Chapter Text
Katsuki knows many things. He knows that emeralds are green and his father likes matcha and All Might is the best hero. He knows that the screaming outside his window that kept him up until sunrise was only a fox and that his mother was only in a bad mood because the coffee maker broke and her favorite shirt shrank in the dryer. He knows that he’s a volatile brat even on his best days and that he owes both his parents an apology for blowing up at them and stealing the car.
Okay, stealing is a strong word. His father takes trips to the vast stretches of fields and orchards outside the city regularly, and as soon as Katsuki was old enough, he got to sit behind the wheel and navigate the deserted private roads himself, so he does know how to drive on his own. He’s not stupid enough to risk his entire hero career by driving in the city without a license, though, so when he finds himself grabbing the keys from the hook by the door as he storms out of the house, he takes the quietest route he remembers out to the countryside to cool down.
He’s a couple of hours outside the city proper now. Pinks, golds, and purples steadily creep across the darkening sky as he crawls the empty gravel roads, eyes glued to the horizon and only straying for the occasional grazing livestock. Crop fields stretch around him on either side of the road as far as he can see, broken only by the occasional farmhouse, rows of fruit trees, and fieldworkers wrapping up their evening tasks. The peace of it all calms him enough to admit the real root of the argument with his mother - his therapist would be proud - and he gets ready to turn around and head back.
It’s gotten dark enough that Katsuki has to switch on the ancient car’s flickering headlights in order to see the path in front of him. The one downside of country roads is that there are no public streetlights to help him out, so the more he picks up the pace in his haste to return home by dinnertime, the more he has to squint to make out the space in front of him. He’s driving through a stretch of woods now, with looming trees whose branches curve over him like archways with gaping black maws. It would be just his luck if a wild animal were to suddenly lurch into the road and pitch him through the windshield.
As if some wicked deity read his thoughts, a blur of green and red stumbles out of the bushes on the side of the gravel road and directly into the path of his headlights. With a hurried swear, Katsuki slams the brakes, but even his lightning-fast reaction time does not save the startled figure from taking a stomach-full of car bumper and flying backwards.
“Fuck, fuck, shit, fuck,” he’s chanting as he scrambles out of the car and over to the heap on the ground. They’re not moving. With great effort, he shoves his panic aside and summons his basic first aid training to check them over.
With great relief, he concludes that the person - yes, there is a person under all that blood - is just stunned, bruised, and probably exhausted, what with how they don’t even attempt to push him away. Perhaps more baffling is the fact that most, if not all, of the blood is not theirs. He seizes the person’s face and examines their vacant green eyes through the goggles and mask they wear, satisfied when they eventually focus on him and follow his hand motions without signs of strain. They haven’t tried to communicate with Katsuki yet, which is fine, because the explosive boy is already stringing together a number of choice words to describe his victim’s idiocy.
“…and what are you even doing out here at this hour? You’ve got the muscles to be a fieldworker, sure, but the last rice fields ended six kilometers behind me and I didn’t see you on the drive from there at all, so you’re just wandering out here looking like Santa’s fucking elf after work hours for who knows what sinister reason! Clearly you don’t have the presence of mind to make use of your goddamn eyes, or maybe you did and you’re playacting like a goddamn deer on the highway, jumping in front of the only car you see-”
And Katsuki breaks off abruptly because his hair is wet. More specifically, the hand he brought up to comb through his hair mid-rant is wet with something that is definitely not water, and he shakily brings it down to stare at the splotch of red he definitely picked up while manhandling the stranger. The…freshly blood-covered stranger.
The stranger who is still staring at him with an edge of baffled amusement that quickly shifts to wariness. They still don’t seem entirely present, but their ragged appearance and splotches of still-drying blood in their clothes and hair make it clear they’re having a far worse night than Katsuki is. Plus, he still feels a bit guilty for hitting them with his car, shoving them around, and then yelling at them for several minutes. Before his brain catches up with his mouth, he’s opening it to ask, “Do you need a ride to the city?”
The stranger blinks at him slowly. Katsuki is mentally cursing himself for not thinking, as if it’s even remotely safe to let someone who’s full face he hasn’t even seen into his car to be alone with him for another hour, but it’s too late to take it back now. He holds back a massive sigh as the stranger nods very slightly and begins to stand.
Not waiting for them to get up, Katsuki moves to the trunk to pull out a plastic tarp and drape it over the upholstery of the passenger seat. Ancient car or not, his dad would still be sorely disappointed if he ruined it in his ill-advised impulsive jaunt. The stranger climbs into the car, perched delicately on the seat as if moving too suddenly would shatter them like glass. Despite the years of therapy Katsuki’s endured, he still doesn’t feel equipped to touch that, so they drive in silence for a while.
The thick, metallic scent of blood pervades the air and sticks in the back of Katsuki’s throat. It joins the quiet and the darkness in suffocating him, layers of thick blankets settling over his face and around his shoulders. Desperately, his hand gropes for the radio controls, flicking it on to a local radio station. Present Mic’s voice crackles through the speakers, chattering aimlessly with different callers. The stranger’s eyes are fixed ahead the entire time, even when Katsuki grunts out an offer to change the station, and he lets it drop.
The city lights twinkle as they near the buildings ahead of them. As they near the more suburban areas and Katsuki slows down, he feels the stranger’s eyes bore into him. He swallows, fighting to urge to snap at them defensively.
“Where do you want me to drop you?” he asks gruffly when they’re stopped at an intersection near his neighborhood. “I can’t drive into the city, but I can get my parents to take you somewhere if you need it.”
He gets no response. Turning his head, he meets the gaze of the stranger. “Take that damn mask off,” he grumbles childishly. “I can’t tell what you’re thinking.”
The stranger stares at him a moment longer, eyes seeming to focus more with every word. With a quick movement that startles Katsuki, they reach up and pull the mask and goggles down around their neck, exposing a haggard and achingly young freckled face. Imprints from the equipment are pressed into the boy’s pale skin, which shines with sweat and tear tracks. His lip is split as if punched, and purple patches blossom around his jaw. An old scar ripples across his cheek, pink and faded at the edges. He looks about the same age as Katsuki and oddly familiar, and he can’t help but wonder what type of trouble someone this young could get into to put him in this position. What might have happened to him if he was picked up by someone else.
His breath catches in his throat as the dim streetlight seizes a green curl behind the stranger’s ear. This stranger seems older than he would’ve been, more muscular, face angled differently and freckles much darker, but the resemblance is uncanny.
“Fuck.” Katsuki drags a (clean) hand down the side of his face. “Do you even have a place to stay?”
The boy stares back. The answer is obviously no. Katsuki is not eager to have a green-eyed spectre in his home, but he can’t think of anywhere else to bring a skittish half-dead kid at this hour. He has a feeling that if he pulled up to the hospital or the police station then the guy would just bolt.
This is what gets him to pull into the driveway an hour before midnight. The light is still on in the living room, and guilt stirs again in his stomach as he thinks of his parents sitting up until he’s home. He can almost hear their sighs of relief as he fumbles with the keys and shoulders open the front door.
“Brat!” his mother screeches, pulling him into a hug immediately. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier. Don’t go running off like that next time! You scared us half to death!”
His father stands behind her, a small smile breaking his stern expression. “Your mother is right. We were worried sick. We have faith in your driving abilities, but you don’t have a license and were out late by yourself. You didn’t even take your phone. Who knows what could have happened?” Katsuki pats his pocket instinctively, heart jolting a bit when he realizes his father is right.
His mother pulls back. “’m sorry, hag,” Katsuki mutters. “Shouldn’t have just gotten angry like that. S’not like you even meant what I thought you did. I shouldn’t have just left like that either.” He expects they’ll be talking about it more later, but that satisfies his mother for now.
Their attention shifts suddenly to the stranger, who is lingering awkwardly in the doorway. “Ran into him on the way back,” Katsuki explains, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Offered him a ride to the city, but he doesn’t have a place to stay, and I can’t take him to the police station by myself, so…” Katsuki trails off with a shrug.
His mother’s eagle eyes assess both of their appearances and latch instantly on Katsuki’s hair. “Is that blood?” she yelps, one hand gripping his chin and the other jumping to ruffle through his hair in search of the source. “What happened?”
“When you say ran into him, did you mean…?”
“Yes,” Katsuki answers to both of them. “It’s not my blood, and I don’t think it’s his either. Idiot jumped in front of the car in complete darkness, I couldn’t fucking see him.”
The overwhelmed stranger shies away from his parents as they fuss over his appearance. “Show the boy to the guest bathroom, Katsuki,” his mother instructs. “I’ll heat up dinner for the both of you. Masaru, go prep the guest bedroom.”
Katsuki nods and jerks his chin towards the staircase down the hall. He doesn’t wait for the stranger to follow as he heads up the stairs, grabbing a towel from the closet and heading to the bathroom at the end of the hall. Soft footsteps sink into the carpet behind him, the only indication that the boy is following.
Katsuki whirls on his heel and shoves the towel into his hands. “Get cleaned up and come down for dinner,” he growls, already making his way towards his parents’ bathroom to perform his own ablutions. He pauses a few steps away, hesitating.
“Bakugou Katsuki,” he says a little softer than usual. “That’s my name. You got one too?”
A few long seconds pass. Katsuki doesn’t turn around. Right as he’s about to walk away, a scratchy voice answers, “Akatani Mikumo.”
Katsuki grits his teeth and shoves down the disappointment. “Right.” He keeps walking, leaving Akatani to wash up by himself.
As he stands in the shower later, watching the thin stream of red trickle down the drain, he pulls up the feeling again. Breathes. Comes to terms with it. He refuses to let three years of progress be undone by a kid who just looks a bit similar to his childhood frenemy.
Midoriya Izuku is dead. There is no bringing him back.
Smoke tangles in Shouta’s hair and curls around his nose. His tired eyes threaten to slide closed, waves of sleepiness overtaking him as he forces himself to keep walking. Downtown Musutafu is much too crowded and noisy for him, and he can’t imagine why his students like it so much.
Well, no. This is exactly the kind of place his students would love. It’s why he’s hunting for them here on his way back to UA, running on five hours of sleep over two days.
No one looks twice at him. He scans the sidewalks, the interiors of restaurants and cafes, the storefront displays, hunting for a hint of anything amiss. He doesn’t really know what he’s looking for, but he subconsciously gathers tidbits of information that paint an unsettling picture he wants on Nedzu’s desk ASAP.
It had just been a routine trip downtown. A few of their students wanted to replenish supplies for their weekly movie nights in the dorms, and Shouta had agreed to chaperone while the other teachers were busy. Suddenly, they were embroiled in a villain attack in the shopping district done by the same group Shouta had spent the last week of sleepless nights tracking, because apparently the universe can’t ever resist the chance to put him and his class through some trouble.
He and Midoriya had been back-to-back in the midst of the chaotic battle when it happened. Shouta hadn’t turned around to see his Problem Child land behind him, but he could hear the telltale crackle of lightning, different from Kaminari’s sizzling sparks. Midoriya’s steps faltered as his feet hit the ground, and Shouta distantly noted that all his students must be getting exhausted.
Distant sirens heralded the close arrival of backup. As Shouta appraised the rapidly subsiding threat, he let his shoulders relax. Midoriya, similarly detecting the shift, let his lightning dissipate and leaned against Shouta’s back to steady himself.
He hadn’t even seen who’d done it. Midoriya had let out an aborted yell, a hand had clasped Shouta’s shoulder firmly from behind, and he’d whirled around with an iron grip on his capture scarf to greet the empty greenery of Tatooin Central Park. No villain, no Midoriya, no people at all.
His phone was in his pocket, busted beyond repair. The thick plume of smoke rising from the flaming department stores a few blocks away had disappeared. Despite the sun still hanging low in the sky, the park itself was devoid of people. These factors combined held him back from booking it to the police station or the nearest hero agency.
When in doubt, UA will help. This is how Shouta finds himself on the familiar path to the school. The search for his students yields no results, as expected, but his worry doesn’t abate. His brain tries to puzzle through the world’s inconsistencies, but with tiredness fuzzing the edges of his thoughts, the best he can land on is an illusion Quirk. He promptly places it at the bottom of the list of options; his surroundings are too vivid for the capabilities of a B-rank villain group that even a handful of his second-year students could catch, unless he sorely underestimated them.
He turns onto lesser-traveled roads. The backstreets of the city are second nature to him as an underground hero. He knows every nook, cranny, and deserted back alley intimately, so when the usual corner haunts aren’t there to make covert deals or catch a quick smoke, he takes notice.
There’s no one around. This is what puts Shouta on edge the most. The park could’ve just been coincidentally empty, but the city’s underbelly isn’t this quiet unless it’s afraid of something.
Or someone.
“This is a bit out of the way of your usual patrol, Eraserhead,” a familiar young voice remarks casually from above.
He doesn’t freeze. Doesn’t twitch. Does nothing to indicate how startled he is at missing the boy perched on top of the old wooden bar sign behind him. He just quickly spins and looks up into curious green eyes.
“You’re awfully relaxed, Midoriya,” Shouta utters, shoving his hands in his pockets to disguise his unease. “Care to share with the class? What happened to the others?”
“If you’re implying I kidnapped more children, you can save your breath.” Midoriya’s amused expression sours. “I already told you, I wasn’t even involved with that group. I literally killed the orchestrator myself.”
The possibility of an illusion Quirk is tossed out the window so fast it breaks the sound barrier.
“Midoriya,” he begins slowly, watching the boy’s expression shutter a little more, “I’m far too tired and confused right now to play around. What’s going on? What do you mean, killed the orchestrator? What happened to the villains who attacked the department store? Where are the other students?”
“I haven’t heard my name said out loud in three years,” the boy mutters. “I don’t know how long you’ve known who I am, but I don’t like it. Just go back to calling me Deku like everyone else and save me the emotional turmoil.”
He hops down from the sign and lands, catlike, in front of Shouta. “I don’t know what department store you’re talking about.” He spreads his arms out nonthreateningly, exposing a black tank top that does little to disguise lean muscles. “And I haven’t seen your students since the USJ a few months ago. That’s the truth.”
Shouta could be dreaming. Or hallucinating from sleep deprivation. That would certainly be more plausible than one of his top students suddenly forgetting years at UA and losing half the definition in his muscles. Memory is stored in the muscles, his inappropriately hysterical sleep-deprived brain conjures. If that were true, maybe All Might would remember his lesson plans better.
“In fact, this is the first I’ve seen of you in a few weeks. For someone who’s dedicated to tracking me down, you’re certainly not out in the field very often.”
Shouta’s hands are out of his pockets now. He doesn’t like the malicious gleam in his student’s eyes as he draws closer. “Are you actually my Problem Child?” he asks softly, one hand drifting up to his capture scarf.
Midoriya stops short with a surprised laugh. “Your what?” He mulls over it for a second. “Yeah, I guess I technically am. Though the way you say it almost sounds fond.” He shoots Shouta a sharp grin. “Careful, Eraserhead. You can't go getting attached to a villain, now, can you?”
Before Shouta can respond, Midoriya lunges at him, a short blade appearing in his hand. Shouta leaps back, just out of range of the swing, and yanks down his capture scarf. He whips it at Midoriya, aiming to catch him as he leans backward, but the boy anticipates it and flattens himself to the floor, letting it sail harmlessly past him. Shouta focuses his glowing red eyes on him as he regains his balance and braces himself to swipe at Shouta again.
And…nothing.
No faltering, no cry of alarm, not even a twitch. It’s as if Midoriya doesn’t feel the effects of Erasure at all. Shouta feels a pit of dread open deep in his stomach.
The boy lunges at him again, this time jumping and aiming a punch at Shouta’s head. This is a move he knows, a default move he spent hours drilling out of his Midoriya in his first year. The boy’s Quirkless sparring has never been anything to write home about, but this version of him hasn't touched his Quirk at all. Even when Shouta dodges and flips him onto the ground, he doesn't take the clear opening to recover his balance, obscure Shouta’s vision, blast him into the wall, or do remotely anything with his frankly ridiculous abilities. He just rolls with the ease of a gymnast and lightly hops to his feet, watching Shouta expectantly.
Shouta grips the edge of his capture scarf in his hand as the two circle each other warily. Midoriya seems to have grasped from his test strikes that Shouta won’t go down easily, and he’s eyeing the scarf like he’s been on the receiving end of it before. His stance is poised to dodge, not attack, but Shouta has decades of experience on him.
Before anyone can blink, the scarf is hooked around Midoriya’s leg, yanking him to the ground. He lets go of the knife with a pained grunt as his shoulder hits the pavement, and it clatters towards Shouta. He kicks it into a nearby storm drain, ignoring Midoriya’s hiss of frustration as he is rendered weaponless.
He looks up just in time to duck under another punch to the head. Despite having one leg tangled in the scarf, Midoriya doesn’t let up. Shouta feels the air ruffle his hair as the arm whips over his head, right before a sharp pain hits the back of his skull. He staggers, mildly disoriented, and a foot drives into his right side, sending him to his knees.
Shouta may be the pro, but he’s also several days sleep-deprived and exhausted from a previous fight. He becomes sorely aware of this fact as Midoriya approaches him slowly, cradling the elbow he drove into Shouta’s head. “It’s suspicious how easy you’re making this,” Midoriya rasps.
“How-” Shouta coughs as he stumbles to his feet, ready to fling the capture scarf again. “How often have we fought?”
“What, are you suffering from memory loss now?” the boy snaps, clearly losing his patience. “Have you suddenly forgotten all the times you went after me?” He reaches down and unwraps the scarf from his leg, throwing it back at Shouta forcefully.
Shouta opens his mouth to respond, but Midoriya is already turning around. “I don’t know what happened to you, Eraser,” he says, his voice low, “but I’m not going to give you another chance to trick me. Come find me when you’re ready to act like yourself again, and then we’ll talk.”
The boy melts into the shadows of a side alleyway. Shouta debates going after him, but even if he did tie him up, what could he do? Show up to the police station like “Hi, I’m under the effects of a quirk I don’t understand, and my student attacked me under the belief that he’s a villain I’ve been trying to track down for months”? No one in their right mind wouldn’t lock them both up for that, and Shouta doesn’t have the luxury of letting the authorities take their time fumbling with the problem.
No, his best bet is still UA. As much as it stings to leave his student alone in the city, he’s clearly able to take care of himself for the time being and certainly won’t go with Shouta quietly, so his next priority is getting answers. Something bigger is going on here, and he needs to get on top of it fast.
The station for the train to the school is only a few minutes away. Shouta nurses his blossoming headache and hopes Hizashi will have coffee ready for him when he returns. The man always has a cup prepared for him at the end of the day, one of many things Shouta appreciates about him. The train slides into the UA stop, and he slips out of the empty car, eyes watchful for tails. Darkness flickers at the edges of his vision, warning him to hurry before unconsciousness overtakes him.
Before long, he stands at the UA gates, staring at the entry panel. It looks older than he remembers, no longer outfitted with the sleek postwar updates Nedzu and Power Loader made to the system. This change is what finally gets Shouta’s brain to short-circuit. He spends two whole minutes staring at it in confusion, mind foggy and sluggish.
The blink of the security camera turning on is what snaps Shouta out of his reverie. Someone is watching him, no doubt suspicious that he’s just standing motionless outside the gate. Quickly, he pulls out his ID and leans down for the retinal scan.
The gates let him through easily, and he strides up the walkway towards the school. Not for the first time, he thanks Nedzu’s tendency to work late as he beelines for the principal’s office. The halls are as eerily silent as the streets, prompting Shouta to quicken his strides. The sooner he can report to Nedzu and send out an alert for his students, the sooner he is free to fall asleep in his sleeping bag - or, if he can stay awake long enough to make it to his on-campus apartment, his husband’s arms. He can hear soft voices in Nedzu’s office as he approaches, but he figures he’s entitled to one dramatic interruption of a routine staff meeting after the day he’s had.
He flings open the door without knocking and steps inside. Nedzu and the two men he’s talking to turn to face him, startled and already slipping into fighting stances. Shouta locks wide eyes with himself, sways, and promptly passes out.