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The silence that fell after the lockers were flung open was thick enough to taste.
Four teenagers lay sprawled across the classroom floor, two panting, two trembling, while two grown heroes stood over them like judges awaiting a verdict. The faint hum of the ceiling lights felt too loud. The dust motes seemed to freeze midair, suspended in a golden wash of sunlight like the world itself had decided to hold its breath.
Somewhere, a locker hinge gave a faint, strained creak — but no one moved.
Mr. Midoriya pinched the bridge of his nose, curls falling into his eyes as his shoulders slumped. His other hand hovered uselessly in the air like he wasn’t quite sure whether to gesture, comfort, or simply give up entirely. “I am never leaving my classroom unattended again,” he muttered, voice low and painfully tired, the kind of exhaustion that came not from physical strain but from emotional whiplash and an ever-growing list of regrets.
Dynamight planted his hands on his hips, gaze sweeping over the tangled mess of past and present with the sharp focus of a predator sizing up a battlefield. His jaw ticked once, twice, a muscle jumping beneath tanned skin. Slowly, deliberately, he looked down at his younger self, eyes dark and unreadable. “…Stand up,” he said flatly.
Middle School Katsuki scrambled to his feet instantly, spine snapping straight out of pure instinct like his body had recognized a command it could not disobey. His chest puffed out, chin lifting stubbornly, even as his sharp eyes flicked nervously between his future self and the other versions of him scattered across the floor. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white.
Katsuki pushed himself upright with a sharp snarl, shoving Izuku’s arm off his sleeve like it had personally offended him. He brushed dust from his uniform with aggressive precision, as if the entire situation were less a temporal catastrophe and more a personal insult to his dignity. Izuku sat up beside him, still flushed pink from the cramped locker, curls sticking to his forehead with sweat. His hands fidgeted in his lap, twisting the fabric of his pants as his wide eyes darted between everyone in the room.
Middle School Izuku remained crouched low on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around himself. His shoulders trembled, his head bowed, curls falling forward to hide his face like he could physically fold himself out of existence.
Mr. Midoriya exhaled slowly through his nose, trying — and failing — to keep his composure. He lowered himself to one knee with a faint wince and held out a hand toward his younger self. “It’s… okay,” he said gently, voice soft and careful, like he was handling something fragile. “We’ll fix this.”
Middle School Izuku stared at him, eyes impossibly wide and glassy, lips parted like he was trying to form words but couldn’t quite manage them. Then, without warning —
He burst into quiet, trembling tears.
Not loud sobbing — just silent, heart-wrenching crying, tears streaming down his cheeks as his small frame shook.
“Oh no— no, please don’t cry—” Mr. Midoriya panicked instantly, his composure cracking in a heartbeat. He scrambled forward, wrapping his arms around his younger self in an awkward but undeniably protective hug. One hand hovered hesitantly over his back before finally settling there in a soothing rub. “I didn’t mean to scare you — it’s really okay — I promise — we’re not in danger — well, not immediate danger — I think —”
Across the room, Middle School Katsuki’s face went bright red, the flush creeping all the way to the tips of his ears. “WHY IS THE NERD CRYING?!” he shouted, gesturing wildly as if the tears were a personal attack against him.
Katsuki scoffed, crossing his arms and turning his head pointedly away. “Because this is a nightmare,” he muttered under his breath, though his eyes kept flicking back toward Izuku out of the corner of his vision.
Izuku swallowed hard, rubbing his own arm nervously. “Because this is emotionally overwhelming,” he corrected, though his voice wobbled, betraying how close he was to tears too.
Dynamight dragged a hand down his face, fingers pressing briefly against his eyes like he was trying to scrub the image of four of him and two crying Dekus out of existence. He dropped his hand with a heavy sigh. “I didn’t sign up for this,” he muttered.
Mr. Midoriya shifted slightly, trying to calm his younger self while also glancing up at the two older Katsukis, then the two younger ones, then back to Dynamight — like he was silently begging someone, anyone, to help him manage this.
Middle School Izuku sniffled into his shoulder. “W-What if we broke the timeline?” he whispered, voice small and shaking. “What if— what if I stop existing? Or you stop existing? Or K-Kacchan stops existing — or—”
Mr. Midoriya tightened his hold instinctively. “You’re not going to stop existing,” he said firmly, though his own voice trembled just a little. “I’m right here, aren’t I?”
Middle School Katsuki clicked his tongue loudly, pacing a few steps before freezing and glaring at his older selves like he didn’t know which one to be more furious at.
Katsuki leaned closer to Izuku, lowering his voice. “…If you start crying too, I’m leaving you here,” he muttered.
Izuku shot him a look. “You were this close in the locker.”
Katsuki flushed again.
Dynamight finally looked up from his internal crisis and took in the full scene — his younger self yelling, his other younger self scowling, one Izuku crying in Mr. Midoriya’s arms, the other hovering anxiously nearby. His expression shifted from pure exasperation to something more complicated — something like reluctant concern. “…Hey,” he said sharply.
Everyone froze.
Middle School Katsuki straightened immediately.
Dynamight pointed at Mr. Midoriya and his younger self. “Fix that crying,” he ordered bluntly.
Mr. Midoriya blinked. “That’s not exactly how—”
Another faint creak echoed from the lockers.
The air in the room shifted.
And for just a moment, even Dynamight looked uneasy.
Then — it happened again.
The last locker rattled.
Not softly this time.
Violently.
The metal trembled, bolts straining and groaning under pressure. A deep, resonant clang echoed through the room, vibrating along the linoleum floor like the heartbeat of some enormous, unseen creature. Dust fell from the top in a slow cascade, tiny motes drifting lazily in the sunlight, sparkling briefly before disappearing into the air.
Every Katsuki in the room froze mid-breath, eyes wide and unblinking. Their fists clenched so tightly it looked like they might punch the locker through sheer force of frustration and fear.
Every Izuku went pale. Even the older, steadier versions pressed a hand to their mouths, instinctively sensing that this was not a normal quirk anomaly.
Mr. Midoriya slowly lowered his hands from his younger self’s shoulders, green curls falling over his eyes. His voice was barely audible, a trembling whisper: “…You feel that too, right?”
Dynamight turned his head, sharp eyes narrowing toward the far end of the classroom, where the locker rattled like it was alive. The room seemed to shrink around him, the noise of the other students fading into a low, almost musical hum of tension. “If another version of me jumps out of that thing,” he said, voice low and measured, each word carrying the weight of a threat, “I am blowing the entire building up.”
The locker rattled again, harder this time. The metal bent ever so slightly outward, groaning under the pressure, as though something inside was pushing back with every ounce of its existence. The sound echoed off the walls, bouncing between lockers and desks, growing louder with each passing second.
Middle School Katsuki’s sharp eyes darted toward it, and he took a step forward — but his instincts screamed at him to stop. He froze mid-stride, mouth slightly open in a mix of rage and fear. “D-Don’t you dare open that!” he snapped, voice cracking under the tension.
Izuku instinctively grabbed his arm, holding him back. “Kacchan—wait—” he said, voice shaky, curling himself a little closer as if physical proximity could somehow ground the reality spiraling around them.
Dynamight didn’t hesitate. He crossed the room in heavy, confident strides. Every step echoed like a drumbeat, steady and unrelenting, boots thudding against the polished floor with purpose. Each motion seemed to draw the rattling into sharper focus, making the locker shudder as if it were bracing itself for impact. Dust swirled around the room, caught in the streaks of sunlight filtering through the tall windows. The air smelled faintly of metal and ozone, like static before a storm. Every heartbeat in the room sounded deafening in the tense silence. He reached the locker. The rattling grew louder, almost frantic now, reverberating through the steel like something alive was trapped inside. It paused only briefly — the locker trembled in anticipation — before Dynamight’s hand wrapped around the handle.
He paused.
For just a split second, something unreadable flickered across his face. A flicker of recognition. Hesitation. Something that was neither anger nor fear but… caution. Something he didn’t even realize he had felt until it was staring him in the eye. Then — with a force that made the entire room shiver — he yanked the locker open.
The metal screeched in protest, high and grating, sending echoes bouncing off the walls. The dust stormed down around him, twirling in lazy spirals. A sharp, metallic ping ricocheted off the floor.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved inside.
Then — the locker shifted. Something human moved, silhouetted against the light, and the air thickened with the weight of anticipation.
All eyes were on the locker. Even the younger Katsukis, who had been squabbling and shouting just moments ago, went utterly still. Every Izuku flinched, curls rising slightly as if they could make themselves smaller and vanish.
The rattling had stopped — replaced by a tense, low hum of expectation.
And then, the first hint of movement — slow, deliberate, impossible — emerged from the locker.
Instead of teenagers tumbling out —
Two older men stepped forward.
The room went utterly, impossibly still.
The first had spiky blond hair — still sharp, still wild — but threaded through with silver. His posture was broad and commanding, though his movements were slower, more measured. He wore a simple jacket over what looked suspiciously like an old hero shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal scarred forearms that had clearly seen far too many fights. His boots made soft thuds against the floor as he stepped forward, and the faint creak of his joints spoke of age meeting muscle memory.
The second man had softer, curling green hair, tied loosely back, now streaked with gray. His face carried the gentle lines of age — the kind that came from smiling, worrying, and loving deeply. There was warmth in his eyes, but also the shadow of every mistake, every regret, every tender choice that had built a lifetime. His hand was clasped tightly around the blond’s sleeve, grounding them both in a shared familiarity that made the air between them feel taut and delicate.
Grandpa Katsuki squinted into the classroom, one brow raised. “…If this is another quirk mishap, I’m too damn old for this crap,” he grumbled. His voice carried that same edge as before — sharp, impatient, and impossible to ignore — but there was a softness beneath it, subtle, unspoken.
Grandpa Izuku glanced around in slow horror — at the lockers, the teenagers, the two grown heroes — and his eyes widened, green curls shifting nervously over his temples. “Oh no,” he breathed. “Oh no. Please tell me we didn’t just traumatize our younger selves.” His hand fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve, twisting the fabric in small, precise motions that were almost a comfort ritual.
Middle School Katsuki let out a strangled noise that sounded halfway between horror and indignation. “THAT’S ME?!” he shrieked. “THAT’S WHAT I TURN INTO?!” His small fists clenched, shaking at his sides.
Grandpa Katsuki shot him a dry, unimpressed look. “You calm down. Eventually.”
Middle School Katsuki’s face went crimson. He looked personally betrayed, as if life itself had broken a solemn promise. His eyes darted to his older self, then back at the locker, then anywhere but the truth he was now facing: that yes, this — all of this — was him, someday, somehow.
Katsuki stared at his older self in stunned silence, jaw dropping slightly. He blinked, then snapped his mouth shut, crossing his arms defensively, the flush in his face refusing to fade.
Mr. Midoriya felt something tighten painfully in his chest. Every nerve in his body seemed to knot as he watched his younger self struggle with tears and disbelief, while the older versions carried both gravitas and warmth into the room like a living paradox.
Grandpa Izuku let go of Grandpa Katsuki’s sleeve, taking a cautious step forward. He knelt slowly — careful of his knees — in front of Middle School Izuku. “Hey,” he said softly. “It’s okay. You turn out… alright.”
Middle School Izuku stared at him, frozen, lips trembling. Then his knees buckled slightly and he dissolved into full tears, shoulders shaking uncontrollably. His curls fell into his eyes, sticky with sweat and now wet with tears.
Grandpa Izuku immediately panicked, hands flailing slightly as he tried to soothe without smothering. “Oh— oh dear— I didn’t mean to make it worse—”
Dynamight watched the scene unfold, arms crossed, jaw set. His expression remained unreadable, but the subtle tension in his posture betrayed him. His eyes flicked briefly to Grandpa Katsuki — then to Grandpa Izuku — lingering just a second too long before shifting away.
Grandpa Katsuki moved without thinking, slipping an arm around Grandpa Izuku’s shoulders. “Told you we shouldn’t have touched that stupid quirk artifact,” he muttered. There was a rare softness in the gesture, almost imperceptible, but it didn’t escape the notice of anyone in the room.
Grandpa Izuku leaned into him instinctively. The motion was so natural, so familiar, so deeply ingrained, that it made something ache in Mr. Midoriya’s chest — a strange, beautiful pang of recognition and longing he wasn’t sure he wanted to analyze.
Dynamight noticed. Just for a moment, a small crack appeared in his usual composure. His eyes softened — just a fraction — before he quickly masked it with a scoff.
Grandpa Katsuki glanced up, meeting Dynamight’s gaze directly. “You’re still loud,” he said flatly.
A slow smirk tugged at Dynamight’s lips. “Yeah. And you’re soft.”
Grandpa Katsuki rolled his eyes — but didn’t let go. His grip tightened just a little, possessive but gentle.
Meanwhile, chaos was brewing again. Middle School Katsuki began pacing in furious circles, muttering and shouting all at once. “This is stupid! This is all stupid! Time travel is stupid! Love is stupid! YOU ARE ALL STUPID!” His voice cracked with frustration, desperation, and indignation, bouncing off the walls like a clap of thunder.
“All three of you said that,” Izuku muttered from the floor, voice trembling.
Mr. Midoriya rubbed his temples, curls falling forward in a way that made him look utterly defeated. “I just wanted my tablet,” he sighed, voice carrying equal parts exhaustion, resignation, and disbelief.
The lockers creaked again, faintly, almost teasingly, like the room itself wasn’t done adding chaos. A cold draft slithered along the floor, dust motes swirling as if stirred by invisible hands. Every single set of eyes snapped toward the source.
Middle School Katsuki froze mid-step, fists clenching. Izuku instinctively grabbed his arm again. Dynamight’s jaw tightened. Grandpa Katsuki tensed slightly, his eyes narrowing at the offending locker. Grandpa Izuku adjusted his stance, calm but alert, hand brushing against Grandpa Katsuki’s for reassurance.
Then Middle School Katsuki, unable to contain himself any longer, stomped forward. “Okay! Okay! Seriously — why is there more of me?! What the hell is going on?!”
Katsuki crossed his arms, scowling, glaring at his younger self. “The hell do you mean why? Look around, idiot. You’re not the only one here!”
Middle School Izuku’s eyes widened as he clutched his knees. “T-This is… insane. There’s four of you and… and two of you too!” He gestured frantically to all the versions of Katsuki. “And I… I’m here too! And you… I don’t know how this works!”
Grandpa Izuku stepped forward cautiously. “I think… it’s a quirk accident,” he said softly, voice shaking slightly. “Some kind of… temporal displacement. Overlapping energy signatures, maybe.”
Middle School Katsuki’s small fists banged against his thighs. “Temporal… WHAT?! That’s stupid! Stupid nerd words! Why do you get to explain stuff?”
UA Katsuki snapped. “Because someone’s gotta! And it’s me, obviously. The smartest, fastest, most obviously amazing one in the room!”
Middle School Izuku squeaked, looking between the two older Katsukis. “B-But… you’re… all amazing, aren’t you?!”
Grandpa Katsuki raised an eyebrow. “Don’t drag me into this, green-haired nerd.”
Grandpa Izuku blinked, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m… I’m just trying to help.”
Middle School Katsuki spun on his heel, pointing at everyone. “You! You! And you! Why does everyone think they get to boss me around?!”
Katsuki threw his arms up. “Because I am the adult version of you! I know better than all of you combined!”
Grandpa Katsuki snorted. “You think you’re the adult? Ha. That’s cute. You’re loud. That’s all you’ve ever been. Loud and obnoxious.”
Middle School Katsuki’s eyes went wide. “Obnoxious? I am not! I am… I am…” He flailed helplessly, hands in the air.
Grandpa Katsuki leaned slightly closer, voice soft but deadly. “You will find out, unfortunately.”
Middle School Izuku clutched his chest, whispering frantically. “T-This is… terrifying… and amazing… and why is everyone me…?!”
Izuku, finally speaking up, muttered, “We should… maybe all calm down… figure out who’s responsible… or—”
Middle School Katsuki groaned and flopped into a chair. “Figure out who’s responsible? That’s stupid! I’m gonna explode something if we don’t fix this!”
Grandpa Katsuki rolled his eyes. “Do it. See how far that gets you at your age.”
Middle School Katsuki’s jaw dropped. “WHAT?! You—”
Grandpa Izuku stepped closer to him, hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’ll survive. Eventually. Maybe.”
Middle School Katsuki glared, eyes blazing, but didn’t argue further. For once, he was at a loss for words.
The room erupted into overlapping voices. “No! You’re wrong!” “Yes, I am right!” “Stop yelling!” “I am not yelling!” “We need a plan!” “Plan?! What plan?!”
Izuku threw his hands up, spiraling into panic. “Stop! Please, stop! We are all me! Or all him! We can’t even think straight!”
Grandpa Katsuki muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Dynamight to hear. “And yet somehow… this feels familiar.”
Dynamight’s jaw tightened, watching all four of them bicker, shuffle, and flail in perfect chaotic unison. “I hate everything about this,” he muttered.
Middle School Katsuki stamped his foot. “This… is… ridiculous! I hate all of you!”
Grandpa Katsuki leaned down, voice low and teasing. “Don’t lie. You’ve wanted someone to argue with your entire life.”
Middle School Katsuki froze. “W-What? N-No! I—”
Katsuki snorted, throwing his head back in laughter. “Ohhh, you love this. Admit it.”
Middle School Izuku looked from one Katsuki to the next, curling in on himself. “I—I can’t… I can’t even…”
Grandpa Izuku knelt beside him, voice soft. “You’ll be okay. You’ll all… be okay.”
Middle School Izuku blinked, then nodded shakily. “O-Okay… okay…”
And somehow, amidst the chaos, the room fell into a tense, uneasy rhythm: arguing, shouting, panicking… but surviving. For now.
The arguing began to taper off on its own, not because anyone had truly calmed down — but because everyone, at once, became hyper-aware of the way the air in the room had shifted. The noise of overlapping voices didn’t crash to silence all at once; it thinned, frayed, and unraveled piece by piece. Snapped retorts trailed off. Half-finished complaints died in throats. Even the faint hum of the lights seemed louder now, filling the space that the chaos had vacated.
Dynamight exhaled through his nose, long and slow. His shoulders dropped a fraction — barely noticeable to anyone who didn’t know him intimately. His jaw loosened just enough that the constant tension there eased. He didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he turned slightly — just enough — and extended one hand out toward Mr. Midoriya. His palm was open. Steady. Expectant. Not dramatic. Not grand. Just… there.
Mr. Midoriya blinked, startled, green eyes flicking from Dynamight’s face to his outstretched hand and back again. “…Kacchan?” he murmured, his voice soft, almost hesitant — not because he doubted the gesture, but because it still surprised him every time it happened in front of others.
Dynamight didn’t look at him directly. His gaze stayed fixed somewhere between all the versions of Katsuki currently existing in the same space, like he was daring any of them to say something about it. “C’mere,” he said simply.
Not sharp. Not demanding.
Just… firm.
A word that carried weight without needing volume.
Mr. Midoriya swallowed, a faint flush rising to his cheeks, then stepped closer without hesitation. His hand slid into Dynamight’s like it belonged there, fingers curling instinctively between his. His shoulders visibly relaxed the instant their fingers intertwined, the tension he’d been carrying bleeding out of him in one quiet breath. Dynamight’s thumb brushed lightly over the back of his hand — slow, absentminded, almost automatic — tracing a small, reassuring arc over his knuckles.
It was small — subtle — but every version of Katsuki noticed.
Middle School Katsuki’s eyes snapped to their joined hands immediately, his mouth opening — then snapping shut again.
Katsuki’s gaze lingered a second too long, something flickering behind his eyes that he didn’t have the words for yet.
Across the room, Grandpa Katsuki moved at the same time Dynamight did. Without looking, without asking, he simply shifted closer to Grandpa Izuku. His shoulder pressed against his, solid and familiar, and his arm slipped around his waist with easy confidence.
Not a dramatic embrace. Not a show.
Just presence.
Just closeness.
Grandpa Izuku leaned into him instinctively, like it was second nature — like he’d done it a thousand times before and would do it a thousand more. His head tipped slightly, resting against Katsuki’s shoulder for just a heartbeat before he straightened again, still tucked against his side.
The contrast was impossible to miss: two different versions of the same man, making the same choice in the same quiet way.
Katsuki’s eyes flicked between them.
Then to Dynamight and Mr. Midoriya.
Then back again.
His arms, which had been crossed tightly over his chest in reflexive defense, slowly uncrossed. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
The room still wasn’t calm — but something steadier had settled over it, like the eye of a storm.
Grandpa Katsuki cleared his throat, breaking the fragile quiet. “…So,” he said gruffly, voice casual like they weren’t standing in a classroom full of past selves, multiple versions of the same people, and a very confused timeline. “Guess this means the universe still hasn’t learned to mind its own business.” His tone was dry, almost bored, but there was a familiar edge of irritation underneath it — the kind that said this wasn’t the first bizarre quirk nonsense he’d had to deal with in his life.
Grandpa Izuku huffed a soft laugh, the sound warm and breathy. He shifted slightly closer, resting his head briefly against Grandpa Katsuki’s shoulder before lifting it again. “We really should stop touching strange quirk artifacts, you know,” he said lightly, though his eyes were still scanning the room with careful concern.
Grandpa Katsuki scoffed, lips quirking. “You were the one who said it ‘might be interesting.’”
“I said it might be educational,” Grandpa Izuku corrected mildly, rolling his eyes in a way that was fond rather than annoyed.
A small silence stretched between them — the kind filled with shared history.
Dynamight’s lips twitched at that exchange, just barely.
Mr. Midoriya squeezed his hand, thumb pressing gently against Dynamight’s palm in silent communication.
Dynamight squeezed back.
Izuku shifted from foot to foot, glancing between the two older couples with wide, thoughtful eyes, while Middle School Izuku hovered nearby, watching everything with a mixture of fear and fascination.
Middle School Katsuki, meanwhile, stared stubbornly at the floor — but his gaze kept drifting upward in sharp, quick flicks, taking in every detail he absolutely pretended he didn’t care about.
Izuku shifted nervously beside UKatsuki, glancing up at the older couple. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, like he wasn’t sure whether he should even be asking. “…So… you two…” he began hesitantly, gesturing vaguely at Grandpa Katsuki and Grandpa Izuku. “You’re… married?”
Grandpa Izuku straightened slightly, his posture softening rather than stiffening, eyes gentler as they settled on the younger versions of himself and Katsuki. “Yes,” he said simply.
No hesitation. No awkwardness. Just quiet certainty.
Grandpa Katsuki glanced down at him, and this time there was no mistaking it — a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at his lips, softer than anything any of the younger Katsukis had ever seen on his face. “Damn right we are,” he added, voice low, rough around the edges, but undeniably proud.
Katsuki’s face went bright red in an instant. The flush climbed from his neck to his ears, then all the way to his cheeks. His entire body went stiff like he’d just been struck by lightning. His mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again. “…How long?” he muttered, eyes flicking away like the question itself was embarrassing just to exist in his brain.
Grandpa Katsuki shrugged one shoulder, completely at ease. “Long enough.”
Grandpa Izuku smiled — not a hero smile, not a polite smile, but something warm and deeply personal. “Long enough that I stopped counting the years and started counting the memories instead.” His thumb absently brushed over the back of Grandpa Katsuki’s hand where it rested on his waist.
Mr. Midoriya felt something twist gently in his chest — not painful, exactly, but heavy in that aching, tender way that came with seeing your future laid out so clearly.
Dynamight squeezed his hand again, a silent anchor.
Izuku’s eyes sparkled despite his nerves, his curiosity outweighing his embarrassment. “D-Did… did you propose? Or— or did you— I mean— how did it—?” He trailed off, flustered, hands waving helplessly in the air.
Grandpa Katsuki snorted.
Grandpa Izuku laughed quietly, the sound gentle and fond. “We… both did, actually.”
Katsuki’s head snapped toward him so fast it was almost comical. “What?” he blurted, eyes wide, completely thrown off.
Grandpa Katsuki rolled his eyes. “We were idiots about it. Both of us. Took forever.” He said it like an insult, but there was no real bite to it — just long-standing exasperation mixed with affection.
Grandpa Izuku nodded, smiling fondly at the memory. “We kept trying to wait for the ‘right moment.’ A perfect day. A perfect situation. No interruptions, no crises, no chaos.” His gaze flicked briefly around the classroom, clearly amused. “Turns out there is no right moment,” he continued softly. “You just… choose each other.”
At that, Grandpa Katsuki shifted. He didn’t pull away — if anything, he pulled Izuku closer, his arm tightening just slightly around his waist. Then, almost casually, he leaned down and pressed a brief, gentle kiss to the top of Grandpa Izuku’s head.
Not dramatic.
Not showy.
Just natural.
Grandpa Izuku let out a quiet, content breath and leaned into him even more, resting his cheek against Katsuki’s chest for a heartbeat before straightening again.
Across the room, Middle School Izuku’s breath hitched sharply. He stood slightly apart from Middle School Katsuki now — not clinging, not touching — but his eyes were locked on the older couple, wide and shining like he was seeing something impossible made real right in front of him. His hands trembled faintly at his sides.
Izuku swallowed, clearly moved, his gaze flicking between the two grandpas, then to Dynamight and Mr. Midoriya. “…That’s… really… beautiful,” he murmured.
Katsuki, still red, clicked his tongue. “Tch… don’t get all sappy about it,” he muttered — but his eyes kept drifting back to the grandparents anyway.
Middle School Katsuki, meanwhile, had his arms crossed so tightly over his chest that his knuckles were going white. He stared stubbornly at the floor, jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth. His ears were so red they practically glowed.
Every few seconds, his eyes flicked up — quick, sharp, unwilling — toward Grandpa Katsuki and Grandpa Izuku.
He saw the way Grandpa Katsuki held him.
He saw the way Grandpa Izuku melted into it.
He saw the ease. The comfort. The permanence of it.
Then he snapped his gaze back down again like he’d been burned. “…This is stupid,” he muttered under his breath — but there was no real venom in it, only confusion and something he didn’t have words for yet.
Grandpa Katsuki heard him anyway. He glanced over, raising an eyebrow. “You can call it stupid all you want, kid.”
Middle School Katsuki bristled instantly. “I didn’t ask you!”
Grandpa Katsuki smirked faintly. “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re listening.”
Middle School Katsuki opened his mouth to yell — then stopped.
Because… he was.
Meanwhile, Dynamight shifted closer to Mr. Midoriya, their shoulders brushing. Mr. Midoriya tilted his head slightly toward him, resting it briefly against his arm.
Dynamight didn’t pull away.
Katsuki cleared his throat roughly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like the question physically cost him something. “So… you’re saying…” he muttered, avoiding everyone’s eyes, hands shoved into his pockets. “We actually… end up together?” The word together came out quieter than he probably intended.
Dynamight scoffed, a short, familiar huff of breath. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
Katsuki bristled immediately, spine straightening. “I’m not!”
Mr. Midoriya gave him a small, knowing smile — the kind that said you absolutely are, but I’m not going to call you out on it.
Grandpa Katsuki tilted his head slightly, sharp eyes studying the younger version of himself with a measured, almost contemplative look. “You two are already doing better than we were at your age.”
Izuku blinked, genuinely startled. “We… are?”
Grandpa Izuku nodded, fingers absently smoothing over the fabric of Grandpa Katsuki’s jacket. “You are. You talk to each other. You argue, yes — but you don’t run from each other when things get hard.” His gaze softened as he looked between Katsuki and Izuku. “That matters more than you think.”
Dynamight glanced at Mr. Midoriya — just for a split second — then looked away again like the moment was too private to be held for long. Still, he didn’t let go of his hand. If anything, his grip tightened just slightly.
Middle School Izuku swallowed, shifting on his feet. He stepped just a little closer without realizing it, drawn in like gravity. His voice came out soft, almost fragile. “…Do… do you fight?”
Grandpa Katsuki huffed, rolling his eyes. “All the time.”
Grandpa Izuku laughed quietly, the sound warm and familiar. “Yes. We do. About small things, about big things… sometimes even about nothing at all.” His thumb traced slow circles over Katsuki’s knuckles. “But we always come back to each other.”
Middle School Katsuki scoffed loudly, arms crossing even tighter over his chest. “Gross,” he muttered under his breath. But his foot tapped anxiously against the floor. And his gaze drifted — again — toward Grandpa Izuku.
Then toward Grandpa Katsuki.
Then toward Dynamight.
Then quickly away, like he’d been caught looking.
Katsuki noticed.
Of course he did.
A slow, irritatingly smug smirk tugged at his lips. “Don’t act like you’re not listening, brat.”
Middle School Katsuki snapped his head up instantly, face blazing. “I’m not!” His voice cracked just a little.
Katsuki’s smirk only widened.
Middle School Izuku, meanwhile, had moved even closer now, standing just behind UA Izuku, almost half-hidden at his side. His hands were clasped together tightly in front of him, knuckles white. He stared at the older couple like he was watching something impossibly precious. His voice was barely above a whisper when he spoke again. “…Do… do you ever regret it?”
The room seemed to quiet all over again.
Grandpa Katsuki stilled. Not dramatically — just… completely. His teasing expression faded, his body relaxing into something more serious, more grounded. His eyes dropped from Middle School Izuku and settled on Grandpa Izuku beside him.
He really looked at him.
Not as a hero.
Not as a partner in battle.
But as the person who had shared his life.
His future.
His failures and victories.
His worst days and his best ones.
Grandpa Izuku met his gaze without hesitation, quiet trust reflected back at him. “No,” Grandpa Katsuki said firmly, without a single moment of doubt. “Not once.” His voice wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.
Grandpa Izuku squeezed his hand, intertwining their fingers fully now, and leaned just slightly into his side.
Mr. Midoriya felt his chest tighten again — that same aching, tender pull he’d felt earlier, stronger this time.
Dynamight shifted closer to him, their shoulders brushing.
Izuku let out a shaky breath, eyes glassy. “…That’s… really something,” he murmured.
Katsuki cleared his throat again, louder this time, like he needed to break the intensity. “Tch… don’t get all sentimental about it.” But his eyes flicked — just once — toward Dynamight and Mr. Midoriya, lingering on their joined hands.
Middle School Katsuki shifted again, jaw tight. “…So what?” he muttered, not looking at anyone in particular. “You just… put up with each other forever?”
Grandpa Katsuki glanced down at him, eyebrow raised. “Not ‘put up with.’ Chose.”
Middle School Katsuki frowned. “Same thing.”
Grandpa Izuku shook his head gently. “It isn’t. Putting up with someone feels like a burden.” His gaze softened again. “Choosing them feels like coming home.”
Middle School Izuku inhaled sharply.
Middle School Katsuki went very, very quiet.
Dynamight glanced at Grandpa Katsuki again, something unreadable flickering across his face — something like recognition.
Then he looked at Mr. Midoriya beside him.
Mr. Midoriya met his gaze with a soft, unguarded smile.
Dynamight’s grip on Mr. Midoriya tightened just a fraction — not enough to hurt, just enough to anchor.
Mr. Midoriya looked up at him, eyes soft, searching, like he was silently asking are you okay? are we okay? are you really here with me?
Dynamight didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His thumb moved again, slow and deliberate, brushing over Mr. Midoriya’s knuckles in a steady rhythm that matched his breathing. The contact wasn’t flashy, wasn’t dramatic — but it was solid. Real. Grounded.
Mr. Midoriya’s shoulders eased almost imperceptibly. He let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Dynamight shifted his weight slightly, turning just enough that their sides pressed together. Not enough to draw attention — just enough that Mr. Midoriya could feel his warmth, his presence, his steadiness. “…You’re staring,” Dynamight murmured low enough that only Mr. Midoriya could hear, eyes still forward, expression carefully neutral.
Mr. Midoriya blinked, cheeks warming. “I— I’m not—!”
Dynamight glanced down at him briefly, one sharp brow arching. “You absolutely are.”
Mr. Midoriya huffed a quiet, embarrassed laugh, leaning just a little closer despite himself. “I can’t help it,” he admitted softly. “Seeing… them…” His eyes flicked briefly to Grandpa Katsuki and Grandpa Izuku, still standing close, still intertwined. “It’s a lot.”
Dynamight followed his gaze. His jaw tightened — not in anger, but in something deeper, more thoughtful. “…Yeah,” he muttered.
Silence stretched between them for a moment — not uncomfortable, just heavy with unspoken things.
Mr. Midoriya squeezed Dynamight’s hand gently. “…Do we… look like that to them?” he asked quietly. “To the younger ones, I mean.”
Dynamight snorted softly. “You’re asking if we look disgusting and mushy?”
Mr. Midoriya laughed under his breath. “That’s not what I meant!”
Dynamight’s lips twitched despite himself. He finally turned his head fully toward Mr. Midoriya, red eyes soft in a way he rarely let anyone see. “You look…” He hesitated — then clicked his tongue in mild irritation, like words were an inconvenience. “…steady.”
Mr. Midoriya blinked. “…Steady?” he echoed.
Dynamight huffed. “Yeah. Like you’re not gonna fall apart the second something goes wrong.” His thumb pressed lightly against the back of Mr. Midoriya’s hand again. “You look like you’ve got your feet on the ground.”
Mr. Midoriya swallowed, something warm and tight blooming in his chest. “…I do,” he said softly. “Because of you.”
Dynamight scoffed — but his grip tightened again. “…Don’t get all poetic on me,” he muttered, though his voice lacked any real bite.
Mr. Midoriya smiled, resting his head briefly against Dynamight’s shoulder — just for a second — before straightening again like he remembered they had an audience.
Dynamight let him.
Then, quieter still, Mr. Midoriya asked, “…Are you happy? With… us? With dating? With… everything?”
Dynamight didn’t hesitate this time. His gaze flicked briefly to Grandpa Katsuki — to the easy way he held Grandpa Izuku — then back to Mr. Midoriya. “…I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” he said simply.
Mr. Midoriya’s breath hitched.
Dynamight rolled his eyes at his reaction. “Don’t make that face.”
“What face?” Mr. Midoriya asked innocently, even as his eyes shone.
“That ridiculous ‘I’m about to cry’ face.”
Mr. Midoriya laughed quietly, squeezing his hand again. “I can’t help it.”
Dynamight let out a low sigh — but his free hand moved, resting lightly at the small of Mr. Midoriya’s back, grounding, protective, familiar. “…We argue too much,” Dynamight added after a beat, almost gruffly.
Mr. Midoriya snorted softly. “You start most of them.”
“Tch. You finish them.”
Mr. Midoriya smiled. “And we always make up.”
Dynamight didn’t deny it. His thumb brushed slow circles against Mr. Midoriya’s back now, almost absentmindedly. “You make me stupid,” he muttered under his breath.
Mr. Midoriya blinked up at him. “…Affectionately?”
Dynamight huffed. “Obviously.”
Mr. Midoriya let out a soft laugh, leaning into his side again, just for a moment.
Across the room, Katsuki glanced over at them — then quickly looked away like he hadn’t meant to stare.
Middle School Izuku, meanwhile, watched them with the same wide, wondering gaze he had for the grandpas — quietly taking in what love might look like in his future.
Middle School Katsuki pretended very hard not to care. But his eyes flicked toward them anyway.
Dynamight noticed none of it. All his attention was on Mr. Midoriya beside him. “…We’re not perfect,” he murmured, so quiet it was almost swallowed by the hum of the lights.
Mr. Midoriya looked up at him again — not searching this time, but certain. “I don’t want perfect,” he said softly. “I just want… us.”
Dynamight exhaled slowly through his nose.
Then, just barely — just for a heartbeat — he leaned his forehead against Mr. Midoriya’s. “…Yeah,” he muttered.
And that, for both of them, was enough.
Middle School Katsuki let out a shaky breath — barely audible — and turned sharply away, staring pointedly at the lockers like they were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.
But his hands trembled just a little.
And Middle School Izuku watched him from the corner of his eye, something warm — and fragile — settling in his chest.
The room, for once, was quiet.
Not peaceful.
Not resolved.
But… steady.
For now.
The lights flickered. Not the quick, harmless blink of faulty wiring — but a slow, uneven dimming, like the classroom itself was breathing. The air changed first. It went thin, then heavy, then thin again, like pressure equalizing. The dust motes that had been drifting lazily froze midair for a split second before beginning to swirl in a slow, clockwise spiral around the room. The lockers creaked in unison.
Every version of Katsuki stiffened.
Every version of Izuku inhaled sharply.
Mr. Midoriya lifted his head from Dynamight’s shoulder, instinctively straightening. His fingers tightened around Dynamight’s hand. “…Do you feel that?” he murmured.
Dynamight’s gaze snapped around the room, sharp and assessing. His free hand slid from Mr. Midoriya’s back to rest protectively at his waist. “…Yeah.”
Grandpa Katsuki shifted, pulling Grandpa Izuku a fraction closer to his side as the floor beneath them seemed to vibrate faintly.
Grandpa Izuku swallowed. “Oh,” he said softly. “That feels… familiar.”
Middle School Izuku’s breath hitched. He looked around wildly, curls trembling as the faint shimmer from earlier began to reappear — this time threading through the entire classroom like fine, glowing veins in the air.
Izuku stepped closer to Katsuki without thinking. “…Is this… happening again?”
Katsuki didn’t pull away. His jaw tightened. “If this sends me back mid-training, I’m punching a hole in reality.”
Dynamight glanced briefly at Grandpa Katsuki — their eyes met, understanding passing between them without words.
Then the shimmer intensified.
The room began to hum — a low, thrumming resonance that vibrated through the walls, the lockers, even the desks. The spiral of dust grew faster, rising in a gentle vortex toward the ceiling.
Middle School Katsuki stumbled slightly, catching himself on the nearest desk. “The hell is this?!” he snapped, trying — and failing — to sound composed.
Middle School Izuku clutched his own shirt over his chest, eyes wide. “I-I think the timelines are… separating again…”
Grandpa Izuku closed his eyes briefly, exhaling. When he opened them, his expression was calm — but soft. “Looks like our visit is ending.”
Grandpa Katsuki grunted. “About damn time.” Even so, his arm tightened around Grandpa Izuku.
Mr. Midoriya turned toward them, something aching and wistful in his gaze. “You’re… going back, aren’t you?”
Grandpa Izuku smiled gently at him. “It seems that way.”
Dynamight’s thumb brushed against Mr. Midoriya’s hand again — grounding, steadying — as the pull of the timeline grew stronger. The edges of the room began to blur, like a photograph slowly losing focus.
Middle School Izuku took an unsteady step forward toward his older self. “W-Wait—!” he blurted out before he could stop himself. “I— I just—”
Grandpa Izuku turned toward him immediately. For a moment, time seemed to pause. Then Grandpa Izuku knelt again — slower this time, but just as sincere — so they were eye level. “You’ll be alright,” he said softly. “Better than alright.”
Middle School Izuku’s lip trembled.
Grandpa Katsuki sighed quietly — but he didn’t pull Grandpa Izuku away. Instead, he placed a large, scarred hand gently on Middle School Katsuki’s head.
Middle School Katsuki stiffened.
“…Don’t get soft,” Grandpa Katsuki muttered gruffly — but his voice wasn’t harsh. “You’re gonna be fine too.”
Middle School Katsuki swallowed hard. His glare wavered. For just a heartbeat, he didn’t snap back.
Across the room, Katsuki glanced toward Dynamight — and found him already looking.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Dynamight clicked his tongue. “Don’t screw it up,” he said flatly.
Katsuki scoffed — but there was something tight in his chest. “Like you’re one to talk.”
Dynamight huffed — but the corner of his mouth twitched.
The hum in the room grew louder.
Grandpa Izuku leaned up and — without hesitation — pressed a gentle kiss to Grandpa Katsuki’s temple, lingering there for just a second longer than necessary. Grandpa Katsuki’s expression softened instantly.
Mr. Midoriya’s breath caught.
Dynamight noticed — and his hand at Mr. Midoriya’s waist tightened protectively.
The light in the room flared bright white. The older couple began to fade first — not vanishing, but becoming translucent at the edges, like they were slowly being pulled back through a thin veil.
Grandpa Katsuki looked around one last time. His gaze settled on Dynamight. “…Take care of him,” he said quietly — not commanding, not threatening — just certain.
Dynamight met his eyes without hesitation. “…I will.”
Grandpa Katsuki nodded once.
Then, with another soft shimmer — they were gone.
The hum shifted. The pull changed.
Middle School Izuku gasped as the same faint glow began to outline him and Middle School Katsuki.
Izuku stepped forward instinctively. “Wait— are they—?”
Mr. Midoriya nodded slowly. “…They’re going back too.”
Middle School Katsuki scowled, trying to fight the strange, weightless sensation creeping up his legs. “Tch. Finally.” But his eyes flicked — just once — toward Middle School Izuku.
Middle School Izuku looked back at him. For a moment, neither said anything. Then Middle School Izuku whispered, “Um… thank you.”
Middle School Katsuki frowned. “For what?”
“…For… not leaving me,” he said quietly.
Middle School Katsuki opened his mouth — then snapped it shut. His ears went red. “…Whatever,” he muttered. But his hand twitched at his side.
As the glow intensified, Middle School Izuku took a small step closer — not touching, not quite — but close enough that their shoulders almost brushed. Then, with a bright flash and a soft pop —
They were gone.
The hum in the room didn’t stop after the middle school versions vanished.
It shifted.
Changed pitch — lower now, deeper — like the classroom was recalibrating itself again.
Izuku felt it first. A strange lightness spread through his body, starting at his fingertips and moving up his arms, like gravity was slowly loosening its grip. The edges of his vision blurred just slightly, the sunlight from the windows stretching into soft, glowing streaks. “…Kacchan?” he murmured, glancing down at his hands.
They were beginning to shimmer faintly.
Katsuki felt it a heartbeat later — a subtle pull in his chest, like something was trying to tug him backward through an invisible door. He clenched his jaw, planting his feet instinctively. “…Tch. Don’t tell me—” he muttered.
Mr. Midoriya straightened immediately, eyes snapping to them. “You feel it too, don’t you?”
Izuku swallowed, nodding slowly. “I think… it’s our turn.”
Dynamight turned toward them, sharp eyes narrowing — not in anger this time, but in focus. His hand tightened on Mr. Midoriya’s waist without him even realizing it.
Katsuki scoffed, trying to mask the sudden tightness in his voice. “Figures. The universe just had to make this dramatic.”
Izuku let out a weak, shaky laugh. “I… guess we can’t all exist in the same time forever.”
The shimmer around them grew brighter.
Izuku instinctively stepped closer to Katsuki — and this time, Katsuki didn’t pull away. His shoulder brushed against Izuku’s, steady and familiar.
Mr. Midoriya took a step forward without thinking. “Wait— before you go—”
Izuku turned toward him, eyes wide, soft, a little overwhelmed. “…Y-Yes?”
Mr. Midoriya hesitated — then gave him a small, gentle smile. “You’re… doing well. Even if you don’t feel like it yet.”
Izuku’s breath hitched. His eyes shone. “…Thank you,” he whispered.
Across the room, Katsuki glanced at Dynamight — and found him already looking back.
For a moment, they just stared at each other.
Past and present.
Same stubborn fire. Same sharp edges. Same familiar weight behind their eyes.
Katsuki opened his mouth — then stopped.
Dynamight broke the silence first. “…Don’t get sloppy,” he said gruffly.
Katsuki snorted. “Like I ever would.”
A beat.
Then, quieter — almost begrudgingly — Dynamight added, “…And don’t be an idiot about him.”
Katsuki stiffened — then scoffed, ears reddening. “I know that!”
Mr. Midoriya bit back a smile.
Izuku glanced between them, then at Mr. Midoriya and Dynamight — their joined hands, their easy closeness — and something softened in his expression. “…We’ll be okay,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else.
The shimmer intensified.
The pull grew stronger.
The room itself seemed to tilt for a split second — like reality was snapping back into place.
Katsuki suddenly exhaled sharply, clenching his fists. “Tch— this feels weird as hell.”
Izuku wobbled slightly, catching himself against him. “S-Sorry—!”
Katsuki’s arm moved without thinking, wrapping around his waist to steady him.
Mr. Midoriya’s breath caught at the sight.
Dynamight’s thumb brushed reassuringly against his side.
Katsuki froze for a moment when he realized what he’d done — then, instead of pulling away, he held firm.
“…Don’t let go,” Izuku murmured, barely above a whisper.
Katsuki swallowed. “…Yeah,” he muttered.
The light around them flared bright — not blinding, but warm, enveloping, like a soft tide pulling them home.
For a heartbeat, all versions of Katsuki and Izuku that still remained in the room locked eyes — past, present, future — connected by something unspoken.
Then —
With a soft pop and a ripple of light —
Katsuki and Izuku faded.
Not abruptly.
Not violently.
They simply… slipped back into their own timeline, like pieces settling back into a puzzle.
The classroom fell quiet again.
Too quiet.
The dust drifted down lazily.
The lockers stilled.
The sunlight returned to normal.
Mr. Midoriya let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing as the last of the strange pressure in the air dissolved.
Dynamight exhaled through his nose, tension finally draining from his frame.
“…They’re gone,” Mr. Midoriya murmured.
“Yeah,” Dynamight replied quietly. He didn’t let go of him.
For a moment, they just stood there — alone now in the ordinary, familiar classroom that had just held their entire past and future at once.
Mr. Midoriya leaned slightly into Dynamight’s side.
Dynamight shifted closer without hesitation.
“…You okay?” Dynamight asked, low and steady.
Mr. Midoriya nodded slowly, eyes soft, thoughtful. “…Yeah. Just… thinking about all of us.”
Dynamight glanced around the room one last time — at the lockers, the empty floor, the quiet sunlight — then back at him. “…You still gotta find your tablet.”
Mr. Midoriya blinked. Then laughed. “…Right. I almost forgot.”
Dynamight snorted softly. He still didn’t let go.
And somewhere — tucked quietly into the fabric of time — all versions of them existed together, different ages, different scars, different fears… but moving toward the same choice again and again:
Choosing each other.