Chapter Text
He watched carefully as the wool spun through his fingers, twisting and coiling into perfect strands. He couldn't miss a single strand—couldn't let a flaw slip past his grasp.
But the wool was soft and supple, like clouds rushing through his hands. He had nothing to worry about, not this time. His rams had stayed out of the forest this month, so they'd been easier to groom. Their coats were undamaged. He'd have to oil his hands when he finished—softening the calluses that were forming along the pads and grooves of his fingers—but the yarn would be soft and unbroken.
Within a few days, his mother would have woven it into cloth, and then they'd cut the cloth into coats. The warriors were dropping off their talismans soon—something small to be sewn into each new coat, that would protect them on their journey.
He needed this batch to be perfect. Katsuki would be leaving with their warriors in a week to defend their territory from another clan. He was so brave—so beautiful and bold—and Izuku needed to do whatever he could to protect him, even if it was just keeping him warm.
He wanted to see Kacchan's smile every day of his life, even if it wasn't directed at him. His smile was what he cherished most, and it was his worst-kept secret. It didn't matter that the warrior barely spoke to him—too important to waste his time on a shepherd—his ferocious grin was the reason Izuku woke up in the morning.
Every time he saw it his heart stopped, only to pound moments later. His pulse would rush in his ears and his knees would go weak. The air in his lungs felt more pure with him around.
So, Katsuki had to come home. Without him, Izuku would be untethered. He was sure of it.
They'd been gone for a month, and there was a constant pit in his stomach—heavy and leaden with dread. Nobody had heard from the warriors who'd left, and their families and loved ones were on edge.
It was customary for them to send a raven with any news, as often as they could. It wasn't normal for them to be so silent. Izuku's hands shook when he thought about it—yarn spooling with clumps under his trembling fingers.
That's why he was going to the temple now, offering in hand. He knew there would be dozens of other offerings, grander and more opulent than his, but he didn't think another voice would hurt.
He'd do anything to sway the universe in Katsuki's favor. Anything to bring him home safe.
He peered through the temple doors, breathing a sigh of relief when he found it empty. He didn't need the village to gossip—to drag Katsuki down with rumors about Izuku's affection.
He breathed deep as he lit the candles around the altar, tried to keep his heart calm as he unwrapped the fresh loaf of bread he'd made that evening. It was still warm as he placed it on the altar—surrounded by fresh flowers, milk and honey, coins and dried herbs.
"I may be worrying for nothing," he murmured, kneeling. "But if you're listening, I'd like to make a plea."
He swallowed, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants. Deities weren't benevolent. They were precarious and capricious, but for the right offering and a heartfelt plea they might be inclined to tip the scales in your favor.
"I'm sure plenty of others have come to ask for the safe return of our warriors," he said. "Maybe I'm more selfish. I'm...I'm only here for Kacchan. Katsuki Bakugou."
He probably didn't need to elaborate. There were only so many Kacchans in the world, and the gods were intelligent enough to know that he only knew one.
"I'm here to ask you to bring him home alive. Whatever you need from me to make it so, I'll give. If he needs a miracle, I'll sacrifice anything you wish to take. You don't even have to ask." He swallowed, heart pounding. "I'd give up anything for him. So please, bring him home safely."
There was a rush—a whisper of a breeze that licked up the back of his neck, making the candles flicker—then it was silent. He'd almost expected more—something more fantastic and otherworldly, but he supposed he was grateful.
He was sure they'd heard him. Now, he had to hope that he was a worthy sacrifice.
His heart felt easier from then on. Not calm, of course. He wouldn't be at ease until Katsuki came home, but as long as the gods hadn't taken anything from him, he could hope that Kacchan was safe.
Weeks had gone by, and nothing had been taken from him. He'd even delivered bread to the temple every night, just to keep his prayer fresh—but nothing.
He had to believe that meant Kacchan was okay. That even if they couldn't send a raven, they were unhurt.
"Are you alright sweetheart?" his mother asked. He looked up at her, pausing his work on the spinning wheel. She looked blurry around the edges, and he realized how tired he must be—especially if his mother had noticed.
"I've been staying up late," he replied. "To leave offerings at the temple. I'm just tired."
"I can finish this," she told him, grasping his shoulder. "You should rest tonight. You can't run yourself into the ground, Izuku. Katsuki wouldn't like it, and neither do I."
Kacchan probably wouldn't even notice, but he didn't tell his mother that. It had been years since Katsuki had given a single thought to what Izuku did—unless the shepherd happened to be in his way.
Izuku didn't blame him. He wasn't the only shepherd. He wasn't even the best—constantly having to run after a stray ram that decided to wander. Then, there was Katsuki—the most skilled warrior their village had seen in centuries.
They may have grown up together, but Katsuki's importance—his brilliance—outstripped Izuku's by miles. He knew that. He'd made his peace with it. Now, he just wanted the blonde to thrive.
He'd gladly go sleepless if it meant that Kacchan would come home. Unfortunately, he knew better than to argue with his mother.
"Fine," he sighed. His eyes really were blurry, and he wondered if he really had been spreading himself too thin. "But tomorrow I'm carding the rest, and you're sleeping in."
"Fine by me," she sang, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "I'm useless in the morning anyway."
He bid her goodnight, only pausing to make sure that there was still wood in the stove to keep her warm. He must have been more tired than he thought, too, because as soon as his head hit the pillow, he was fast asleep.
His dreams were peaceful. Joyful, even. He dreamt of Kacchan coming home, victorious and safe. He dreamed of the field where they used to play—chasing after each other until the sun hit the treetops. He dreamt of last year's winter feast, where Katsuki had taken time to sit with him, refilling his wine and making awkward conversation.
And then he woke.
He kept his eyes closed, trying to keep the dream close—reveling in the stray moments of warmth that Kacchan had given him. The rams were bleating, loud enough that he could hear them from four fences away. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes.
He saw nothing. It was dark, even though it smelled like morning. His heart sped and he blinked, trying to see. He turned his head this way and that, to no avail. There was nothing to see. He was blind.
Katsuki must have needed a miracle in the dead of night because as a sacrifice, the gods had taken his sight.