Archive of Our Own

“Yo, check it out! This one looks just like Kacchan!” 

Katsuki whirls around, already anticipating Denki’s next move and gripping him in a headlock before he can run. There’s only so many times a joke can be cracked before it grows stale (and it had been kind of funny in the beginning), but Denki is an idiot and never learnt from his mistakes. This time, Katsuki actually drags him over to the site of the offence.

“Say it again,” he demands, grinning fiercely as Denki splutters and smacks at his forearm. “I dare you.” 

“You’re gonna get chucked out,” comes Hanta’s voice, less amused and more exhausted. There’s a shuffle of footsteps before there’s a pat on Katsuki’s shoulder, and he gives Denki a squeeze for good measure before letting go. “Can you two get through one day without arguing?” 

There’s an unrivalled level of drama in the way Denki pulls back, gasping for air with a hand to his chest. It’s nothing they aren’t unused to, but Katsuki can only roll his eyes as he starts up his usual speech of– “He tried to kill me! Did you see that? He’s vicious!” 

“Maybe he’d like you more if you didn’t keep reusing the same joke.” Now there’s a smirk, and Katsuki doesn’t stop himself from mirroring it whilst flicking Denki the middle finger. “Which one was it this time?” 

Denki grins and jabs his thumb at the painting behind them by some 20th century French artist; a white, box-shaped cat with long legs wildly out of proportion. By means of explanation, Denki just inclines his head and says, “Hanta, buddy, isn’t that the face he pulls when he’s taking a sh–” 

This time, Hanta blocks the way before Katsuki can strangle him. The ensuing commotion is what gives them away, because the sharp call of “ Bakugou!” From the supervisor at the front of their group is pointed, angry, and, of course, directed at him and him alone. Some heads turn, but the majority of their classmates are engrossed in what the tour guide has to say, including his best friend. 

“This is stupid,” Katsuki grumbles when he comes to stand next to him, Denki and Hanta separated at either end of the group. He can see Denki smirking at him through the crowd from his peripheral vision but ignores it. “I couldn’t give less of a damn about art.”

“I think it’s pretty interesting.” Eijirou’s smile is sympathetic, and he offers Katsuki some gum as a way of keeping him busy. As always, Katsuki takes it. “And, y’know, I have to pass.”

All it gets is a grunt. He has a point: Eijirou does actually need the credit. Where his friend struggled, Katsuki passed with flying colours; the only reason he often escapes notice when messing around on pointless field trips. It wasn’t the same for his clueless friends and their collective brain cell. His annoyance still stood, though–there were many, many more valuable things he could be doing with his time. Rather than loitering around some gallery he could be studying subjects he’s pursuing in college: physics, maths, anything else. It’s a waste of valuable time for studying, and he knows the majority of his class feel the same way. 

Even so, he stays quiet. He drags his feet following Eijirou, grumpy and irritated at his separation from the only person who actually bothered to entertain him. At the very least Denki could reply with a wild comeback, even if he acted like the victim every time Katsuki lashed out in return. In fact, he can still feel eyes on him, which he ignores with every fibre left of his resilience; if he lets go now, there’s no way he’ll recover. 

But he’s just so bored. 

“C’mon, bro, cheer up,” Eijirou says after a while, nudging Katsuki playfully with his shoulder as the group begins to move again. The guide is obsessing over a marble statue and only half the class are paying attention, teachers included. “Hang in there, there’s only a few hours left.” 

“You know they’re absolutely gonna keep us longer, right?” Denki, who Katsuki spotted a few moments ago slipping away from the front to linger with them at the back, pipes up. “The times are guidelines. They don’t actually stick to them.” 

Katsuki sneers. “Pay attention and you could graduate in the next few years.”

“You’re such a heathen.” 

The nervous laughter from Eijirou as he pats the centre of Katsuki’s chest says enough. “C’mon, you’re really gonna get thrown out.” 

“Tell him, not me!” Katsuki counters, an equal mix of betrayed and irate. “He started this shit!”

“Dude, this looks exactly like Katsuki.” There’s a brief length of a pause where Katsuki riles himself up to yet another headlock, but Denki squeaks when he lunges. “Wait, wait! Jesus Christ , I’m serious!”  

“Whoa, that’s… Actually kind of scary.” It’s the comment from Eijirou that stops him from attacking again, if nothing else but for the sheer wonder and awe that bleeds into his voice. Eijirou is an expressive person, but there’s something different in his tone that makes Katsuki hesitate, fist still full of Denki’s shirt. It takes less than a moment to track his gaze, and when it does–

His heart lurches to his throat, and the innate response surprises him enough to let Denki go. The jokes were getting old, he’d seen enough shittily painted cats, dogs, and humans on this trip that one more comment was the end of whoever spoke it, but, for once, Denki’s right: it’s uncanny. The sharp nose, pointed jaw, fluff of blonde hair and even the striking crimson of his eyes; he’s tempted to pull out his phone camera just to be sure he isn’t crazy.

“Did you secretly get a self-portrait?” Denki asks, but even Katsuki can hear that he’s only half-joking. The resemblance is uncomfortable enough that he eventually drops his sights to the plaque beneath. “What does that say?” 

““The Barbarian King, circa seven hundred ac, artist unknown.”” Even though he’s closest, Eijirou bends and studies it like a historical text. “It says he was the leader of a tribe that worshipped dragons. The artist could be a Prince who took an interest in the tribe, but they aren’t sure.” 

“Dude, aren’t dragons like, imaginary?”

“That’s what you’re focused on?!” 

The rest of their conversation drowns to white noise, static that filters through a radio. For some reason, Katsuki can’t take his eyes off the brush strokes or flicks of paint on a delicate canvas, each strand of hair emphasised in white and gold. There are questions that need answering, but this kind of practical joke was far too much for one person, let alone his collective idiots. Then again, how could this possibly be a coincidence?

He doesn’t understand. It’s like his brain can’t comprehend or recognise himself, and he’s so lost in his thoughts that he startles when Eijirou tentatively pats his shoulder. “Katsuki?”

“What? What?” The viciousness takes them all aback, and he immediately feels like a bitch when Eijirou flinches. His friends are used to his antics and expect them, but Eijirou is far too nice; he’s gentle, and it shows when he takes it in his stride and approaches from a softer angle. 

“We gotta go, they’re moving on. We don’t wanna get lost.” 

“We’re coming back later though, right?” Rather than walk away peacefully, Denki decides to purposefully bump his shoulder into Katsuki’s own as he passes. “This is way too spooky to brush over. We need a photoshoot!” 

“A photoshoot with your dead body,” Katsuki snaps, immediately charging after him, but peacemaker Eijirou stops his tirade by simply linking their arms and all but dragging him away.

Just before they leave, Katsuki glances back. The painting is still there, obviously, and nothing has changed, but there’s an atmosphere about it that makes his fingers itch. He needs to go back and look properly without distractions–more than anything, he needs to think and be certain he’s not going fucking crazy.

Salvation is in the form of a short break barely an hour later, when the tour guide decides that he’s crammed enough history down their throats. As always, Katsuki ends up in a lazy circle after buying Eijirou a drink as a subtle apology, once again bored out of his mind.

They hadn’t stopped talking about meaningless shit and, as a result, Katsuki hadn't stopped thinking. There were too many coincidences, too many features captured perfectly, too many feelings evoked at the resemblance. Eijirou’s right; it is scary to have his face attached to the nameless, an artist and era he never knew. There are no names and no dates, like a period of time condensed and confined from the dregs of his memory.

He doesn’t believe in God or heaven, or even hell. He doesn’t believe in rebirth or consciousness, just that life simply began and then stopped existing in a never-ending cycle. Energy was transferred, never destroyed, and everything has a scientific explanation; it’s why he likes it so much. Science never screwed around, and molecules and reasoning could be traced back to a source. Nothing has to be believed in but knowledge and facts sprinkled with logical theory. So, how in every fateful timeline is this possible?

It’s beyond his comprehension, and the reality of the illogical unknown makes him antsy with irritability. Five minutes in, he snaps.

“Where you goin’, Kacchan?” Denki asks when he stands, mouth full of apple, and Katsuki scoffs in disgust.

“To take a piss. Want a tracker on my phone?” 

His irritation only grows when he notices Hanta grabbing his rucksack too. “Sweet, I need to–”

“No.” There’s a finality that has Hanta hesitating, but Katsuki doesn’t wait for his response or the following lengthy explanation. The longer he waits the less time he has, because Eijirou is fundamentally right–the last thing he needs is to get lost in a gallery. He turns on his heel and disappears in the vague direction of the bathrooms, ignoring the confusion behind him until he’s out of sight. Then, he loops back around and follows the path the way he came.

The winding halls are like a labyrinth. Each exhibition has its own set of walls and doors, and there are loud tourists and excitable kids wandering around aimlessly. Nobody pays him attention even when he loses his way twice, but eventually Katsuki finds himself on a recognisable carpet on the way to an equally recognisable room. This time around, he pauses at the entryway to read the exhibition title, hoping to find a clue, an idea that could relieve some of the tension growing at the back of his skull. 

But there’s nothing. There’s no means of an explanation beyond ancient artists, and no answers to be found in the painting’s vague reference. He’s so absorbed in his animosity that he barely notices where his feet take him until he’s only a few metres away, and it’s then that he notices he isn’t alone.

There’s a boy his age who seems to have noticed Katsuki long before he saw him. He’s dressed plainly in blue, but isn’t surrounded by a group or a rucksack; just a few papers in his palms like he visited to study this painting alone. Katsuki knows they’ve never met. He’s certain , but there’s something about him that’s recognisable enough to know that his two-toned hair is natural and the scar hidden by his fringe extends up to his forehead. 

He knows him but doesn’t, like he met him in his subconscious as a shadow. The feeling is just as uncomfortable as seeing himself printed on a canvas.

What wipes his uncertainty away is the kid looking Katsuki up and down, then briefly flickering his attention to the exhibition behind him. He can almost see his mind working, deciphering, deciding, and all Katsuki can do is grit his teeth and raise his defences. “Shut up, I don’t know either.”

There’s a pause. He hesitates, still staring Katsuki down like he’s sizing him up. “I didn’t say anything?”

“Didn’t have to.” 

An awkward silence settles whilst Katsuki debates on leaving, but returning empty handed with an emptier mind sounds like a penalty rather than relief. It wouldn’t solve his growing list of questions and it definitely wouldn’t be as productive, so if this guy had something to say  he could get lost. Katsuki stuffs his hands in his pockets and stomps over, maintaining a fair distance by taking a seat on the bench strategically positioned a foot or so away. Once comfortable, he discards his bag so he can devote his full attention to what’s in front of him.

Once again, nothing has changed. The painting is still bold and luxurious, each brush stroke intricate and precise. There are minor details there he hadn’t noticed in his state of shock, like the red horn threaded through an ear and the scuff of messy paint splattered across his cheeks. He can even see each individual eyelash drawn to an elegant point, like the artist’s purpose was to portray the painting as ferocious yet soft in a way that’s fascinatingly pretty. There are still no answers though, and, at this stage, Katsuki isn’t sure he’ll get one.

Eyes are still on him, he can see the flicker of attention every now and then. The guy is hovering, clearly unsure of what to do but not inclined to leave; the exact position Katsuki himself is in. They’re at an awkward stalemate; if this were anyone else, he would have lashed out within the first sentence. Something tells him not to, because something else in his chest whispers faintly that the familiarity must hold weight–there must be some explanation behind this. Sure, he could be grasping at straws and making an idiot of himself, but if there’s a possibility–

“I saw you earlier.” The guy glances at him again, neatly folding the papers in his hands in half, rooted to the spot. “Why did you come back?” 

It dawned on him that it wasn’t just Denki’s eyes trying to distract him through the crowd earlier–he knew he was being watched. Inwardly cursing, he tries to appear disinterested. “What, are you stalking me? This is a public place, dipshit.”

The insult rolls like water off a duck’s back; the stranger doesn’t even seem to notice it. Instead, he stares hard at the painting itself, and Katsuki finds himself studying his features, that nasty scar in particular. Something deep in his chest stirs, lilts, and dies.

“That’s not what I mean.” A pause. “Why did you come back knowing you wouldn’t find an answer?” 

Katsuki stares. It’s phrased like a question meant to trip him up, but how can he trip over when he doesn’t know the hazard? Strangely, it feels personal, almost like reaching into a memory to draw it out by the seams. He could snap back. He could insult him, tell him to leave, punch him if he didn’t–there’s no reason for them to sit here and talk, but once again, something encourages Katsuki to do it anyway. 

So, he replies honestly. “I don’t know.” 

He seems satisfied, acknowledging it with a hum. Katsuki half expects him to leave as mysteriously as he appeared, but to his chagrin, he sits on the other side of the bench. There’s plenty of space between them, but Katsuki finds himself shuffling away, suddenly suffocated. A minute passes before he speaks again. “This painting is strange.”

“Because it happens to look like me?” Katsuki retaliates blandly, surprised to see a shake of his head. 

“It is weird, sure, but that’s not it.” By means of a shoddy explanation, he leans forward to skim long fingers over the glass encasing the canvas delicately. “This is made by skilled hands. The workmanship is close to royalty during the period, so the design is likely made by the Prince theorised. So, why choose to make it anonymous?” 

When Katsuki remains silent, he continues. “This painting was made affectionately. You can see it in the strokes–the artist spent a long time making sure it was accurate. It makes me believe this was a gift, but why would someone of that standing just hand out paintings to a tribe? There’s more to this.” He leans away, and there’s a knit in his eyebrows Katsuki finds himself observing a little too closely. “That’s what I think, anyway.”

“So… It’s political?” 

“Maybe.” Finally, he looks at him again, expression unreadable. “Or something more clandestine.” 

Katsuki’s eyes snap back around, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze. This whole situation is uncomfortably weird, yet somehow he feels as if part of a layered question has been answered.It doesn’t extend to the how or why, but a feeling settles in him; warmth that spreads through his stomach and chest. He has no idea if this guy is talking out of his ass or just trying to make conversation, but the story–no matter how fantastical–is sad. He has to wonder if there’s any truth in it.

But he finds himself asking something much less proactive. “Are you an artist?”

“Sometimes. I like it here.”

His reply is a grunt, unsure of how to follow. There’s no point in talking, really. There’s no reason they should be here at the same place in front of the same painting talking about conspiracy theories, but the discomfort that plagues him is dissipating each second he speaks. The guy is staring again, but this time Katsuki doesn’t care. Actually, he kind of understands, and the realisation that both of them are here for equally unknown reasons is oddly grounding. 

There’s another silence before Katsuki decides to ask the question that’s hung in his mind since he saw himself in a canvas. Why he chooses to ask a stranger, he doesn’t know, but there’s a bunch of weird shit happening today. “D’you think it’s me?” 

“Like… You’re a reincarnation?” A nod. “I guess I don’t know. Do you?”

“No.” Katsuki hears how fast his answer is and grimaces. Reincarnation is a concept with no background or theory aside from religion, so why would he entertain it now? What changed? It’s that line of thought that breaks him into a sigh, bothered by the interaction. “I didn’t .” 

He’s expecting the chuckle, but the stranger then sighs. “This feels familiar.”

It does. Though he hasn’t said it, Katsuki feels it more than ever. There’s a familiarity in the way they speak, in the fluidity of questions and answers like they’ve known each other for years. There’s a comfort in his voice that Katsuki just knows is relaxation, and even he can feel the tension draining from his shoulders despite the atmosphere. It’s as if time froze for thirteen hundred years.

“Katsuki!” The suddenness of his name ringing through the hall startles him, and for a moment feels as if he’s awoken from a long dream. The stranger may as well be a figment of his imagination, and it’s what he’s expecting as he glances back, but the stranger is still there on the opposite end of the bench. Eijirou–face contorted in worry–rushes over, chest heaving and breath wheezy with pain. “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you, what are you–”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” The reply is rough, and he knows he’s an asshole. The reality is he did ditch his friends to stare at a painting and then proceeded to ignore their calls–how much time had passed? 

“Dude, it’s been like an hour–we looked everywhere . You said you were going to the bathroom!”

“Well, you found me, so let’s go.” He tries not to betray his bewilderment, or how sad he suddenly feels at having to leave. There’s a stumble in his step as he turns his back and a pang in his chest that he can’t explain, not to mention that echoing voice insisting he at least say goodbye. So, with a grimace, he turns.

It happens in a fraction of a second; a snippet of time hidden away that flashes through his head. There’s warmth at his back and the weight of a weapon in his hand on a wide, flames and wreckage billowing thick clouds of smoke into the sky. On the other side of the field is a man with two-toned hair dressed in blue, the faintest of smiles on his lips and a quirked eyebrow.  Katsuki blurts out, “Later, Todoroki.”

There’s something all too familiar in the way that smirk grows. “Goodbye, Bakugou.”