Oh well, she’ll catch up whenever she gets here. And as much as I’d like to wait, I’d rather do the lazing about with some fried chicken instead of standing around reliving teenage hormones.”

Hawks claps his hands together, a smile stretching so wide it’s fake. “So, I’m sure we all know me. After all, who can forget this handsome face?” He points at his dimpled cheeks as if posing for a purikura. “But do we all know Aomori?” The bird hero gestures grandly at Deku. His smile remains plastered, but his golden eyes are narrow and flat with a warning. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what the hero is trying to convey: Do not question Deku’s name.

Half and Half opens his mouth to say something, but Hawks slaps a red feather over the idiot’s mouth. “No? Great! This is Aomori-san. I’m taking time off from a very important mission to see if I can show him how he absolutely wants to be a hero.”

Deku crosses his arms and raises a brow, offering a snort as a reply. “We’ll be testing his quirks, of which he has many, and we’ve learned not to question why or how.” Hawks’ smile falters, and a bright fear flickers across before the smile returns at full force. “I’ve chosen you four – well, three – because I think your quirks can challenge his.”

“How many does he have?” Half and Half narrows his eyes at Deku, red feather fluttering back to Hawks. The nerd proudly holds up seven fingers as if declaring his age.

“And those would be?” Emo Bird leans forward, and Dark Shadow emerges, edging in front of the teen.

The nerd pushes up the sleeve of his left arm to reveal seven black bands tattooed on his forearm. “Healing,” He says, pointing to the band closest to his wrist, “Intention, Superstrength, Telekinesis, but I like to call it Attraction, “ Deku points to the fourth band. Does he know about his mother, who had an attraction quirk? The nerd makes an effort to rename his telekinesis like it’s a casual and necessary distinction. “Of course, there’s Fire,” Like the nerd’s old man? Did the League get ahold of his medical files or something? “Something called Blackout that I haven’t quite figured out yet, and these wings. Super fluffy and terrible to sleep on. But you already knew all of that, didn’t you, Eraserhead?”

Deku turns his gaze to an empty portion of the rooftop. The hobo leaps onto the edge with Pink Cheeks in tow, muttering a release of her quirk.

“Blackout is a new one.” The erasure hero comments like he’d been part of this stupid briefing all along.

“So get to it, four on one!” Hawks grins, clapping once more.  

The hobo takes a step forward, holding out a hand in a pausing gesture. “I would like to remind you that Aomori went three on one last week and won. Proceed with caution.”

“Whoever said proceed with caution has never met the phrase: safety third,” Deku smirks.

“What’s first and second, if not safety?” Emo Bird’s shadow asks.

“Hope comes first, a hazard to existence,” The nerd shrugs, “followed by failure, and then safety.” He walks to the roof edge. “We hope our cruelest words are never taken to heart,” Green eyes flicker towards Bakugou. The blond has a memory from middle school, excessively cruel that could have led to a life without this moment – without Deku. “We fail,” The nerd bites out the word, “because we can never know the extent of our impact on others, and we proceed with caution to be better.”

“Wow, deep,” Hawks says dismissively, “But enough about philosophical number systems, fight!” He pumps a fist into the air as Deku walks to the rooftop's edge, turning until his heels hit the concrete ledge.

“Fight?” Pink Cheeks looks unsure, unaware of Hawks’ mission and mimicking the pumped fist at half speed.

“Yeah. Catch me if you can,” Deku smiles before leaning back and falling off the window’s ledge.

“Ooh, going for the shock value. If I were a teacher, I’d give him points for flair.” Hawks grins.

“Which is exactly why you’re not a teacher.” The hobo replies blandly as Emo Bird and Half and Half race to the edge.

Bakugou doesn’t think. He launches himself from the rooftop chasing the nerd’s laughter.

It’s a hard battle, difficult now that Deku has free reign of the sky. Bakugou finds himself hopping rooftop to rooftop, dependent on Emo Bird’s flight to force the nerd down. IcyHot makes countless blocks of ice that Round Face keeps sending up and up, utilizing them as stepping stones and projectiles when they’re no longer useful.

The most difficult thing about Deku, Bakugou can’t help but admit, is that he knows how to use his quirks well. The mumbling idiot is fast on his feet, mentally and physically, darting out of every laid trap.

Deku melts away the ice with his fire quirk when IcyHot gets too close. His attraction quirk slingshots Round Face’s zero gravity objects back at her. Emo Bird is outmaneuvered in flight as if the nerd can predict every movement. All of this leaves Bakugou to pick up the slack.

This fucking sucks.

Bakugou dives from one of the highest skyscrapers in the training city while Deku flies between buildings several stories up. He sets off an explosion in both hands to speed up and tackle the nerd, only for Deku to flip on his back at the last second, throwing his hands out to grab the explosive teen.

“The fuck?” Bakugou snarls.

“Intention quirk,” Deku hums, face filled with such bright happiness it steals Bakugou’s breath. An overwhelming urge to kiss the nerd takes over as the blond tightens his grip against the nerd’s hands. Focus, Bakugou. “Looks like I caught you.”

“Not for long,” The blond wills his hands to heat with a new explosion.

“Oh,” The nerd shifts to surprise, “this is new.” Deku’s expression furrows with concentration, lips pinching into a frown. “Lights out, Kacchan.”

A shiver races through Bakugou, from his hands and down his arms to his chest. He feels the heat in his palms slip away.

Erasure.

No, not exactly. Even erased, Bakugou could feel the need to spark his hands, nitroglycerin waiting to ignite and building pressure with the need for release. It felt like biding time; even explosions knew erasure was temporary.

This feels different. Somebody flipped the breaker on his quirk, and there’s nothing. No build-up, no need. Bakugou can’t feel his quirk; his nerves are reaching out into the dark spaces it used to be, and can’t find anything.

His body feels cold without his quirk. For a moment, Bakugou thinks he’s in those missing months when Deku was missing. There had been a snow-filled valentine’s day staring at Deku’s collection and final texts because they had been what remained of the nerd. Cold, like he’d never be warm again. Cold, like a surgery table Deku was probably strapped to as the League screwed with his mind and gave him quirks.

Bakugou struggles against Deku’s grip. “Blackout,” Deku says quietly. His mouth is still pinched, though his green eyes sparkle with fascination. Fuck, Bakugou has missed this look too. It’s that concentrated bullshit that leaves Deku muttering for hours, fascinated by quirks and their potential. “Blackout apparently sees quirks as one of our senses like sight, smell, and touch. I didn’t expect that. But don’t worry, it’ll come back.”

“I don’t need a fucking quirk to get out of this.” The explosive teen glares. His brain is going haywire, screaming that something is wrong. The panic is suffocating, and it’s all Bakugou can do to focus on getting free. If Bakugou is free, he can assess what’s wrong. If he’s free, then the quirk will come back. Maybe Blackout is activated by touch and Explosion will return when he’s free of the nerd’s grasp.

Bakugou jerks one hand free, curling it into a fist before punching the soaring winged teen in the face. The nerd drops him thirty stories up.

Shit.

Bakugou tries to slow his fall with an explosion. Nothing. He hears screams and yelling over the whistling wind. Double shit. He’s in the middle of the street; there’s no ledge or pole or fuck anything to grab ahold of and save himself.

His panicking brain urges absurdity: Click his heels and wish for home, latch on to a nonexistent flag and make a parachute. Calculate how long to impact.

Three seconds is the average amount of time a hero falls before becoming pavement art. Six seconds is the average fall time from the practice city. The hobo always saves between four and five. Where the fuck is the hobo now?

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Bakugou refuses to go down without a fight. He tries igniting his hands again, only this time, orange and red lightning races across his hand.

Is that One for All?

Bakugou has tried calling upon the quirk for months with little success. The quirk’s only concession is helping build extra muscle mass to support it.

How the fuck did Deku first handle One for All? Putting all its power into one fist? One finger?

The ground is too close. How long has he been falling?

Well fuck, here goes nothing.

Bakugou holds out his arm to the street, supporting it with his other hand as he focuses on diverting all the lightning and power to his middle finger. He flicks, a wave of wind and pressure forming beneath him as a pain in his finger makes him want to scream.

The blond flies backward, soaring past a diving Deku. He lashes out his good hand, fastening a hand on plush green feathers and pulls. The nerd cries out, pitching as he loses control, reaching for the freshly torn feathers. Instead of feathers, though, he grasps Bakugou, pulling the blond close as they plummet the remaining stories to the ground.

“Kacchan? Kacchan!” Bakugou wakes to Deku’s voice echoing faintly. It’s partially muffled, which hints at a tightly enclosed space.

Bakugou turns his head to the side, assessing his body and what he last remembers. A free fall, that’s not good, a free fall that was outdoors. The blond opens his eyes; it’s sure as fuck dark in here. His hand aches, along with some sharp pains in his shoulders. Something about his right leg feels inherently wrong, but Bakugou is otherwise fine.

No, wait, his head is throbbing; that’s never good.

“Your quirk,” Deku says in the darkness, “made the buildings unstable, and when we crashed into one. We took it down with us.”

“What the fuck do you mean ‘we took it down with us?’” Bakugou groans, searching for the nerd. There he is, dimly lit green-haired glory, holding up the low debris ceiling like Atlas holding up the sky.

“What do you think?” Deku bites out. “I’m not gonna let us die. We’re not gonna die.”

“Of course we’re not going to fucking die,” Bakugou rolls on his side, grimacing through pain as he tries to sit up. His back spasms with a sudden sharp pain, but he pushes through it, assessing the pocket of freedom beneath the debris.

Fucking hell, one of his legs is trapped beneath the rubble.

“Is your quirk back, Kacchan?” Deku asks.

Bakugou tries for a spark and feels oddly simultaneously empty and full. The room spins, and he wonders how he woke up lying on the floor.

That… doesn’t seem right. Didn’t he know the answer a few moments ago?

A new and sharper pain flares, wiping Bakugou’s train of thought clean.

“Kacchan!” That’s definitely Deku’s voice. Fuck, he’s missed that nerd. Bright green eyes, stupid fucking hair, and freckles like scattered gunpowder. Class A losers never knew what a terror he could be. No one knew the fucking resilience, hope, and drive Bakugou could never match as a kid – or even now. No wonder he kept putting the idiot down.

Down.

Down, down, down.

Bakugou is down somewhere, right? The spinning darkness around him is… something. Maybe. He can’t quite remember. Is there something to remember?

The blond sees shadows in the distance, vaguely outlined as individual extras, eyes glowing yellow. He counts nine shadows; one looks like All Might with his shitty hair. Another looks like Deku, with sad rounded eyes and messy curls.

“Kacchan!” Bakugou tears his gaze from the round golden eyes, the world spinning ever faster to Deku - live and in color - holding up the surrounding darkness. It’s a battle the nerd seems to be losing. Fuck, and are those wings? “Kacchan, I need you to focus!”

There’s fear in the nerd’s face; Bakugou is familiar with the expression. He’s been the one to put it on Deku for years. Hell, he even took pleasure in it a few times. Fear meant Deku would stay away from danger. Fear meant Bakugou didn’t have to worry about him on the battlefield.

Is this a battle? If it is, what happened? Why can’t Bakugou move?

Fear in the nerd’s eyes, the blond never wants to see this look again. Deku should never fear anything. The nerd deserves to be happy.

“I’m sorry,” Bakugou croaks, latching on to the words to steady the spinning world around him. “I should have protected you then, now, and every shitty moment between. I fucking failed you. If I – If I was just better sooner, I could have prevented all of this.” His gaze drifts back to the shadow with curly hair, “And I wouldn’t have to settle for ghosts.”

“Help!” Deku cries out, and the sound is deafening to Bakugou’s ears. “Kacchan needs help! He’s lost his mind!”

Maybe Bakugou is losing his mind. What was he doing again?

A great cracking sound makes the blond wince. He knows it’s the sound of concrete shifting and scraping against one another, but he associates the sounds with an enormous dragon’s mouth being forced open. The dark ceiling above Bakugou lifts to reveal jagged edges – like teeth – and sunlight filters through.

Who the fuck had time to slay a dragon?

“Deku? Bakugou?” Round Face cries out as Bakugou shuts his eyes against the blinding light, resisting the urge to throw up.

Fuck.

That’ll do it.

Round Face knows how to prove that no one should ever underestimate her. That fucking pink on her uniform is a misnomer. It’s as dangerous as the orange on his uniform.

“Gravity Girl! Kacchan’s hurt! Please!” Damn it. The nerd sounds like he’s crying.

Fuck, guess that’s just another thing Bakugou failed at too.

Chapter Text

Despite what anyone says, it’s only after Gravity Girl pulls Kacchan from the rubble does Aomori realize he’s beginning to unearth memories of another life.

He’s remembered some things before the training disaster: fragments of people, colors, and emotions wrapped in things he doesn’t understand. This time, there’s something concrete; Aomori can hold the pieces to a time and place.

When Kacchan did that weird wind strike with his finger, Aomori understood that it was something he used to do. He felt the phantom motion in his muscles as he dove to catch the blond. A cruel thought of ‘that’s mine’ briefly crossed his mind when orange lightning wrapped itself around Kacchan’s arms. Another thought followed, mournful and sad, ‘not anymore.’

Sitting at Kacchan’s bedside, under the sporadic watch of that healing old lady, Aomori remembers a different woman. She was stout and relatively young, with the same hair and eyes as himself. He knows she cried a lot, smiled a lot too, and that she focused heavily on his physical injuries and never questioned what went on in Aomori’s mind.

Kacchan is different in memories too. Perfect and cruel and amazing. No matter how terrible the teen could be, every recollection of the blond is wrapped in wonder and victory.

Aomori may not remember much and may not feel much past a general disdain for heroes, but he knows his feelings for Kacchan are complicated. He enjoyed the kisses and attention, but did that mean anything? The winged teen isn’t this Deku person. Even if he was at some point (and he’s still reserving his doubts), Aomori is confident he’s not Midoriya Izuku anymore. The last thing he wants is to be cared as someone he isn’t, and probably someone he can never be.

Kissing Kacchan is amazing, but the green-haired teen can’t help but wonder if every touch is searching for someone long gone.

“Could you ever like me too?” Aomori asks quietly, reaching out to brush his fingers against Kacchan’s cheeks. The blond sees vestiges of Midoriya Izuku in Aomori, and while the winged teen isn’t opposed to being mistaken enough for kisses, Aomori wants to be seen as he currently is.

The explosive teen is on the mend after breaking his arm, shin, and a bone or two in his ribs. The old lady offered a kiss to the blond’s head, claiming it would help with the concussion, but Aomori is dubious how a simple kiss can magically heal wounds. Then again, he has over half a dozen quirks, so maybe healing kisses aren’t so impossible.

“I’ll be good,” He promises, “Just like all the potential you see in me. Because that’s it, really. You see me, and that’s already so much more than anything I know. Or is it that you’re looking for this Deku person, and I just so happen to be heading in the same direction?”

Maybe Kacchan was looking for Midoriya Izuku at first, calling him Deku in the middle of battle, but the blond’s steady gaze always seems to take Aomori at face value. The blond flinched whenever Aomori did something different than the Midoriya Code of Body Language, but he never made a move to damn Aomori to the life of an unknown teen. Any mention of the past is at the winged teen’s prodding and Kacchan’s reluctance.

Aomori pillows his head with his arms, watching Kacchan’s chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. “I’ll be good either way. Just don’t – don’t stop looking for me, at me. Okay, Kacchan?”

“Izuku?” Aomori startles awake at the voice. Or maybe it was the loud thud that went along with it. He snaps open his eyes, searching for the source.

Spiky blond hair, wide red eyes decorated with simple eyeliner at the doorway, and neatly manicured fingers covering a mouth.

Kacchan.

The winged teen takes in the slender figure, the skirt, and shoes. Female Kacchan. Kacchan-san. Aomori vaguely recalls this woman being friends with the woman who shares his hair color. Kacchan-san and Aomori-san are friends – maybe.

“Aomori,” He corrects, smoothing his face into a neutral expression Dabi and Mr. Compress spent hours teaching him. “My name is Aomori.”

“That can’t be right,” Kacchan-san insists with a violent shake of her head. She bends down to pick up her hefty-looking purse and straightens to a level of style and grace Aomori associates with fashion models.

Why models?

“You’re Inko’s boy. There’s no two ways about it. Though the wings are new.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Aomori’s left-wing moves to wrap around his shoulder, forming a partial cocoon. First, the old lady, Eraserhead, a handful of those hero students, and now this woman? He’s only ever known the wings at his back and the safety they provide from a dangerous world.

“Izuku, where have you been?” Kacchan-san crosses the room, setting her bag on a small table and removing a plush black blanket with a large orange ‘X’ extending edge to edge. She lays it on top of Kacchan before taking an available chair beside Aomori.

“I’m Aomori,” He insists with a frown.

She leans over and smooths the blanket, looking far more thoughtful than anything Kacchan’s ever expressed. Aomori doesn’t see Kacchan’s description of his mother in this woman.

She isn’t loud, angry, or annoying, though Aomori has no way to tell if she’s right about the whole ‘Izuku’ and ‘Inko’s boy.’

But she’s different too, nice in a way I don’t know how to be.

Something in her face relaxes, offering a gentle smile. Aomori thinks he’s only seen on Kacchan once – which might have been a hallucination.

“Maybe you are, but that means we should get to know each other, shouldn’t we?” There’s an achingly familiar sadness in her red eyes. Like Kacchan, this woman takes the winged teen at face value. Her shoulders relax, accepting Aomori’s stance on his identity.

“Kacchan says you’re always right,” He says instead, “and I don’t know what’s true or not.”

“The brat said that, did he?” She laughs, bright and beautiful. Does Kacchan laugh like this too? “I must be if I get paid the big bucks. What do you want to know?”

Aomori wants to know a great many things, what he means to Kacchan, and what he means to the people of this school. He wants to know if Midoriya Izuku is worth knowing, worth chasing, and worth having as a past life. He wants to know why the League is out to destroy heroes, why purple is a dangerous color, and why the color green is always laced with hurt while red is the symbol of victory and defeat.

“Why didn’t Kacchan want to join the League of Villains?”

Kacchan-san looks uncomfortable. “Listen Iz-Aomori; my brat is complicated. There’s a lot of shit he’s pulled that I’ve tried to fix. There’s even more shit I’ve pushed on him that I can only hope he can overcome. But if there’s one thing I know my kid will fight until his dying breath, it’s his desire to be a hero.

“He and I, we’re not pleasant people,” Kacchan-san leans back in her seat. “It’s a miracle anyone can stand us. I was so hard on him when he got his quirk; he started to think there was only one way to achieve his dream. Back then, we had to fireproof the house. I can’t tell you how many bolts of fabric I lost due to the nitroglycerin on his hands. I think I got it in his head that he had to have perfect control over his quirk in and out of active use if he wanted to be anything. And because I did that, nothing less than perfection would do.

“So, who the fuck cares if our temper isn’t great when we have perfect results? Who gives a damn about what people think about us when my brat can save your ass with his eyes closed, and he’s in training to be everything he’s ever wanted to be?

“Imagine, Aomori,” Kacchan-san drifts her gaze to Kacchan, “you’re kidnapped by people who want to destroy the very world you’re trying to protect. Imagine being told all your hard work is for nothing after you’ve slaved for a decade for a level of perfection that could hide the rest of your flaws. What would you say in the face of that?”

Aomori doesn’t imagine Toga or Dabi or Shigaraki telling him that. Instead, he sees a bulky blond on a rooftop transform into a piece of straw in a cloud of smoke. He sees that piece of straw telling him to give up and have more realistic dreams when he had given up on everything else. He sees that same thin man declare Aomori can be more than what he ever dreamed possible and just as quickly sees the man turn away on a rocking ship.

“I, I,” The winged teen stammers. “I didn’t get a choice.” He feels anger bubbling beneath his skin. “I never got a choice any of the times. I didn’t get to say anything.” He bites out, hands pressing against his sternum to keep his heart and sudden surge of emotions contained. “I didn’t get a choice with anything, so they made me into this!”

His eyes burn with tears, threatening to spill down his cheeks. “Why is the League so bad when All Might is no better?”

“Izuku?”

Aomori stands abruptly, seat clattering behind him. “I’m going back. I’d rather sit in a cage than listen to more of this.” He brushes past both Kacchans and slams open the infirmary door.

“Izuku!”

The winged teen doesn’t look back.

Aomori’s least favorite blond shows up at his jail cell a few hours later.

“Just put me out of my misery. I’d rather be dead than whatever bullshit you’re about to spout.” He flops onto his bed, back facing the former number one as he pulls the covers over his head.

“Young Midoriya,” All Might says gently. Flashes of kindness race through the teen’s mind. He sees the former number one asking for lunch with a bento in hand. He sees thin fingers reaching out to hug him and hears that same voice promise devotion. His cheeks heat and eyes ache as slow, heavy tears make a path over the bridge of his nose to his pillow, mourning the loss of affection.

Then, Aomori remembers the older blond flinching away from him after a battle before hurrying to another form at Aomori’s side. He hears the cold detachment as All Might turns away toward someone better and more deserving, as if Aomori was nothing and had been nothing. As if Aomori was merely someone to bide time, a game with no actual rules or ending that could be abandoned on a whim.

As if the only purpose Aomori could serve was as a punching bag for others.

Though, that hasn’t really changed, has it? Shigaraki has destroyed too many masks and crumbled countless feathers. He’s threatened to disintegrate Aomori for the slightest failure.

His wings fold tight over his curled form, trying to protect him from the room’s chill – though it does nothing for the cold emanating from his chest.

Aomori wonders if he was made to be abandoned and hurt. What about his unimaginable past life made him worthy of having love at his fingertips only to be burned?

When will Kacchan abandon him too?

“Fuck off and fuck you. Whatever people see in you is bullshit.” Fuck All Might and his bullshit heroics. Fuck All Might and his’ want’ to help.

“I simply want to talk.” Aomori’s head is screaming at the number one’s ill intentions wrapped in gentle words. Though he can’t see the skinny older man, he knows All Might purposely looks weaker sometimes to lower defenses and make people compliant. Aomori knows the man doesn’t want to talk; he wants to make sure a secret is kept.

What secret? Is it worthy of bringing back to the League? Does Aomori even want to go back to the League?

“I simply want you to leave me alone. I rather see that tape idiot, and you know how much I hate him.”

“Midoriya –”

Aomori sits up abruptly, throwing his blanket to the ground as he glares at the sickly older man through the walled prison.

“What part of ‘fuck off or ‘leave me alone’ can’t you understand, old man?” He yells, wings flaring to let loose a volley of feathers. Twelve manage to embed themselves into the glass wall, sending radiating cracks from floor to ceiling.

All Might scrambles away, and the action does nothing to ease the rage Aomori feels.

“You really could escape whenever you wanted,” Eraserhead says, taping new papers to the fractured wall hours later. He says it like an observation instead of a fearful revelation.

Aomori shrugs. “All of you seem really invested in me, which is more than I can say for the League. I hoped I could learn some secrets about you while here.”

“And did you learn anything?”

He knows All Might has a secret that involves Midoriya Izuku. Hero students and these wannabe pro heroes clearly have too much time to spare with all the effort they’re putting in to babysit Aomori and find that other kid. Aomori might have been this Midoriya person once, but the thought is as ill-fitting as shirts and jackets missing wing holes at the back. Hawks, who spins Aomori’s Intention quirk in a thousand directions, was the one who provided avian clothing a couple of days ago. Thanks to him, the teen no longer guesses where to cut slits with a sharpened feather. The plethora of insulated long sleeves has been a saving grace in this cold prison cell.

“All Might sucks; you’re committed to helping your charges succeed; Midoriya Izuku is far more important than I’ll ever be. Who was he, anyway?”

“A problem child without self-preservation instincts.” Eraserhead offers blandly. “He gave everything until he lost his quirk.”

“And how does that happen?” Aomori asks, pacing his space.

“Quirks are a lot like muscles. Sometimes you can overextend the use or tear it. Sometimes that muscle can’t be fixed.”

The winged teen mulls over the answer, turning to see the erasure hero step back. “But you don’t think that’s the case, do you?”

“I think Midoriya Izuku was dealt bad hands, and the game isn’t over yet.”

“That sounds like a tragedy,” The green-haired teen slows to a stop, “now I really hope he’s not me.”

A memory surges through Aomori, though there’s no image to provide context. His cheeks hurt from smiling too much, and the wind blows through his curls while salty sea air tickles his nose. There’s a distant parental voice that expects Aomori to teach someone who wields his dream (what was his dream) when the winged teen was already tossed to the curb. He remembers wanting to cry, a laughable resignation because, of course, he was going to lose. Finally, there’s a damning self-hatred that makes his arms ache and throat tight with legs ready to run and never stop running. The fragments of memory hurt like a gunshot, but there’s underneath whispering Aomori would do it again if given the chance.

If that’s Midoriya Izuku, the winged teen hopes he stays missing. The memory is crippling enough, Aomori can’t imagine the event firsthand. If these memories belong to Midoriya, Aomori wonders how someone could love so recklessly while waiting for inevitable abandonment. And if Aomori turns out to be Midoriya Izuku –

“Well,” Eraserhead sighs, locking eyes with the green teen, “who do you want to be?”

Aomori has no answers.

Kacchan-san visits the following day with a bundle of green and black in her arms.

“That teacher gave me your measurements,” She frowns at the garment, picking at a loose thread. “Hawks is famous for his excessive collection of coats. He gets cold easily, and I assume that’s a wing quirk trait.”

And that’s well, true, sort of. Aomori does get cold easily, though it’s a trait that’s increased over the summer. It was enough to send the teen down a 2 AM internet search of why he woke up frozen in his roost during sweltering heat.

Depending on the type of bird mutation a person presents as a quirk determines how adaptable their metabolism or insulation should be. Many rapid-flight avians or birds of prey lack insulation, migrating to warmer temperatures when the seasons change. People unable to migrate like the birds either load up on sweaters or increase meals and their metabolism to maintain a survivable body temperature.

It’s mildly surprising that U.A.–a school specializing in training and researching quirks – doesn’t know what Aomori found within a few hours. If they knew, this place would be a sauna, or he’d get six meals daily instead of three.

“So, I made you this.” Kacchan-san unravels the garment, revealing an iridescent hanten, neatly sewn slits for wings at the back. Aomori desperately wants to shrug on the coat. He’s felt frozen for days. His fingers twitch with the desire to hold and wrap himself in the heavy cloth.

Intention flares as a sharp pain at his temple, causing the winged teen to reel back from the woman. This is a person who wants something. She is someone who will take from Aomori, as All Might will take from Midoriya Izuku. He glares at the woman, biting back a snarl as he asks, “What do you want?”

“Who says I want anything? You’re as paranoid as my own brat!” Kacchan-san snaps, folding the hanten over one arm.

“I know you want something. I can feel it.” As Intention settles, the want shrinks to something manageable like a bruise. While painful, Kacchan-san does not intend to maim.

Her red eyes look Aomori up and down, sizing him from head to toe. Finally, she sighs, tapping her foot impatiently, much like Kacchan does when he’s stuck doing something he doesn’t like.

“I want to know if you’re safe.”

“Depends on what you mean by that,” Aomori takes a step closer, shrugging to dismiss Intention. His brain laughs at the statement, safe is a relative term. Safe doesn’t exist when you’re a villain.  

He’s relatively safe in U.A.’s care. They haven’t tried to torture him physically, but this revolving door of visitors might be a new type of psychological torture. Or does Kacchan-san mean safe as a danger to others? In his short time with the League, he’s committed a myriad of crimes. He didn’t care for the worst of it and didn’t like watching life fade from a person’s eye. It seemed like such a waste. He tried to avoid killing as much as possible; sometimes, the League was content with disfiguration or dismemberment. Dabi and Shigaraki liked to see his hands dirty, while Toga and Twice wanted to keep him away from those jobs.

“For my brat,” Kacchan-san clarifies. “Are you safe for Katsuki?”

The winged teen dropped the blond from thirty stories up. That doesn’t seem safe.

“I don’t know,” Aomori admits, leaning against the fractured glass. “I want to be, though. If Kacchan can see good in this terrible world of heroes, maybe I can too.”

There’s an inkling of blistering heat on his collarbone, a memory of a gentle gesture Aomori associates with lifting a brittle and burned thing, with hope woven into despair. It’s a Kacchan memory because that hope is an addictive feeling.

The blond may have constantly refuted Midoriya Izuku, but Kacchan was – ironically – stable. The anger and rejection were consistent, but so were the presence and actions. While Kacchan never offered Midoriya a helping hand, he was tangible and the closest thing to a hero. All Might may have offered inspiration on posters and television screens, but Kacchan was is real.

“Can you protect him?”

The green-haired teen thinks back to Eraserhead asking Aomori who he wants to be. He’s not quite sure of the answer or if the name ‘Aomori’ fits like it used to. He is, however, gaining an inkling of the type of person he wants to be.

Aomori wants to save others. He wants to win through saving. He wants to celebrate victories of lives protected rather than the lost.

When he saw Gravity Girl rescue Kacchan from the rubble, the winged teen knew with certainty that the action was something he should have in his life.

Rescue. Save. Win.

Even if it means falling so Kacchan can soar. Even if it means he loses the League – the family that took him in when he knew nothing. Even if the heroes throw him into Tartarus when he’s no longer useful.

Aomori wants to do good and feels the same heart-wrenching hope Midoriya holds for Kacchan.

“Yeah,” Aomori croaks out, “I’ll do all I can.”

Chapter Text

“Look at that,” Deku beams, leaning forward on his bed as if to get a better look at Bakugou, “You’re alive.”

“You knew that,” Bakugou snarls. He knows because Recovery Girl wouldn’t stop talking about how Deku hovered. He knows because he recognizes one of the Old Hag’s designs resting on Deku’s shoulders.

“I mean, death is always a possibility with you heroes, isn’t it?” The nerd has the gall to look innocent.

“Death is always a fucking possibility with anyone.”

“And whose fault is that?” Deku raises a brow.

“Life.” Bakugou shrugs, wincing as a pain lances through his shoulder. “Fate, presumably.”

“Alright, we get it, you believe in mystical beings. Might as well say that it’s written in the stars.” Deku waves his hand over his head as if painting twinkling lights in a simple gesture.

The conversation ends abruptly, which fucking sucks. Deku used to talk enough for the both of them, but now – whatever those Villain extras did – the nerd has learned to keep some thoughts to himself.

Fuck, he misses the muttering.

Bakugou doesn’t know what to say to keep Deku talking, and the nerd is so content and smiling, he doesn’t want to take that away. Though his silence does just that. Deku sits a little straighter, frowns when Bakugou continues to say nothing, tilts his head as if trying to make sense of the blond, and squints.

“Who are you looking at when you see me?” Deku asks, everything about his face pinches with something – fear, maybe. Bakugou has a sudden fear of his own from this look. The blond may be rejected.

“What kind of shit question is that?” Bakugou growls.

“That’s not answering the question.”

“You’re asking shitty questions.”

“Kacchan,”

“Nerd,”

“Who do you see when you look at me?”

It’s still a shit question, but Bakugou looks. He takes in the leaner build, slightly taller frame. He examines the wild and perpetually wind-blown hair that desperately needs to be cut. Then he stares at emerald, green eyes and a smattering of freckles painted like constellations. The nerd’s lips are pressed thin, a look Bakugou is slowly coming to terms with despite aching for more blinding smiles like minutes before. The idiot holds himself with confidence, even in the face of the unknown. Something is endearing in the way he carries himself, a sureness in his existence and moves, no longer throwing arms out in abandon. This fucker cares about himself and will protect himself whether or not Bakugou is looking out for him or not. Underneath it all, the blond can still sense all the goodness and wonder the nerd has; it’s only a matter of bringing that back out.

After searching for Deku for months and finally getting his hands on the nerd, Bakugou promised to find Deku buried in this winged idiot. But despite the blond’s search for the familiar and desire to be with what he knows: winged Deku is still Deku.

Bakugou has only been Great Explosion Murder God Dynamite for a few weeks or months longer than Deku has been this fucker Aomori, who’s not to say the nerd isn’t both? Who’s to say Deku can’t change? Who’s to say Bakugou isn’t falling for this winged nerd, too?

“You,” Bakugou gravels out. “All of you.” This seems to be the wrong answer because Deku starts turning away. “You’re Deku,” He growls, each syllable is a damning truth. Fuck, he needs the nerd to understand. “No matter how you change, no matter how fucking different you become or how much you stay your shitty self, you’re a fucking shitty nerd I call Deku. I gave you that name, and it’s always going to be you. Not because you’re Izuku, not because you’re useless, or Aomori, or have a quirk or not, but because you fucking always change the meaning of Deku. That’s your name now as much as it was then.”

“Deku is a hero.” Dark green eyes look over the nerd’s shoulder towards Bakugou.

“You sure as fuck weren’t before, you don’t have to be now.”

“What do you want me to be?” Deku turns back to Bakugou, expression blank, with a robotic voice holding back any hint of emotion. It’s a punishment, Bakugou knows. The nerd feels so much, it’s overwhelming. It’s why the muttering got on his nerves, because even Deku’s sighs hold feelings. Deku without emotion is like carving out a lung, but there’s still a battle to win. Bakugou must keep fighting.

“I don’t fucking care, because that’s not up to me,” The explosive teen glares at his shoes. “I’ve tried to dictate that for fucking years. I’ve hurt you, and you rose above it every time to the point I thought you were the one with the ego problem.” The blond barks out a laugh. “And thank fuck you’re bad at listening because we would have never landed in our current fucking predicament.”

“Me in a cage and your arm in a sling?” The nerd hums with curiosity, walking back to the cracked glass wall, four green feathers stuck at points of impact. That slight lilt is enough to flood air into Bakugou’s chest, confirming his lungs are complete and in working order.

“You fucker,” Bakugou snarls. “I’m telling you I know your heart,” The blond feels his cheeks heat as he presses a hand against the cracked glass. “No matter how you change, no matter what quirks you fucking get, I’m gonna be there for you, with you.”

“Till death do us part?” Deku arches a brow.

“That’s coming sooner than you think.”

Deku breaks out into an impossibly wide smile.

In a strange turn of events, Deku requests someone other than Bakugou or Eraserhead. It’s a gentle request posed to Hound Dog, asking to speak with Pink Cheeks. She comes when Bakugou leaves for training with All Might. She talks with the nerd long after training is over.

“What did he ask you about?” Raccoon Eyes leans over the couch when Pink Cheeks walks in, only minutes before Bakugou calls it a night.

There’s a puzzled expression on the zero-gravity heroine’s face, it’s almost dream-like, as if she couldn’t believe the past few hours. “He asked me a bunch of questions,” She says slowly, thanking Glasses as he offers her a plate of food. “Why I wanted to be a hero, what’s so good about being one. Why I liked it and stuff like that.”

“Well, those aren’t unusual questions,” Ponytail offers from her seat at one of the dining tables. “We’ll be asked that hundreds of times when we become pros.”

“That’s true. But he asked me,” Round Face frowns, staring at her food as she walks towards the tables. “He asked me if he could be a hero and – I don’t know. I don’t think I gave him the answer he was looking for.”

“What did you say?” Emo Bird asks while Dark Shadow doodles on a spare sheet of paper.

“I told him he already was. He’s saved so many people.”

Bakugou snorts, earning a glare from Glasses as Class A losers focus on him.

“What?” Pink Cheeks demands, holding her chin high. “What did I say wrong?”

“You losers aren’t looking,” Bakugou flips through his phone, “and your attention is shit. You want so badly for the old Deku to come back, and that fucking won’t happen. He has wings for fuck’s sake, that isn’t gonna go away.” He stands, pocketing the cellphone and leveling a glare at his classmates. “That’s a different Deku there, he hasn’t been the nerd you know for a while, so why the hell would you treat him like that?”

“But you said it yourself, he’s Deku!” Pink Cheeks protests, setting down her plate.

“And you think something as shitty as a name will stop anyone from changing?” Bakugou challenges. “You’re gonna tell me you’re the same loser you were before Deku went missing? Same name, same person, ha?”

“No, I – ”

“Can the idiot he is now be a hero?” Bakugou asks, though it sounds like a demand to his own ears.

“What?” The brunette breathes out the question.

“With everything you’ve seen since we found him and brought him back, can he be a hero?”

“Dude, he hates me,” Flat Face grimaces.

“He wiped the floor with us and tried to get away,” Shitty Hair offers. Uncertainty fills the Class A losers. Bakugou watches as worry slowly fills their faces.

“But,” Emo Bird speaks up, face neutral as ever, “He saved Bakugou.” Pink Cheeks gasps and nods her head vigorously. “He held up a collapsed building so he and Bakugou could have a pocket of air. He called for help. I think,” He pauses, looking at his shadow, “with the right training, he could be a hero.”

“Then,” Ears pipes up from her spot beside Ponytail, “how do we help him succeed?”

Chapter Text

Heroes are far too trusting; it’s a wonder why villains haven’t taken over sooner. Aomori isn’t surprised when the heroes create a huge pomp and circumstance over transferring him from his cell to the 2-A dorms. Kids his age will babysit Aomori, while whoever’s done the night watch on his cell can finally rest.

It’s a bit nerve-racking to leave, he’ll admit. The winged teen has spent over a month with that jail cell as his home, even though it’s a prison; it’s comfortable. There’s a dining table, a bed, and a private bathroom. Sure, there aren’t any books, and he’s on display for the heroes to see, but it kept him securely away from the League.

As is, Aomori isn’t sure why he’s had a growing apprehension of the League. Sure, Dabi and Toga like killing, and Shigaraki hates him, and Spinner only wants to talk about knives and Stain, but…

Wait. Where was Aomori going with this?

Oh, that’s right. Twice. Twice is good. A little crazy, but that’s a split personality, and the teen doesn’t quite know how to help with that other than acceptance. As of late, though, Aomori feels like he’s got a split personality, too.

There are moments Aomori feels like someone else, an urge to smile because someone is looking at him without intent outside of vague recognition. When All Might enters nowadays, Aomori is filled with warring emotions. The first is always awe at being in the presence of the number one hero, the second is a bitterness in knowing the blond will always rescue a quirk before a person or heart. Then there’s a great clawing sadness knowing Aomori used to follow this man mindlessly. If All Might told Aomori to tie weights to his wings and jump into the ocean, he would, believing it was for the greater good the entire time. Then, Aomori remembers who he is and remembers no one should make him feel this way, and anger takes up his body in a flash fire.

So when All Might appears to take Kacchan away from the common room for some sort of training, the green teen doesn’t know how to feel. At least with Kacchan, the complications are plot twists to an insanely good book. The former number one? Aomori gets the notion that All Might would rather have him dead than reveal a secret. Not missing, or with the League – All Might would prefer Aomori’s death if it meant upholding the hero’s values.

The thought startles the teen enough to gasp. All Might pauses, hand outstretched to clasp onto Kacchan’s shoulder. Aomori knows the warmth of that touch, and right now the memory of it burns.

“You don’t actually miss that Midoriya kid, do you?” Aomori gasps, low enough for the former pro to hear while the rest of the common area bustles with teens. Blue eyes fracture, but they do not warm with hurt. If anything, they grow colder.

So.

That’s it.

Aomori was always worthless, and All Might rained hope and sunshine and rainbows under the pretense that the teen could be anything other than a quirkless loser. The hero designed Aomori as a reckless child soldier, intended to die once the war was won.

The winged teen blinks rapidly, whether it’s to blink back the tears or reset his mind, he doesn’t know. Aomori isn’t quirkless. He’s not worthless. Then why does he know the feeling so well?

“Why?” The blond huffs gently, his outstretched hand turning palm up to signify a harmless intention. Aomori knows better; his quirk senses the insincerity and annoyance underneath. “You don’t miss me.”

“I don’t have to miss you. I don’t even know you.” The green teen bares his teeth, not daring to raise his voice. It catches Kacchan’s attention, and the red-eyed gaze flicks between the former number one and Aomori, trying to gauge the situation.

All Might closes his hand into a tight fist; he must have realized he made the wrong move. Aomori takes a step back, looking for someone trustworthy and out of the blond’s reach. “Young Midoriya, you must understand, this is a sacrifice that must be made, and I must choose victory.”

Victory because Peace had failed or was never an option.

The teen sees Sharp Objects talking to a teen with purple hair and another with a nasty scar on his face. He moves, ignoring Kacchan’s protest, and steps behind purple hair.

“Hey, bro, what’s up?” Sharp Objects is quick to smile. The kid with the nasty scar gives the winged teen a once-over, expression hardening. But the expression is not directed at Aomori, the red and white teen is quick to turn the gaze towards All Might, stepping forward to block Aomori from view.

All Might tries again, “Young Midoriya – ”

“I think you should leave,” The scarred teen interrupts, “now.”

All Might falters, turning between the teen and Kacchan before sighing. “Come, young Bakugou.”

Kacchan hesitates, frowning at the former number one, then in Aomori’s direction. “Go,” Sharp Objects says from the winged teen’s side. “We’ll keep him safe.”

“So, of course, Twice is a solid guy. I don’t know why the rest of the League gives him such a hard time. Just because someone has a split personality doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing. Besides, I’d steal an entire department store for him any day.”

“Little weird to declare stealing as a fun pastime in front of a room of heroes, but still, so manly for sticking to your guns!” Sharp Objects beams at Aomori. The creation heroine moves about the room, delivering small cups of steaming tea.

Kacchan and All Might left to train an hour ago, and these kid heroes are watching him as part of Aomori’s weird prison release. He’s still a prisoner with U.A.; the change of scenery just means wannabe heroes can hide the walls of his cell.

“What did you do with the League?” Scar Face – Todoroki – asks with a flat tone, devoid of interest or curiosity. Aomori finds himself stiffening. He can’t be serious, can he? The winged teen would not answer in captivity, why would he give it now in this almost freedom?

“Not missions,” Purple Hair – Shinsou – clarifies before the green teen makes a break for the exit. “Just the everyday boring stuff. What’d you decorate your room with? What did you do for fun?”

“Yeah! Got any favorite shows?” The blond electric teen leaps into the conversation, diving across Sharp Object’s and Shinsou’s lap with a blindingly white smile. Kaminari, Aomori’s brain supplies. He’s slowly catching their names as the teens relax in the common area. Some are at the dining tables, eating a snack or doing homework. Most lounge on couches and armchairs, conversing without context – a clear sign of tightly woven trust and teamwork.

Sometimes the conversation is silent, a mere look sends Creati – Yaomomo? Yaoyorozu? – to the kitchen for tea. Sometimes they’re loud, a mostly invisible girl ran in, declared something about a rabbit that sent three students sprinting for the elevator.

The winged teen had this level of trust with someone before; he’s sure of it. Aomori recalls grasping someone’s wrist, slinging each other into battle with a move neither practiced before. He clenches his fist, a phantom sensation of punching a target in unison with a partner. Aomori, or Midoriya Izuku, trusted someone far more than these teens trust each other.

Wouldn’t it be nice to trust again? 

“I had,” Aomori hesitates. Something in his head is screaming that he’s drifting into dangerous territory. His limbs feel stiff with warning – one wrong word and he’ll literally freeze up. But his heart is reaching out to these wannabe heroes. He wants to tell them everything so they’ll trust him and love him and –

Well, Aomori isn’t quite sure what else. He’ll betray them? Become a wannabe hero himself? He isn’t sure.

“I had a roost,” The green teen says finally. “Shigaraki said my wings were in the way all the time and disintegrated the feathers if he found them especially irritating. So I made a roost. It was kind of cool, there was this hole in the ceiling I could fly through if I wanted. I mean, it was a bit drafty, but these wings make great insulation. I had a notebook up there filled with analysis of every person I fought.

“I liked hanging out with Twice for fun. I could tell him the same story, well, twice,” Aomori laughs. “We’d make up things, he’d teach me how to embroider, which was really tough for me to learn, and I’d teach him how to see what’s real and what wasn’t. I think I spent most of my time with Twice. He’s the kind of person you want in your corner. Toga was always into a card or knife game, which – fine, but I wasn’t all that into losing fingers. “The teen holds up his hands as emphasis, now littered with dozens of tiny scars nicking the edges of his fingers. “Dabi and I played trivia a lot. Loser had to steal stuff or burn down a convenience store.”

“So that’s why there’s been a string of fires from Tokyo to Musutafu,” Tape Face says, immediately earning a glare. The tape hero takes several steps back, hiding behind a bulky teen with glasses near the kitchen.

“I didn’t watch shows much, guess I’m pretty boring without committing arson,” The winged teen shrugs. Lately, any little word or slight gesture makes Aomori feel like someone else. They’re never how he imagines memory working, which is just a film reel playing inside his brain. Instead, it’s phantom pains, habitual gestures, voices of people at his ear, textures beneath his fingertips, and distinctive tastes and smells. Even that odd memory of a partner leaves the lingering scent of a summer beach.

But TV? Aomori feels thankfully blank, free of jolting back and forth, and remains squarely in the present. He must not have watched much television or mainstream media in his old life. The green-haired teen wonders what hobbies he had before the League. Maybe he flew a lot, the avian can’t imagine living a life on the ground when there was a sky full of endless possibilities and free of people.

“Ignoring the arson part,” Kaminari props his chin up by his elbow, which digs into Sharp Object’s thigh. The teen kicks his feet up, swaying them back and forth, and nearly kicks Shinsou in the face multiple times. The redhead and purple-haired teen look unbothered by Kaminari sprawled across them as if it were a natural occurrence. “How do you feel about a movie marathon? One of our friends wanted to watch all these super cool American movies!”

“Is this friend, Midoriya Izuku?” Aomori asks, glancing at Kaminari, followed by Sharp Objects. The redhead is so expressive and genuine, the winged teen doesn’t need an intention quirk when Sharp Objects is around.

“If it is?” Shinsou challenges, pushing down the electric teen’s feet.

“Sure,” Tension releases like a gust of fresh air. The green-haired teen gazes around the room, seeing shoulders drop or exhales of held breaths. “Let’s see what his taste in movies is like.”

Midoriya Izuku has a curious taste in movies.

They watched a superhero film first, but Todoroki ended it in the middle when the hero irritated him too much. Aomori didn’t mind; he was starting to root for the villains the longer the movie kept going. Kaminari was quick to put in a heist movie where people stole dreams or ideas, which was followed by a fantasy film called The Princess Bride.

“I am not the Dread Pirate Roberts,” The man in black announces on screen, more than half of Class A dozing through the movie. The man carries Buttercup over a patch of swamp water. The man explains how the name held previous holders because the name was the most important thing. Names could be titles and mantles to take up or lifestyles of choice.

Midoriya Izuku is someone Aomori could be.

The League of Villains insisted he was Tengu Aomori when he knew nothing else.

Kacchan knows he’s Deku, just as the man in black is Westley and the Dread Pirate Roberts. It’s easier to think of Deku as a title because of what the name represents, rather than who carries it.

The winged teen could choose, much like Westley choosing to retire from Piracy. He could be the person the heroes want him to be. He could be what the League wants him to be. He could be Deku and decide what that name means with all the reputation it held before. Or he could be something new. A new name, a new life, and be –

What? Free? Impossible. The League would hunt him down and kill him if Aomori defected. U.A. would be on his ass the moment he stepped out of the gates. And Kacchan… what would Kacchan do? What would Aomori do? What does Aomori want?

Kacchan, Aomori wants Kacchan.

As if on cue, the explosive blond enters the front door, kicking off his shoes and sliding on slippers. He looks scorched and exhausted, missing his U.A. gym jacket, with one arm bandaged from fingertips to shoulder. The bandage may extend further, but the black tank hides the evidence.

Kacchan looks up, looking at the movie night in the common room, red eyes bright as they catch the light of the screen. Breathtaking. The teen could have any color eyes, hair, face, or whatever, and Aomori would find Kacchan breathtaking. Aomori would find Kacchan anywhere and do anything to be together, even if that meant questioning his morals.

Is that what true love is? Choosing to love through every trial and tribulation? Choosing one another as different people, time and time again?

Is that what this is? True love? Or is that the movie talking?

Kacchan moves past the group watching movies and steps into the kitchen. Aomori turns his gaze back to the movie, ears tuned to the soft clattering of dishes moving from the sink to the dishwasher, the familiar opening and closing of a rice maker, and the sounds of unwrapping plastic wrapping leftovers.

“You’ve got some nerve taking up this space,” Kacchan grumbles, picking his way through the pile of students watching Fezzik and Inigo talk before two large tubs. The explosive teen shoves Kaminari from his laid spot across Shinsou and Sharp Objects and sits in the gap between the two.

Aomori valiantly tries and fails to keep his eye on the screen, but it keeps drifting across the coffee table to the blond slumping into the plush comfort of the couch. Kacchan smirks, gaze flicking to the screen and back at the winged teen.

The prince yells on screen, and Aomori watches the villain run from the castle to the forest dungeon. The prince leans over Westley, anger in his eyes. The straps and tubes across Westley’s body are familiar, though the winged teen recalls padded straps and metal cuffs keeping him in place. It had been cold, and instead of a prince in Renaissance finery, there was a stout man in a lab coat with round glasses that caught the light.

“You truly love each other, and so you might have been truly happy. Not one couple in a century has that chance, no matter what the storybooks say.” The prince says. Aomori rips his gaze from the screen, latching on to Kacchan – to safety – as new memories flood in, transporting him to another time and place. His arm aches from the latest tattoo, soothed slightly when pressed against the freezing metal table beneath his stomach. He’s never laid in this room on his stomach before, and the new intention quirk screaming as it foretells pain he’s never known.

Aomori hears the movie at a distance, as if through the radio. The doctor’s surgical tools are louder, along with the bubbling from tubes filled with nomu experiments. Even Aomori’s breath is deafening compared to the screen. “And so I think no man in a century will suffer as greatly as you will.” The yell that follows on the TV pales in comparison to the scream in his memory.

The common room fades away as his mind hears bones breaking, feels them shifting like his spine were a snake trying to sliver out of his body. He had screamed into the metal table, the smooth top reverberating it back that his eardrums threatened to burst. His body was at the whim of the doctor’s experiment between his shoulder blades, which threatened to push his arms out of their sockets and break his neck. His head jerked three times, bashing into the table so hard it bled before it was fastened down. It felt like the League was trying to break open his ribs from the back. It felt like someone was trying to insert scythes between his shoulders.

It felt like…

It felt like growing wings.

When Aomori’s noises of pain were reduced to desperate gasps and spitting the hot metallic taste in his mouth – vocal cords torn – the doctor finally spoke. “Seven quirks, that’s impressive, Midoriya. Most manage three before their free will is removed. It’s for their safety; they’d harm themselves otherwise. You’re almost there. I’d like to think we can fit one or two more. And here I thought you’d amount to nothing when I diagnosed you as quirkless all those years ago.”

Aomori startles out of the memory when he crashes into something hard. He knees the person pinning him from above, knocking them off balance, and rolls forward. The teen scrambles to his feet, flaring his wings in warning as he lifts his hand to fight, eyes flicking wildly about the room to assess what the hell is going on.

Then he sees the utter fear in Gravity Girl’s face, far worse than what he saw when she rescued Kacchan. There are feathers sticking out of a cracked television that’s still playing the movie, feathers shattered through the overhead lights, embedded in a tilted coffee table clearly used as an impromptu shield. Some students are starting to wake; the students who are alert look on with a strange mix of caution and determination. They don’t know what’s going on, but they’ll engage and stop Aomori if anything gets worse.

The fight completely drops out of the winged teen when he looks back at the ground, where Kacchan is slowly climbing to his feet, taking care to avoid the broken pieces of wood from a destroyed dining table.

“Oh,” Aomori falls to his knees, staring down at the shaking hands in his lap. “I,” He turns his gaze to Gravity Girl, trying to find words to explain. He’d been in this common room, but he’d also been in a lab. There was a doctor who knew him, and he had been as cold as the room. “There was,” He looks at the glasses teen when his lenses catch the light. Iida, Aomori thinks, watching the blue-haired teen hold a phone to his ear, rectangular glasses far different than the circular disks that resembled saw blades.

“They,” Aomori tries again, turning Sharp Objects for a baseline. The redhead is spooked and looks torn, as if he wants to hug Aomori but is unsure if it’s for containment or comfort. Both arms are hardened, ready for action. A single green feather sticks out of his shoulder.

Kacchan kneels before him, holding Aomori’s shaky palms in his steady, warm hands. “Do I have scars on my back?” The winged teen croaks out, attempting to whisper. He fails when his throat feels as raw as the memory.

“Don’t know that, nerd.” The blond soothes by rubbing his thumbs against the back of Aomori’s hands.

“Can you check?” The green teen leans forward, shifting his grip so he holds Kacchan by the forearm, resting his forehead in the spot where the neck meets the shoulder. Aomori breathes in the sweet scent of nitroglycerin, a welcome change from the sour smell of formaldehyde in the labs. “Please, please, please, please, please.”

“Yeah, I can do that,” Kacchan directs Aomori to wrap his arms around the explosive teen’s waist. The blond reaches out, testing the edges of Aomori’s shirt before burning fingers slide across the smaller teen’s skin.

“Man, this would be so much hotter if Bakugou was feeling up a chick.” Someone breaks the silence of the common room. Their lisp makes them sound stuck up and whiny, but Aomori couldn’t care less. The pain still hums under his skin, and he’s a moment away from falling apart.

There’s a scuffle and words Aomori doesn’t catch as he hugs Kacchan tighter.

Kacchan stiffens a breath later, left hand tracing something three times before moving up. He does this a few more times before the blond reaches his wings. “Deku,” Kacchan whispers, fingers tracing a space Aomori can’t feel. “Yeah.”

“Oh,” Aomori squeaks out, unsure what to say. Oh, because his world is tilting. Oh, because the doctor is part of the League of Villains and knew his past life. Oh, because he had been diagnosed as quirkless. Oh, because – if his memory is true – the League gave him his quirks.

He’s known that Tengu Aomori wasn’t his name from the moment he woke up as part of the League of Villains. Intention had pressed against his brain in protest, but Aomori didn’t know anything else to be. He’s known that U.A. has been on the lookout for Midoriya Izuku, and that they believe Aomori is this nervous kid. Kacchan has never wavered and is sure – even without memories, Aomori is Midoriya. More than that, he’s Deku, a name that changes with the person it belongs to.

He went along with it, but he didn’t honestly believe. Aomori has heard stories of the doctor implanting memories in League followers when they receive new quirks to master their powers faster. Midoriya could have been an implant. But if the memories were implants, why would they remember the taste of candied apples when Aomori sees Eri? Why would he fear the color purple or relive growing wings with excruciating detail?

Planted memories are easy to spot if one knows where to look. Artificial memories lack details, like dreams where words are illegible. They don’t have tastes, scents, and rarely have touch. They’re picked until they’re bare bones, enough to press an idea across. Pain doesn’t travel in memories unless the new user has felt a similar pain, and Aomori highly doubts growing wings in a League of Villains lab is a common occurrence, especially when seven quirks are involved.

So that’s it.

There’s no room for doubt and nothing left to deny. He’s sixteen years old, and his concrete memories start roughly five months ago. He has or had parents. He had friends. He had experiences, morals, and an entire lifetime that shaped him into the person he is now. That analyst knowledge had to come from somewhere. That desire to help people to safety, even if Aomori was sent to harm, came from somewhere. And now he knows.

Aomori was Midoriya Izuku.

The admission feels like a dozen locks in his head clicking open.

The admission feels like falling apart.

For days, he’s felt split across identities, as if wanting to live them simultaneously. Now, it feels like he doesn’t get a choice. Aomori can see his mind as an intricate stained glass window, barely held together by spot welds of solder. The welds break and the pieces fall with no rhyme or reason, memories as vivid as the present.

The winged teen gasps as a violent shiver wracks his body, shoving away from Kacchan. He sees Gravity Girl move out of the corner of his eye and remembers the ground rushing up to meet him as he trips forward. Shinsou kneels at Kacchan’s side, and all Izuku can focus on is unruly purple. This color belongs to dangerous things. Men in metal masks. Like that bird-faced hero on the other side of the room.

Aomori clutches his head between his hands, trying to keep the glass window together. Purple is danger. Touching purple is bad. Purple belongs to a man who would disassemble a child. Aomori was disassembled by a doctor. Was Midoriya Izuku the child?

“Aomori,” Shinsou calls, violet eyes determined. The eyes of a man who would destroy an island for one kid’s quirk. Violet, violence, Nine, ninth holder of One For All. Green lighting, purple lightning, red –  

The winged teen turns to Kacchan, his bandaged arm and red eyes. Red lightning. Ten.

Oh. Aomori sways, heart racing because those red eyes took his dream. Are his dream. Is victory where only Midoriya Izuku can fail—beautiful, burning red.

“Aomori,” Shinsou calls again, pulling the teen’s gaze.

“H-help,” He rasps, though it’s the last thing he wants to say to any shade of violet. Aomori sees the wild-haired teen wince as he feels something latch onto his mind, forcing him to still.

“Sleep,” Shinsou orders as darkness claims Aomori’s vision.

Chapter Text

Aizawa shows up with Recovery Girl and Present Mic in tow moments after Bakugou catches Deku in his arms. The nerd is shivering despite burning skin, wings twitching in sudden flaps that slap the blond. After Recovery Girl does a quick assessment, small fingers brushing against Deku’s sweaty forehead, Present Mic lifts the nerd into his arms.

“When we get him settled, I’ll start calling the specialists and get them to come sooner. We should have waited until they gave the all clear.” The youthful heroine chides.

“We had no way of knowing Class A would trigger something,” Present Mic shifts the nerd into a better position.

“They’re my class,” The hobo sighs, as if that was explanation enough.

With that, Recovery Girl turns to the class, offering a reassuring smile, “We’ll keep Aomori in an induced coma until we can get him the help he needs.”

Fuck, the nerd was finally free of that damn prison cell, and now he’s trapped in Recovery Girl’s office. Bakugou watches Present Mic leave with Deku in his arms and Recovery Girl by his side, while Aizawa remains to gather statements.

“Rewind the movie,” Bakugou barks at Dunce Face while Shitty Hair and Glasses pick up the dining table debris. On screen, the man in black is describing a punishment to the fuck awful prince.

“Dude, I don’t think anyone’s in the mood to finish it,” The electric idiot grimaces.

“Deku was triggered by something,” Bakugou glares, “And it was something in this shitty movie.”

“It’s an English movie about true love,” Ears scoffs, “it’s silly.”

“Bakugou may have a point,” The hobo steps away from Purple Hair and towards the television. “Triggers are typically only apparent to the person and invisible to others. As Aomori is missing a great deal of his memories, there’s no telling what may be a trauma for him.  Rewind the movie.”

Dunce Face fumbles with the remote, scenes playing in reverse. “Wait, there!” Round Cheeks cries out at the sight of Prince Shithead in a forest dungeon, Dunce Face presses play as the prince locks the princess in a room.

“You truly love each other, and so you might have been truly happy. Not one couple in a century has that chance, no matter what the storybooks say.” The prince says through clenched teeth. Bakugou remembers Deku quickly turning away from the TV and locking onto Bakugou. “And so I think no man in a century will suffer as greatly as you will.”

Bakugou stomps towards Dunce Face, jamming the pause button just as the man in black begins to scream. The hobo sighs, pinching his nose in annoyance. “You mean to tell me none of you considered a man being tortured in blatant human experimentation would be traumatic for someone who’s had blatant human experimentation?”

“We’ve never seen the movie before. How were we supposed to know?” Dunce Face gestures emphatically at the screen.

“Aizawa-sensei, it’s totally fake,” Raccoon Eyes jumps up from her seat to stand and defend the blond idiot.

“It doesn’t have to be real,” Bakugou frowns. “It has to be enough.” The mere thought of submerging in water gives the blond the shivers. It’s not the sludge villain by any means, but it’s no less terrifying.

“We didn’t know!” Dunce Face protests.

“You wouldn’t have,” The hobo agrees, walking towards the TV, looking at the man in black strapped to a table. “How did Aomori react?”

“Well, he shoved Todoroki off the couch,” Pink Cheeks taps her chin in thought. “And then he tried ripping out his feathers. We couldn’t get his attention, Bakugou had to tackle him.”

“That was before he started feeling Midoriya up like a perv,” Grape Face complains from his spot taped to the wall. Flat Face slaps a piece of tape over the pervert’s mouth. Ha.

The erasure hero levels his gaze on Bakugou for an explanation.

“He wanted to know if there were scars on his back. Whatever sent him down that fucking spiral had to do with the wings.” The explosive teen runs a hand through his spiky hair with a sigh.

“Bodies born with mutation quirks or emerging mutations don’t typically scar,” Aizawa nods, “Even temporary quirk mutation effects don’t scar, but there have been cases of quirk-induced mutations on an unprepared body, leaving physical markings as it tries to adapt. The scene must have triggered a memory of how he got his wings.”

Bakugou knows that all too well. Deku still bears scars on his right arm and hand, when his body couldn’t take the strain of One for All. The bandages on the blond’s arm is evidence of him trying to adapt to the powerful quirk.

“Good job alerting us of the incident. I suggest you all get to bed. Sero, Mineta, you’re with me. It seems we need a longer discussion.”

That night, Bakugou dreams of shadows. He knows they’re the previous holders of One for All – Deku’s mentioned them in the past – their shadows give the impression of power waiting to be released.

“He’s hurting,” A shadow whispers.

“Will you help him?” Another asks.

“It’s okay if you let me go,” Bakugou doesn’t need to see shit to know Deku’s offering a trembling smile.

When the teen wakes, he struggles to hold on to the dream. Bakugou feels like he’s agreed to something important, but the details are already blurred. He grimaces at future unknown sacrifices, scowling when orange and red lightning dance across his fingertips, a trick the nerd told him to try as a way to practice control.

“I’m only bringing you in on this because of Aomori’s attachment to you,” The hobo states firmly after collecting Bakugou from the dorms shortly after breakfast. “Despite yesterday’s incident, we believe it was beneficial toward his overall health.”

Bakugou hears the words loud and clear: The common room is replaceable, Deku is not.

Aizawa doesn’t say much else on the walk to Recovery Girl, and merely nods at the pros standing guard in the infirmary before gesturing to the heroine’s office.

Inside is cramped. Recovery Girl is perched on top of her desk with Nedzu at her side, both cupping steaming mugs of tea in their hands. Midnight stands next to Nedzu, hip cocked and face stern as she gazes past the doorway to the pro heroes outside. Four heroes Bakugou doesn’t recognize stand on the far side, bumping against filing cabinets and shelves. Hound Dog is adjacent to the heroes, growling when one gets too close. Some D-list hero stands just within the entrance, nervously shifting their weight from foot to foot – blue wings sprout from their ankles. All Might sits in Recovery Girl’s chair by the door, hands on his knees, and shoulders hunched, with Detective Tsukauchi leaning against another desk beside him. By the time Bakugou and Aizawa fit inside, the latter is forced to lean against the door so he doesn’t bump into someone else.

“Well,” The damn Rat God muses, “I’m glad we could all make it.”

“Hawks sends his apologies!” The D-list hero bows, silver pith helmet sliding off their head and onto the floor with a clatter. “I don’t – ”

“And I do,” Nedzu hums, enough to silence the sidekick as they pick up their helmet before brushing off invisible dirt from their blue outfit. “Before we discuss anything else, let’s give hero Erumesu a chance to pass along Hawk’s message.”

“Um, right!” The D-list hero stammers, shoving the helmet back on their head before unclipping the tablet at their side. “Says, uh, well, that’s weird,” They laugh, pale face turning white. “It says samples of the green feather contain an eighty-six percent match to Hawks’ DNA. The, ah, um, theory and this sounds insane, someone took the number two hero’s DNA and mutated it before inserting it into a – wow that’s gross – a new host.”

The hobo sighs at Bakugou’s side, pinching the bridge of his nose as he shuts his eyes tight. Yeah, no fuck. Worst debrief ever. This D-list hero is dismissing and putting doubt in findings with the damn stuttering and sie comments. How the hell did this extra become a hero?

Bakugou knew Deku had Hawks’ wings. Who else has telekinesis control of their feathers? Who else has that wing style? The blond looks at the U.A. heroes as they continue staring at the extra. No surprise, just a confirmation of findings.

“I, um, don’t really know what else to say. I was told to leave the device here with you, but, uh,”

“Leave.” The hobo opens the door to the office. The D-list hero scrambles, shoving the tablet into Bakugou’s arms before hurrying out the door.

“That honestly could have been an email,” Midnight sighs, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “But, Hawks’ communications are currently limited due to surveillance and a couple of cases he’s juggling.”

“At the very least, the information confirms that Aomori’s quirks were obtained without removing them from another person first.” Recovery Girl notes.

“All for One is learning new tricks,” All Might hums, shoulders rising to his ears.

“Can you get to the point?” Bakugou growls. “Is the nerd gonna be okay?”

“He’s going to be fine, Bakugou,” Hound Dog shifts into the space the sidekick vacated.

“With last night’s incident, will Young Midoriya finally return to us?” All Might straightens in his seat, hopeful. “His, ah, counterpart, isn’t very receptive towards me. Our relationship is much changed.”

Ha. It was changed the moment the former number one told Deku to shove it back on the island. A memory wipe had nothing to do with it.

“He’s Aomori,” Aizawa states firmly. “Even with last night’s progress, you can’t possibly be so ignorant to delude yourself into believing he’ll be Midoriya when he wakes, can you? Even if Aomori forgets the past several months and his time with the League, those quirks – those wings – aren’t going anywhere. No matter what happens, moving forward, he’s no longer Midoriya Izuku.”

Orange and red lightning flashes across Bakugou’s free hand. He pockets the hand quickly, but he’s too slow for a room full of heroes and their eyes briefly turn to him. The light show whispers something at the back of the teen’s mind. Something about a dream. Something about letting go.

What does Bakugou need to lose to keep Deku close?

“I couldn’t have said it better myself!” One of the four pros takes a single step into the middle of the room. She’s short, barely reaching Bakugou’s chin, with the thick blunted hands of a baker. She smiles jovially, a warm blush blooming on her red-brown skin. She stands in an outfit of grays and creams, her dark hair in haphazard braids falling over her shoulders to frame her face. “This Aomori kid is one of the toughest cases I’ve seen. It was mental ward after mental ward after mental ward.”

“I tugged at those woven blocks,” A tall and lanky man with sallow skin and mint green hair raises his hand. “It was as delicate as it was strong. Any time I tugged on a thread, I could feel the traps inside. Some could trigger bezerker mode, others heart failure.”

“It’s like when you get a present and in the box is another box and in that box is a bomb. And then inside that bomb is another box with another bomb, so on and so forth.” The third hero dressed in all white bumps the filing cabinet and sends a pile of papers cascading to the floor. Recovery Girl frowns, and the hero grimaces.

“What you gotta know is that those threads come from somewhere,” The female pro says, turning in a slow circle. “Whoever messed with his mind used the links between memories to set traps. We were hesitant to undo the wards before because of the many traps inside, but since Aomori undid and severed them most of the wards himself, well – most of the memories aren’t connected to anything anymore.”

“Not connected? What does that even mean?” Tsukauchi asks, crossing his arms firmly over his chest.

“Aomori may not ever remember his time as Midoriya Izuku,” The heroine says with an apologetic smile. “It’s hard to say if those memories still exist, because we can’t follow the paths.”

“You see, we all have systems in place for memory,” The hero in white adds, “As we get older, our processing power gets slower, so we struggle to move through those systems. Or, with brain injuries or check-ups, like MRIs, can mess with those connective points. Amnesia is a usually temporary disconnection of memories. Sometimes our memory techniques become disorders and we have issues like face blindness.”

“But Young Midoriya isn’t old,” All Might stresses.

“Yes, that’s true. It’s why Aomori has no issue retaining and forming new memories.” The short heroine’s smile turns forced.

“Think of it this way,” The mint hero coughs from the far wall, “A standard person is comprised of dozens of memories shouting over each other at any given moment. I look at you and see ‘All Might: Number One Hero.’ I simultaneously remember you retired last year after a battle with the League of Villains, that the League kidnapped Bakugou Katsuki, and that Midoriya Izuku was also kidnapped some months ago. As both you and Bakugou are in this room, I know Midoriya Izuku is vital to both of you, despite the fact Midoriya Izuku may no longer exist.

“While that sounds like rambling, our minds run through these connections rapidly in every situation. I will remember I met Eraserhead at the same conference I met Sir Nighteye. With Sir Nighteye’s passing, my mind must make a new correlation to Eraserhead. It’s these mental threads of connections that make up who we know and what we are. For Aomori, he may remember you’re All Might: Number One Hero, and he may remember you retired, but there’s no longer anything linking those two points of information together.”

“He’s gonna have misfires too,” The dark skinned heroine’s face pinches. Well, fuck, that can’t be good. “Like you said, Aomori isn’t old, which means his brain is going to actively try and repair all the threads he broke while breaking free of those mental barriers. But whatever his brain does, it’ll be like fishing. He’ll cast a line into the dark ocean and hope he gets something good.”

“What does this mean for his future?” The hobo asks.

“Well,” The fourth hero stands on their tiptoes to look over the short heroine. They look the most dressed for battle, clad in black clothes, metal gauntlets, and a helmet that obscures their face. “At this point, it’s up to Aomori. He can purposely search for those memories, and we’ll help the best we can. The best part of Aomori breaking free of the wards on his own is that he has agency over his life again. We’ve tried to untangle what we can in what remains, but found evidence of a few lingering mental quirks that shouldn’t be an issue. He’s free to be whoever he wants, whether it’s Aomori, Midoriya, or something else entirely.”

“He can choose,” The heroine at the center of the room beams, “And that’s the greatest luxury we can ask for.” She looks around the room before her gaze latches onto Bakugou. “We weren’t able to find much while making sure his mind was safe for himself and others, but we found you in the strongest parts, Bakugou Katsuki.”

“You must be quite the person to hold Aomori together.” The mint hero adds thoughtfully. Bakugou feels more eyes turn his way.

“You don’t get it,” Bakugou grits his teeth, “He’s Deku. However the fuck he changes or stays the same. He’s Deku. I gave him that name and he chose to keep it.”

“And you’re Kacchan,” Nedzu says in an airy, amused tone, “you chose to keep that name, too. I wonder what that choice means for both your futures.”