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The moon hovered above, its chill light sweeping over the shadowed night. A man, head a mess of mossy green bangs and eyes older than time, leaned against a chipped railing, paint biting into his pale hands. Foggy breathes exhale in slow intervals, dissipated into the air, invisible to whoever roamed below, not that many would be awake at an hour such as this.
A rough hand curls around his shoulder, warm and comforting against the winding breeze. The man doesn’t startle by the unannounced presence of his companion, simply leaning back into the strong chest. Over the years, these two have grown particularly close, despite their violent past. It wasn’t something they ignored, but so much time has passed that their former relationship was lost to brittle history. It’s not like anyone else remembered, living only in the hollows of their memories.
“I miss them.” Says Izuku, voice a lulling whisper. A particular breeze shifts past, picking up dust and bits of rock. Leaves sway, but don’t quite leave their perch on the trees. Fingers entwined with his own, squeezing lightly. The man’s head dipped forwards, and the other knows it’s to hide the way his face will scrunch full with sorrowful emotions.
“...So do I.” Katsuki admits in the same careful tone, throat choked with forgotten emotions. To outsiders- heroes, civilians, that homeless man seated at the end of their alleyway they’d grown to call home- the two seemed distant and closed off, but they could never understand the horror they’d been forced through. It’s not even as though they could try and say anything about it either, lest they be deemed insane and delusioned. Quirks were unique and special to each person they belonged to, but some people refused to broaden their consideration to include the vast diversity.
Izuku bites his lip, shrugging lightly. When his eyes close, all he can see is blood and bones, mashed together beneath his own clean fists. When he’d first gotten here- he hadn’t realized what was going on, One For All rising to his bitter calling and fueling the hazed rage that had overtaken him so fast. The clean up was messy. A squelch breathes in his ear and suddenly he's gasping, tears threatening to breach his tightly shut gaze. Katsuki’s hand rubs in large circles, a calming gesture that does little to get rid of the image burned into his retinas.
“You didn’t know.” His gruff voice reminds, tired and lost. When Shigaraki had been killed in that alley, it’d been the blond who helped dispose of the body. Perhaps that is why they got away with it as they did, or perhaps it was because the only one who would go looking was All For One.
And when he did, a thousand-year old grudge reared its head. Izuku’s control was slipping, and sometimes he would black out. He didn’t regret what happened to All For One, nor Chisaki of the Yakuza, but Tomura? He wasn’t someone who was past redemption, but it was too late for that now. A fresh chance had been handed down to the heroes and the moment they’d taken it they’d wiped out any possible threats.
The balcony they rested against was new, but to them it felt centuries old, no matter the shiny metal or idle shoes left just outside the door. They weren’t supposed to be here, not so openly, but this was their last stop, and after that they had no plans to continue this whole scheme they’d conjured up at the last minute.
“I wish they were here.” Izuku weeps silently, grief clawing at his chest with sharp claws and vicious fangs. He thinks back to the brilliant smile Ochako would always give him, or the flat jokes Todoroki would occasionally deliver. He missed Tsuyu with her blunt comments and Tenya who kept them all in line, bent on following every rule, no matter the times.
“Do you?” Katsuki asked honestly, not bothering to shift his gaze from the full moon. He, too, longed to see his friends once more. He’d taken advantage of their kindness, not recognizing them for what they were. Good, honest, people. They had truly cared for him, but he’d been too blind by his ego to see them as anything but leaching nuisances. Kirishima had always been particularly close, and Denki would always follow along, not dumb, but lost on certain topics that seem like common-sense. Mina’s gossiping chatter still echoed in his ears, Sero and Jirou’s occasional input chiding along.
Izuku took a moment to consider that, leaning back and eyes landing on some far-away foe. Someone who’d once tainted the world, now to never be so much as heard of. He misses his friends- but he remembers the relief that had flooded over him when he learned they wouldn’t be around to live in the hell that followed. Rose brains leaking crimson, eyes bulging and devouring everything in sight, their lifeless souls tainting the very air they breathe. The two old heroes’ friends never had to deal with that or live after with the burden of death and sacrifice. Their early passings were a good thing, as hard as it may be to understand.
“No.” He finally hums, eyes slipping close, silver tears dried against the mossy green stubble dotting his chin. It was a far cry from the full beard he’d never trimmed since arriving, one-too-many complaints, however, finally pushed him to shave the entire thing off. That had been a month or so ago, and now it was starting to bud again. Katsuki had something similar, but unlike his partner, he took more precise care of his appearance.
Katsuki dipped his head in mournful agreement, hands curling tightly around the railing, reveling in the way it creeks delicately. He doesn’t worry of the proof that will be left behind of their lingering, not when tonight would be their last mission. Sure, they wished they could live a care-free life when this was all over, but it was highly unlikely. Where the people would see vibrant flashes of aweing colors, these two would only observe bitter gray, and it was hard to fit in when you couldn't tell red from green.
“Are you ready?” Asked Izuku when a chill snaked up their arms, haunting and warning. Katsuki shifted his head, piercing hollow eyes pinning the door. Yuga Aoyama, a hero student in 1A, was a masterful traitor. Sure, he was a wimp, but throughout his time spent in UA he hasn’t been so much as suspected. The evidence in the bag slung over Katsuki’s shoulder felt unbearably heavy, a sinking weight that made his throat tighten. Izuku didn’t even have to spare him a glance before he was reaching over, clutching tightly to his shoulder, reassuring that they would help him. Yuga would get the chance Tomura Shigaraki never had.
They wore professional masks and armor that shielded their precious body from a barrage of attacks. They didn’t bother to state their purpose, striding up to an old face- But god, so, so incredibly young.- And dropped the weighted leather bags into his chopping hands. Yuga struggled in Izuku’s grip, but wouldn’t dare fire off his quirk in case this was some challenge unknowingly set up by what remained of the league.
Katsuki turned back, arms crossed tightly over his chest, resting his body against that of Izuku’s, head tilted high and just daring anyone to approach. They wouldn’t, not when they held their classmate hostage. The old lecture of what to do in case of a hostage situation still whispered in the depths of his ears, mocking, but aiding. He ignored the trying words, holding up a hand when a student dared press forward. They didn’t know his quirk (they did they did), and weren’t willing to risk it. Neither of the adults spoke for the risk of being recognized too early.
There was a bang at his side and a sudden slamming silence. AllMight, sunken into nothing but bones had arrived, with Aizawa, free of the tiredness the both had grown to recognize (he was so young), right at his side. Behind them were Midoriya and Bakugou, a mirror image of what they would look like if they were without their carefully constructed suits. Midoriya pinpointed them immediately, lips drawing into a straight line. It took a tense second more for Bakugou to fall in after, eyes flitting over the intelligently crafted muscle and relaxed (but not unwary) posture. They said nothing.
“Who are you?” Aizawa demanded, tone as cold as the howling wind outside, rough, but not coarse with dust and smoke forever lining the back of his throat. There wasn’t a scar under his twitching eye, cheek mostly clean with scattered stubble. His hair was long and oily, not grossly sliced with what had been a dull machete.
Again, neither answered, turning back to the leather bag holding mounds of evidence, as well as a letter scratched into the lined paper, messily written with a shaky hand. Izuku’d been the one who wanted to write it, but the poor fool couldn’t hold his hands to ever sit still, constantly vibrating with shattered, but dull, pain.
Handcuffs were snapped tightly around their wrists, just daring them to attempt escape. They didn’t, of course, willingly being lead back into a spare room somewhere beneath UA. A holding cell. It wouldn’t be an hour later when a boy- pale as the letter they’d tenderly folded- was sent down to be secured in the block just besides them. Katsuki feigned ignorance when Izuku found himself leaning against the wall, muttering reassurances that the blond couldn’t quite place who they were for.
Their cells were cold, but their nightmares were colder, not even sleep willing to offer an refuge from the silence they’d found themselves placed in. Despite the treatment, however, the relished in these old concrete walls, for they were cracked or reduced to nothing but rubble, but pristine and fresh. Izuku and Katsuki had done their job well, and now it would be time for their friends (not anymore) to take care of the spills they let slip through. Taking care of all the world’s problems would, unfortunately, help noone. The danger, though reduced to survivable, was still alive and thriving, just biding it’s time for the perfect time to strike.
All these two had really and truly done is set off that timer earlier than intended, thus rendering the strike imperfect. The cracks would enlarge, big enough to allow proper heroes to slip through and become aware of the danger without falling to the hands of evil. The world was headed to a dark time, but it would not be pitch black- blinding. The future, though far, would still shine like the moon, never reaching that new-moon stage. Always would it remain a wane or crescent.
Izuku wrapped his scarred, shivering, fingers around Katsuki’s, pulling him tearfully in. Finally, they allowed themselves to breathe in each other, take comfort instead of dread that they were still alive. Together. A hand cupped his coarse chin, aching thumb rubbing circles, wiping away any slithering tears. We’re done, they sobbed, relief and sorrow a colliding wave. How do you express the way these two, young but old, embraced each other, becoming one but two beings? In sync but to two different voices. A harmony of stars and moon and wind and grass
The staff would find them curled up on the bed, masks having been slipped back on, always facing away from the interested camera. Despite their orders, promises echoed in the back of their minds, a hollow film of splattered blood and creaking bones, that urged them to be patient and wait for these two to awaken. They don’t know why they feel so indebted to these strangers, or why they know they owe their very souls and more. Just who are these men, and what have they done for the world?