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The world had not ended in fire.
Izuku used to think it would, used to imagine it as something loud and immediate, something that would burn everything away in a single, merciful instant. That was what the stories said. That was what people feared.
But the truth was quieter.
The world ended slowly.
It ended in empty streets and silent buildings. In doors left open. In cities that still stood, but no longer lived. It ended in the absence of footsteps, in the way the wind moved through broken windows like it was searching for something that wasn’t there anymore.
It ended in loneliness.
Izuku adjusted the straps of his worn backpack as he stepped over a fallen street sign, its letters so faded they were barely readable anymore. The road beneath his feet was cracked, grass pushing through the gaps, reclaiming what humanity had once taken.
Ten years.
Ten years since he had last seen another person.
Ten years since the evacuation ships had filled the sky, massive, shining things that blocked out the sun as they carried humanity away from the dying Earth. He remembered watching them go, standing on the roof of a half-collapsed building, screaming until his throat burned.
They hadn’t heard him.
Or maybe they had. Maybe they just hadn’t stopped.
Izuku swallowed, pushing the memory down as he adjusted his grip on the metal pipe he carried. It was dented, rusted along the edges, but it was better than nothing. Not that there was much left to fight anymore.
Most animals had died off.
The rest had changed.
He moved carefully down the street, eyes scanning every shadow, every broken doorway. Habit. Instinct. Even now, after all this time, he couldn’t afford to be careless.
A cough tore through his chest without warning.
Izuku stumbled, catching himself against a crumbling wall as his lungs seized. It burned, sharp and deep, like something was scraping against the side of his ribs. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing shallowly, waiting for it to pass.
It always passed.
Eventually.
When the coughing finally subsided, he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and didn’t look at the faint smear of red it left behind.
“Still alive,” he muttered hoarsely.
It was something he said every day. A reminder. A promise.
He pushed himself upright and kept moving.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
The grocery store had already been picked clean years ago, but Izuku checked it anyway.
He always checked.
Inside, the air was stale, thick with dust. Shelves lay overturned, their contents long gone or rotted beyond recognition. The faint smell of decay still lingered, even after all this time.
Izuku moved through the aisles with practiced efficiency, scanning for anything usable. A sealed bottle, an unopened can, anything.
His fingers brushed against something behind the counter, a small box, half-hidden beneath debris. He crouched, pulling it free, and felt a flicker of something dangerously close to hope.
Medicine.
Most of it was useless now, expired, degraded, but he turned to the box over in his hands, scanning the labels.
Something for fever. Something for pain.
Not much.
But enough.
“Jackpot,” he whispered.
He slipped it into his bag carefully, like it might disappear if he moved too fast. For a moment, he let himself breathe. For a moment, he let himself feel… not happy, not quite, but lighter.
And then--
A sound.
Izuku froze. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t close.
But it wasn’t natural.
A low hum, steady and unfamiliar, vibrated faintly through the air.
Slowly, carefully, Izuku straightened. The pipe tightened in his grip. The sound grew louder.
Not wind or collapsing metal. Not anything he had heard in ten years of surviving this empty world.
His heart started to pound.
“No,” he murmured under his breath, backing toward the exit. “No, no, no--”
Because there was only one thing it could be.
And it was impossible.
Izuku stepped out into the street, and the sky was glowing.
Not with fire or sunlight, but with something bright and unnatural, cutting through the clouds like a blade.
A ship.
Not like the evacuation ships. This one was smaller, sleeker, silent in a way that made his skin crawl.
It hovered above the ruined city, casting long shadows across the broken streets.
Watching.
Izuku’s breath came fast, uneven.
“They came back,” he whispered.
But something about it felt wrong. The ships that had taken humanity away had been loud, overwhelming, impossible to ignore.
This one was… controlled. Precise.
And it wasn’t leaving.
It was descending.
“Move,” Izuku told himself sharply.
His body didn’t listen at first, but he forced it to.
Turning, he ran.
His lungs screamed in protest almost immediately. His legs felt like lead, every step heavier than the last, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t look back, didn’t think.
He ran through broken streets and crumbling alleys, past buildings that leaned like they might collapse at any second. The hum followed him, growing louder, closer--
Too close.
“They’re not here for you,” he gasped, like saying it would make him true. “They’re not-- they don’t even know you’re here--”
A shadow passed over him. Izuku risked a glance upward, and nearly tripped.
The ship was directly above him. Tracking him.
Panic surged, sharp and blinding. He pushed himself faster, ignoring the way his vision blurred, the way his chest tightened with every breath.
“Just-- just a little further--”
His foot caught on something. Izuku hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. Pain flared through his side as he rolled onto his back, gasping.
The sky spun above him. The hum stopped. Silence fell.
Izuku tried to move. His body didn’t respond.
No, it did. Just… slower. Too slow. Something was wrong.
His limbs felt heavy, numb, like they didn’t belong to him anymore.
“Get up,” he whispered, voice shaking. “Get up, get up--”
A shadow fell across him.
Not the ship. Something closer.
Izuku’s breath hitched. He forced eyes to focus.
Shapes. Tall and unfamiliar. Not human.
Fear slammed into him, sharp and absolute.
He tried to reach for his pipe, but his fingers barely twitched. He tried to speak, but his voice wouldn’t come out.
The shapes moved closer. One of them knelt beside him.
Izuku caught a glimpse of something pale, something mismatched, like fire and ice.
And then darkness swallowed everything.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
Consciousness came back slowly. Not like waking up, more like surfacing.
Izuku became aware of the cold first.
Not freezing, not the biting kind that cracked skin and stiffened joints, but something artificial, clean and controlled. It pressed lightly against his back, against his arms, like the surface beneath him wasn’t quite solid.
His eyes snapped open.
The ceiling above him wasn’t a ceiling.
It was smooth and curved, pale like polished stone but glowing faintly from within, lines of soft light running through it like veins. They pulsed gently, in no pattern he could understand.
Izuku jerked upright.
And immediately regretted it.
Pain lanced through his head, sharp enough to make him gasp. His vision swam, the room tilting dangerously as his stomach twisted.
“Don’t--” he choked, grabbing at the edge of whatever he was lying on.
A hand caught his shoulder and Izuku flinched violently, twisting away on instinct.
“Don’t touch me!” The words tore out of him, raw and hoarse, barely more than a rasp, but the reaction was immediate.
The hand withdrew.
Izuku scrambled backward, nearly falling off the narrow platform beneath him before catching himself. His breath came fast, uneven, panic clawing its way as he forced himself to look.
The room was… wrong.
Too clean. Too perfect. The walls curved seamlessly into the floor, no corners, no seams, no visible doors, just smooth surfaces broken only by those glowing lines. Strange structures jutted from the walls, their purposes unclear, their shapes unfamiliar.
And the people--
No.
Not people.
They stood at a distance, watching him.
They were tall. Taller than any human he’d ever seen. Their forms were… almost right. Two arms, two legs, upright, but something about them felt off. Too still and too precise.
Their eyes…
Izuku’s breath caught.
Not human. Definitely not human.
He pushed himself further back, until his spine hit the wall. “No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “No, this isn’t-- this isn’t real--”
One of them stepped forward. Izuku reacted instantly, grabbing the nearest thing he could find, a thin, metallic object resting beside him, and hurling it.
It clattered uselessly against the floor, nowhere near its target.
His arm trembled, too weak, too slow.
The figure didn’t react. They didn’t even flinch.
“Stay back!” Izuku snapped, voice cracking. “I mean it--!”
The figure paused.
And then it spoke. The sound wasn’t right. Not at first. It was too smooth, too measured, like the words were being constructed instead of spoken.
“You are… awake.”
Izuku froze. His heart pounded in his ears. “You--” He swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “You speak English?”
A pause. Then, “...Learning.”
The figure stepped closer. Izuku tensed, every muscle in his body screaming at him to run, but there was nowhere to go.
Up close, the differences were clearer. More unsettling. Their features were sharper, more defined, like they had been carved instead of formed. Their skin, if it was skin, was pale, almost luminescent under the soft lighting. And their eyes…
Izuku couldn’t look away.
One side burned warm, like embers. The other was cold, icy, and pale.
Completely mismatched.
“You--” Izuku’s voice faltered. “What are you?”
The figure tilted its head slightly. “Designation… is Shoto.”
That wasn’t what he asked. “I didn’t ask your name,” Izuku snapped, fear bleeding into frustration. “I ask what you are.”
Another pause. “...Not human.”
Izuku let out a strained, humorless laugh. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I figured that out.”
Silence stretched between them. Izuku’s gaze darted around the room again, searching for doorways, exits, anything, but there was nothing. He was trapped.
The realization settled deep in his chest, cold and suffocating.
“What do you want?” he demanded, forcing himself to meet Shoto’s gaze again. “Why am I here?”
Shoto didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his eyes moved over Izuku, not in a curious or even clinical way, but something else. Something assessing.
Something… concerned?
“...You were alone,” Shoto said finally.
Izuku’s chest tightened.
“So?” he shot back. “That doesn’t mean you get to just-- what, abduct me?”
The word felt ridiculous coming out of his mouth. But what else was this?
Shoto’s expression didn’t change. “...Earth was… observed. Population… absent.”
Izuku went still. “Observed?” he repeated quietly.
“...For extended time.”
A slow, sinking feeling settled in his stomach.
“They left,” Izuku said, the words tasting bitter. “Everyone left. You already knew that didn’t you?”
Shoto didn’t deny it. “...You remained.”
Izuku’s hands curled into fists. “Yeah,” he said flatly. “Lucky me.”
Another silence. Then, Shoto took a step closer.
Izuku’s entire body tensed. “Don’t,” he warned, voice low. “I’m serious-- don’t come any closer--”
Shoto stopped. For a moment, neither of them moved.
“You are unwell.”
Izuku blinked. “What?”
“Your body. Failing.”
The words were blunt, clinical, and too accurate.
“I’m fine,” Izuku snapped immediately. “I’ve been fine for ten years, I don’t need--”
A cough cut him off, sudden and violent. Izuku doubled over, clutching his chest as his lungs seized. It burned worse than before, sharper, deeper, like something inside him was breaking apart.
“No--” he gasped, trying to force it down. “Not now--”
His vision blurred. His body shook.
And then a hand was on his arm. It was steady and warm.
Izuku flinched, trying to pull away, but his strength was gone, completely gone, leaving him weak and shaking against the unfamiliar grip.
“Don’t--” he choked. “Don’t touch me--”
“You will die.”
The words cut through everything. Izuku froze.
“Without intervention.”
Izuku’s breath came in shallow, uneven pulls as the coughing subsided, leaving him exhausted and trembling. He didn’t look up. Didn’t want to.
“...Why do you care?” he asked hoarsely. It was a real question, not angry, not defensive. Just… tired.
Shoto didn’t answer right away. For a moment, the only sound was the quiet hum of the ship.
Then, “..You are the last.”
Izuku’s throat tightened. “And?” he whispered.
Another pause. “...That has value.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Not because they were cruel, but because they weren’t. They were simple. Logical. And somehow, that made it worse.
Izuku let out a shaky breath, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Great,” he muttered. “So I’m not a person. I’m a… a resource.”
The hand on his arm didn’t tighten. It didn’t restrain him. It just… stayed.
“Incorrect.”
Izuku frowned slightly, opening his eyes.
Shoto was closer now. Close enough that Izuku could see the faint shift in his expression.
“You are both.”
Izuku stared at him. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Izuku let out a weak, humorless laugh. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”
Shoto didn’t respond, but he didn’t let go either.
And for the first time since waking up, Izuku didn’t pull away.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
Izuku didn’t trust them.
Not when they gave him food, strange, colorless things that tasted like nothing but somehow left him full. Not when they let him walk freely through parts of the ship, unrestrained, unguarded in ways that felt almost insulting. And definitely not when they treated him.
That was the worst part.
The first time they tried, he fought.
“Get off me—!”
It had taken three of them to hold him down.
Izuku thrashed violently, adrenaline burning through his veins as cold instruments pressed against his skin. He didn’t understand what they were doing, didn’t understand the glowing devices, the soft hum of machinery, the way the air itself seemed to tighten around him.
All he knew was that he wasn’t going to just lie there and let them experiment on him.
“I said stop!”
One of them hesitated.
The others didn’t.
Panic surged, sharp and suffocating. Izuku twisted hard enough that something in his shoulder screamed in protest, and then, “Enough.”
Everything stopped.
The word wasn’t loud. But it carried.
The pressure on Izuku’s arms vanished instantly. The figures around him stepped back without argument, without hesitation. Izuku lay there for a moment, chest heaving, body shaking with the aftershock of adrenaline.
Then he pushed himself up, scrambling backward until he hit the far wall. “Stay away from me,” he warned, voice raw. “I mean it this time.”
Shoto stood at the edge of the room, watching him. Always watching him.
No anger. No frustration. Just that same calm, unreadable expression.
“…You resist necessary care,” Shoto said.
Izuku let out a sharp, breathless laugh. “No kidding.”
Silence stretched between them. Then Shoto stepped forward.
Izuku’s heart spiked. “Don’t—”
Shoto stopped. Just like before. Always just enough.
“…You misunderstand,” Shoto said.
Izuku shook his head, pressing himself harder against the wall. “No, I don’t,” he snapped. “You took me from my planet, dragged me onto this-- this thing, and now you expect me to just trust you?”
Shoto didn’t respond immediately.
“…Yes.”
Izuku stared at him.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
After that, they changed tactics. They didn’t force him down again. Didn’t restrain him. Instead, they watched. Waited. And treated him anyway.
It started small. A device left near where he slept, emitting a faint warmth that eased the tightness in his chest. A drink placed beside him while he rested, bitter, unfamiliar, but it dulled the constant ache in his lungs.
He ignored it at first. Refused to touch anything they gave him.
Until the coughing got worse. Until breathing started to feel like dragging glass through his throat. Until one night, alone in the too-quiet room they’d given him, Izuku reached for the drink with shaking hands and swallowed it down.
He hated himself for it. But it helped.
And that was almost worse.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
Days passed. Or something like days.
Time didn’t work the same here. There was no sun, no sky, nothing to measure by except the slow rhythm of his own body.
Izuku started exploring. At first, it was just out of necessity. Mapping exits. Counting turns. Watching patterns.
The ship was massive, far larger than it had looked from the ground. Its corridors curved in impossible ways, leading to open spaces filled with unfamiliar machinery, glowing panels, and windows that didn’t look like windows at all.
He avoided those. Avoided the places where the walls turned transparent, revealing the endless black of space beyond.
He wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
He tried to escape. Of course he did.
The first time, he almost made it. He’d found what he thought was an access point—an opening in the wall that responded to touch, shifting just enough to suggest it led somewhere important.
Somewhere out.
His heart had pounded as he stepped through, breath coming fast as hope flared sharp and sudden in his chest. Freedom. Or at least… something closer to it.
He didn’t get far.
The corridor sealed behind him. The floor shifted beneath his feet, and suddenly he wasn’t moving forward anymore.
He was moving back.
Like the ship itself had decided he wasn’t allowed to leave.
Izuku slammed his fist against the wall. “Let me out!” he shouted, voice echoing uselessly around him. “You can’t just keep me here!”
The walls didn’t respond. They never did.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
Shoto found him there. Of course he did.
Izuku didn’t turn when he heard the footsteps. Didn’t look.
“…You attempt departure again,” Shoto observed.
Izuku clenched his jaw. “Yeah,” he said flatly. “Shocking, right?”
Silence.
Then, “…You will not succeed.”
Izuku laughed under his breath. “Yeah, I’m starting to get that.”
He pushed himself off the wall, turning to face Shoto. “Why even let me walk around?” he demanded. “If I’m such a ‘valuable resource,’ wouldn’t it be safer to just lock me in a room somewhere?”
Shoto studied him. Longer this time. “…You are not a prisoner.”
Izuku blinked. Then frowned. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“…You are contained for your survival.”
Izuku’s frustration flared. “That’s the same thing!”
“…It is not.”
Their gazes locked. Izuku expected irritation. Pushback. Something.
But Shoto just… stood there, calm and certain.
And somehow, that made it harder to argue.
Izuku looked away first.
“…Whatever,” he muttered.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
The second time he tried to escape, he didn’t make it as far. The third time, he didn’t even get out of the room before something in the wall shifted, blocking his path entirely. By the fourth time, he stopped trying.
Not because he wanted to.
But because something else had started to change.
It happened quietly.
So quietly he almost didn’t notice.
His breathing got easier. The coughing came less often. The constant ache in his chest dulled into something manageable. He was getting better. Actually better.
Izuku sat on the edge of his sleeping platform, staring down at his hands like they might have the answer. “They’re fixing me,” he murmured.
The realization sat heavy in his chest. Because that meant--
He swallowed hard.
“They could’ve just… let me die.”
The thought should have been comforting. It wasn’t.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
Later, when he returned to his room, something was waiting for him.
Izuku froze in the doorway. It sat on the platform, exactly where he’d been sitting earlier. Small. Familiar. Impossible.
His journal.
The edges were worn, the cover scratched and faded from years of use. A corner was bent where he’d dropped it once, running from--
Izuku’s breath hitched. Slowly, like approaching something fragile, he stepped forward.
His hands shook as he picked it up. He turned it over.
It was real. It was his.
“You—” His voice came out barely above a whisper. “You went back.”
Shoto stood near the entrance. Watching. “…Yes.”
Izuku stared at the journal, his grip tightening. “You said you were just observing,” he said, something sharp creeping into his tone. “That doesn’t look like observation.”
“…It was retrieved.”
Izuku let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “Why?”
The question hung between them. For a moment, Shoto didn’t answer. Then, “…It has value.”
Izuku’s expression hardened. “Yeah,” he said bitterly. “I remember. Everything about me does, right?”
Shoto shook his head. A small movement. But deliberate. “…Not the same.”
Izuku frowned slightly. "Explain.”
Another pause. “…It matters to you.”
The words landed softly. But they hit harder than anything else had.
Izuku went still. His fingers loosened slightly around the journal. For a moment, he didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to respond to something that… simple. Something that wasn’t about usefulness. Or survival. Or being the last.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Izuku said finally, quieter now.
“…It does.”
Izuku looked up. He met Shoto’s gaze.
And for the first time, he hesitated. Because there was something there. Something unfamiliar. Something he didn’t have a name for.
“…You’re weird,” Izuku muttered, looking away.
Shoto didn’t react. But he didn’t leave, either.
And this time, Izuku didn’t tell him to.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
Izuku stopped counting the days. There was no point.
Time on the ship didn’t move the way it had on Earth. There were no mornings, no nights, just a steady, unchanging glow that made everything feel suspended, like he existed outside of time itself.
At first, that had terrified him.
Now…
Now it was just another thing he didn’t understand.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
Communication improved. Slowly. Painfully.
But it improved.
It started with a device. Shoto brought it to him without explanation, small, curved, fitting easily against Izuku’s ear. Izuku eyed it suspiciously, turning it over in his hands like it might bite him.
“What is it?” he asked.
“…Translation interface.”
Izuku frowned. “And you expect me to just put it on?”
“…Yes.”
“…You’ve learned nothing about humans.”
Shoto didn’t respond to that. He just waited. And for some reason, that calm, unyielding patience was harder to fight than anything else.
Izuku sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “If this kills me, I’m haunting you,” he muttered.
“…Noted.”
“…That wasn’t a joke.”
“…Noted.”
Izuku shot him a look. Then, reluctantly, he lifted the device and placed it against his ear. It adjusted instantly, cool against his skin, then warm, like it had settled into place.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the hum of the ship shifted.
No, that wasn’t right.
It translated.
What had once been meaningless sound began to take shape. Not words exactly, but something closer. Structure. Pattern. Understanding.
Izuku’s eyes widened slightly. “…Okay,” he admitted quietly. “That’s… actually kind of amazing.”
Shoto inclined his head slightly. “…Communication will be more efficient.”
“Yeah,” Izuku said, still adjusting. “Yeah, I guess it will.”
And it was. Conversations that had once been halting and frustrating became… easier. Not perfect. Never perfect. But enough.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
“Why were you watching Earth?”
They stood in one of the ship’s open chambers, if it could be called that. The wall in front of them had turned transparent, revealing the vast stretch of space beyond.
Izuku had avoided this place at first.
Now…
Now he found himself coming back.
Even if it made his chest ache.
“…Observation of developing civilizations is standard,” Shoto said.
Izuku crossed his arms. “Define ‘standard.’”
“…We monitor. Record. Intervene if necessary.”
Izuku’s gaze sharpened. “Intervene how?”
A pause. “…Preservation. Containment.”
Izuku didn’t like the sound of that. “Containment,” he repeated. “You mean like what you’re doing to me?”
“…No.” The answer came immediately.
Izuku glanced at him. “…Then what?”
Shoto didn’t answer right away.
“…Earth was unstable.”
Izuku let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “You could say that.”
“…Conflict escalation. Environmental collapse. Weaponization beyond recovery thresholds.”
Each word was precise.
Izuku’s jaw tightened.
“We were trying,” he said, more defensive than he meant to be. “Not everyone just gave up.”
“…Some did not leave.”
Izuku stilled. “…No,” he said quietly. “Some of us didn’t.”
The silence that followed was different. Not tense. Not hostile.
Just… heavy.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
They started talking more after that. About small things. Strange things. Things that didn’t matter, and somehow mattered more than anything else.
“What’s that?” Shoto followed Izuku’s gaze to the object in his hands.
“My journal,” Izuku said. “I write in it.”
“…Purpose?”
Izuku blinked. “Purpose?”
“…Function.”
Izuku frowned slightly, then shrugged. “I don’t know. To remember things, I guess. To… get thoughts out of my head.”
Shoto tilted his head slightly. “…Why not retain them internally?”
Izuku snorted. “Because my brain is not a storage device.”
A pause. “…It is.”
“…You know what I mean.”
Another pause. “…Clarify.”
Izuku stared at him for a second. Then he laughed. “Wow,” he said, shaking his head. “You really don’t get it, do you?”
“…Explain.”
Izuku hesitated. Then looked down at the journal, running his thumb along the worn edge. “…Things feel different when you write them down,” he said slowly. “More real. Or… easier to understand.”
Shoto watched him. “…Externalizing internal processes.”
Izuku blinked. “…Sure,” he said. “We’ll go with that.”
Other times, it was quieter. Less about words. More about presence.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
They stood together at the observation wall again. Earth hung in the distance. Smaller than Izuku remembered. Fading.
“…It looks different,” he said softly.
“…Distance alters perception.”
“Yeah,” Izuku murmured. “I guess it does.” He pressed his hand lightly against the transparent surface.
“I used to think it was everything,” he admitted. “The whole world. The only world.”
Shoto didn’t respond. But he stepped closer. Not touching. Just… there.
“…It still is,” Izuku added after a moment. “For me, anyway.”
“…Understood.”
Izuku glanced at him. “…Do you have a ‘world’ like that?”
A pause. Then, “…Yes.”
Izuku’s expression softened slightly. “What’s it like?”
Shoto didn’t answer right away. “…Structured,” he said finally. “Ordered. Efficient.”
Izuku huffed a quiet laugh. “That sounds… boring.”
“…It is optimal.”
“Yeah, well,” Izuku said, leaning his head lightly against the surface, “Earth wasn’t optimal. And I think I liked it better that way.”
Shoto considered that.
He didn’t argue.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
It happened gradually.
So gradually Izuku almost didn’t notice.
The shift. The change.
He stopped flinching when Shoto stood too close.
Stopped expecting every interaction to turn into something dangerous.
Stopped… feeling alone.
That realization hit him harder than anything else had.
He was sitting in his room, journal open, pen hovering over the page, when it settled in. The silence wasn’t the same anymore. It wasn’t empty. It wasn’t suffocating.
Because he knew if he stepped out of the room, Shoto would be there. Somewhere on this ship. Within reach.
Izuku stared down at the blank page. “…That’s weird,” he murmured.
Because it shouldn’t feel like that. Shouldn’t feel like comfort. Not here.
Not with someone who wasn’t even human.
A soft sound came from the doorway.
Izuku looked up. Shoto stood there. Of course he did.
“…You are awake,” Shoto said.
He stepped inside, then paused. “…Your condition has improved.”
Izuku glanced down at his hands. At the steadiness in them. “…Yeah,” he admitted. “It has.”
A moment passed. Then, “…Thank you.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Izuku froze. Shoto did too.
Silence filled the space between them, thick and unfamiliar.
Izuku looked away first, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Don’t make a big deal out of it,” he muttered. “I’d be pretty useless if I died, right?”
It was a joke. Sort of.
Shoto didn’t laugh. “…Incorrect.”
Izuku frowned slightly.
“…You would not be ‘useless.’”
Izuku blinked. “That’s not what I meant.”
“…Clarify.”
Izuku opened his mouth, paused, then closed it again. “…Never mind,” he said quietly.
Because he didn’t know how to explain it. He didn’t know how to explain why that answer felt different.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
Later, after Shoto left, Izuku sat back down with his journal. He stared at the page for a long time. Then, slowly, he started to write.
I don’t think I’m alone anymore.
He hesitated, then added, And I don’t know how to feel about that.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
Izuku tried not to think about it. That was his first mistake.
Because the more he ignored it, the more obvious it became.
It started with small things.
The way he noticed Shoto before anyone else in a room, like his presence pulled attention without effort. The way his body didn’t tense anymore when Shoto stood close. The way silence between them no longer felt like something that needed to be filled.
It was… easy. Too easy.
And that was the problem.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
“You are distracted.”
Izuku blinked, snapping back to attention. “What?”
Shoto stood across from him, one hand resting lightly against a glowing panel. The room hummed softly around them, filled with systems Izuku still didn’t fully understand. “…Your focus has deviated,” Shoto said.
Izuku frowned. “No, it hasn’t.”
A pause. “…It has.”
Izuku crossed his arms. “You don’t know that.”
“…You have not responded to the last three inquiries.”
“…Okay, maybe a little.”
Shoto tilted his head slightly. “…Cause?”
Izuku opened his mouth, paused, then shrugged. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just thinking.”
Shoto didn’t look convinced. But he didn’t press.
He rarely did.
And for some reason, that made it worse.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
Izuku avoided him after that. Not completely. He wasn’t that obvious. But he kept his distance. Took different routes through the ship. Stayed in his room longer than usual. Focused on anything that wasn’t the growing, twisting feeling in his chest.
Because it didn’t make sense. None of this made sense.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
“You’re losing it,” he muttered to himself, pacing the length of his room.
His journal lay open on the platform behind him, pages filled with messy, uneven handwriting. He’d tried writing it out. That usually helped. It didn’t this time.
“You’ve been alone for too long,” he went on. “That’s all this is. Your brain is just—compensating.”
That made sense. It had to.
Because the alternative--
Izuku stopped pacing. He ran a hand through his hair. “…No,” he said firmly. “Not happening.”
Because Shoto wasn’t—
He exhaled sharply.
He couldn’t finish the thought.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
It didn’t last.
Avoiding Shoto, he meant.
Because Shoto noticed.
Of course he did.
“You are altering your movement patterns.”
Izuku nearly dropped the container he was holding. “I am not—” he started, then stopped, grimacing. “Can you not just sneak up on people like that?”
“…I did not alter my approach.”
“Yeah, well, maybe start.”
Shoto watched him. Silent. Waiting.
Izuku shifted slightly under the weight of his gaze. “…What?” he said finally.
“…You are avoiding me.” Straight to the point. No hesitation.
Izuku looked away. “No, I’m not.”
A pause. “…You are.”
Izuku huffed. “Okay, you don’t get to just decide that—”
“…Why?”
The question cut him off. Izuku froze. “…Why what?”
“…Why are you avoiding me?” Simple. Direct. Impossible to answer.
Izuku’s grip tightened slightly around the container in his hands. “I’m not,” he repeated, weaker this time.
Shoto stepped closer. Not threatening. Not forceful.
Just… closing the distance.
“…You are.”
Izuku’s chest tightened. “Does it matter?” he snapped, more defensive than he meant to be.
“…Yes.” The answer came immediately. Without hesitation.
And that made something twist sharply in Izuku’s chest.
“…Why?” he asked, quieter now.
Shoto stilled. For a moment, it seemed like he might not answer. Then, “…Your behavior has changed.”
Izuku let out a small, humorless laugh. “Wow,” he said. “Very insightful.”
Shoto didn’t react. “…It is inefficient.”
Izuku blinked. “…Inefficient?”
“…You avoid interaction. This reduces communication. Communication is required for—”
“Okay, stop,” Izuku cut in, rubbing his temples. “Can you just-- not make this sound like a system error?”
Shoto fell silent. Izuku exhaled slowly. “…It’s not about efficiency,” he said finally.
“…Clarify.”
Izuku hesitated. Then laughed under his breath.
Of course. Of course he didn’t get it.
“…I can’t,” Izuku said.
“…You can.”
“…I really can’t.”
Shoto took another step closer. Now they were—
Close. Too close.
Izuku’s breath caught slightly.
“…Explain,” Shoto said. Quiet. Insistent.
Izuku’s heart started to pound. This was a bad idea. A really bad idea.
“Because it’s weird, okay?” he blurted. “This whole thing is weird.”
Shoto didn’t move. “…Define ‘weird.’”
Izuku let out a frustrated sound. “I mean—this,” he said, gesturing vaguely between them. “Us. You. Me. This situation.”
“…It is atypical,” Shoto agreed.
“That’s not what I—” Izuku stopped, exhaling sharply. “You’re not helping.”
Silence. Then, “…Continue.”
Izuku squeezed his eyes shut for a second. Then opened them again. “…I don’t know what this is,” he said, more quietly now. “And I don’t like not knowing.”
Shoto studied him. “…You require definition.”
Izuku huffed. “Yeah,” he said. “Something like that.”
A pause. Then, “…What are the possible definitions?”
Izuku stared at him. “…You’re kidding.”
“…No.”
Izuku let out a disbelieving laugh, running a hand through his hair again. “You don’t just categorize everything like that,” he said.
“…It increases understanding.”
“Yeah, well, some things don’t fit into neat little categories.”
Shoto considered that. “…Then they require new ones.”
Izuku blinked. “…That’s not how feelings work.”
Shoto’s gaze didn’t waver. “…This is about feelings.”
It wasn’t a question. Izuku’s breath caught. “…Yeah,” he admitted quietly.
A long pause followed.
“…Specify.”
Izuku let out a shaky breath. “This is a terrible idea,” he muttered.
“…Explain.”
Izuku laughed weakly. “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”
“…No.” Of course not.
Izuku looked away. Then back. Then away again.
His heart was beating too fast. “…I think,” he started, then stopped.
He tried again. “…I think something’s wrong with me.”
Shoto’s expression didn’t change. “…Define ‘wrong.’”
Izuku swallowed. “…I think I feel—”
A sharp pain cut him off, sudden and violent. Izuku doubled over with a gasp, his hands flying to his chest as his lungs seized.
“Not—” he choked. “Not now—”
The pain was worse than before. So much worse.
His vision blurred instantly, his body trembling as he struggled to breathe.
“Izuku.” Shoto’s voice was different. Less measured.
Izuku couldn’t think. Couldn’t focus. Everything hurt.
Something was wrong. Something was really wrong.
Strong hands caught him before he could collapse completely. “…Your condition is deteriorating.”
“No—” Izuku gasped. “I was getting better—”
“…This is a regression.”
Izuku shook his head weakly. “That’s not—possible—”
The pain spiked again. White-hot. Blinding.
He cried out despite himself, his grip tightening weakly against Shoto’s arm.
“…Stay conscious.”
Izuku let out a strained laugh. “Not—really—up to me—”
The room spun. Darkness crept at the edges of his vision.
“Izuku.” That same shift in Shoto’s voice again. Urgent. Unsteady.
“…I’m here.”
Izuku’s breath hitched. Something about that, something about the way he said it cut through the pain just enough for Izuku to focus.
Just enough to look up.
Their eyes met.
Fire and ice.
Warm and cold.
Steady.
There.
“…You’re…” Izuku swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper. “…staying?”
“…Yes.”
No hesitation. No calculation. Just—
Yes.
Izuku let out a shaky breath.
“…Okay,” he murmured.
And then everything went dark.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
Izuku woke slowly. The hum of the ship was softer now, steady and familiar, almost comforting. The pain in his chest had dulled, replaced by a lingering exhaustion, like every nerve in his body had been stretched too far. He sat up, blinking at the soft glow of the room.
Shoto was already there. Standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the small, fading blue of Earth.
“…It’s leaving,” Izuku said quietly, his voice rough.
Shoto didn’t turn to look at him. “…It is your choice.”
Izuku swallowed. The words felt heavier than anything he had carried in the past five years. He had spent all this time surviving, staying alive, keeping himself moving. But now… now there was a choice. Leave or stay. Leave the last traces of humanity behind, or cling to a planet that had already abandoned him.
He stepped closer to the window, staring at the fragile curve of Earth. Cities were little more than scars. Forests, overgrown and wild. Clouds drifted lazily over oceans that reflected the sun’s pale light. He had known it was beautiful once, had loved it, in the way you love something stubborn and impossible, but love didn’t make leaving easier.
“…I don’t belong there anymore,” he said, almost to himself. “…Maybe I never did.”
Shoto finally turned, his mismatched eyes soft but steady. “…Then stay here. With me. You will not be alone.”
Izuku’s chest tightened. The words were simple. Pure. And yet, they carried a weight he had never expected to feel. Not fear. Not obligation. Not survival. Something else. Something raw and uncharted.
“…And if I go?” he asked, testing the answer.
Shoto’s gaze didn’t waver. “…You may try. But the ship will not let you leave. You would die.”
Izuku laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “…Of course. It always comes down to life or death, doesn’t it?”
“…Not always,” Shoto said quietly. “…Sometimes it comes down to choice.”
That stopped Izuku. Choice. Not fate. Not duty. Not observation or survival. Choice.
He swallowed hard, his fingers brushing against the smooth edge of the window. “…And you… why did you save me?”
Shoto stepped closer. “…Because you were alone. Because you were unwell. And because I… decided it mattered.”
Izuku’s heart skipped. That phrase, “I decided it mattered”, felt impossible to disentangle from the sharp, unsteady tug he had felt in his chest for weeks now. Something in him twisted, tense and electric, as though it had been waiting all this time for the right words.
“…You… really mean that?” he asked, voice low, uncertain.
Shoto’s gaze softened. “…Yes.”
The quiet between them stretched, heavy with things neither fully knew how to say. And then, almost instinctively, Izuku took a step closer. His hand hovered, trembling slightly, before brushing against Shoto’s arm.
Shoto didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away.
“…I-- I don’t understand any of this,” Izuku whispered. “…But I think… I’ve never felt safe like this before.”
“…Then stay,” Shoto said simply.
Izuku exhaled, the tension in his shoulders releasing just a fraction. “…And you… I think I—”
His words faltered. His chest tightened. Fear and disbelief tangled with something raw, something more than respect or gratitude. Something he hadn’t dared name before.
Shoto’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes seemed to catch the emotion anyway. “…You may say it.”
Izuku swallowed. “…I… I think I love you.”
Silence.
Then, a small, almost imperceptible tilt of Shoto’s head. “…That is… understood.”
It wasn’t a human confession. Not exactly. But it was acceptance. Recognition. Something that made Izuku’s heart hammer and ache all at once.
“…Good enough,” Izuku muttered, letting the words hang between them.
The hum of the ship grew louder, vibrating through the floor, through his body. Earth, small and distant, spun silently in the void below. He stared at it, at the memories and scars of the world he had known, and for the first time in years, he didn’t feel the crushing weight of solitude.
Because he wasn’t alone.
He was moving forward.
And he would face whatever came next, not as the last human left behind, but as the first human choosing to step into a new world.
He reached for Shoto’s hand. This time, it wasn’t tremulous. It wasn’t fearful. It was steady. Mutual.
The ship shifted, engines humming. They would leave Earth behind. Together.
Izuku exhaled, a laugh escaping, soft, relieved, hopeful. “…Let’s go, then.”
Shoto’s hand squeezed his lightly. “…Together.”
And as the stars stretched across the void, the ship carrying the last human and the alien who had saved him disappeared into the endless expanse, leaving behind a planet that was still beautiful, still alive, but no longer the only home Izuku had ever known.