Chapter Text
“Really, Kacchan,” Izuku says, probably for the millionth time in two days. “It was so nice of you and your mom to let me come along on your trip!”
“What did I say about all the damn thank you’s?” Kacchan huffs an annoyed sigh and kicks the heel of Izuku’s chunky red sneakers. Izuku stumbles, but makes a quick, albeit clumsy, recovery. He’s highly practiced in the art of avoiding Kacchan’s best attempts to trip him up.
The first thing Izuku noticed about New York City were the skyscrapers. Of course, that's the case because everything about them is massive and impressive and other compared to his little suburban slice of life. The fall breeze cuts in a special sort of way, intensified by the tall walls of concrete. Izuku feels small and insignificant walking the streets with Kacchan.
The second thing he noticed were the bodegas. If he were to walk twenty steps in any direction, it’d bring him to some kind of corner store. Izuku finds the whole thing inspired, and he vows then and there that he’ll never set foot in another grocery store again while in the city—he’s sure of it.
Izuku tries to say as much, to explain these revelations to Kacchan, but he’s hardly two words in before Kacchan decides to have a laugh at Izuku’s expense. It makes sense, really. Kacchan spends plenty of time in the city. It’s old hat for him now.
“Besides, this ain’t even the real New York City, it’s just the Upper East Side. My old hag would never let us walk around in the thick of it by ourselves—even if I can take care of myself,” he says, nose in the air, haughty and superior.
Auntie Mitsuki told them they could go down the block and explore, but they had to be back in an hour, and they had to stay close. The freedom they’re allotted both terrifies and exhilarates Izuku. His own mother would never let him out of her sight. Kacchan’s hands are laden with snacks from the bodega nearest to their hotel, and Izuku’s are filled with trading cards that they certainly didn’t need, but had enough extra money to buy anyway. Izuku’s hands are itching to tear into them.
“Kacchan, can we open these now?” Izuku wiggles, drawing attention to the crinkling plastic in his arms.
“Yeah, do it. I want to see if we finally got Endeavor,” he says, throwing a look over his shoulder to make sure Izuku doesn’t fall behind while multitasking. Izuku groans at the name.
“He hasn’t been in the Seven for very long. You know he’s not gonna be in here.” Izuku rolls his eyes. He knows it’ll start another argument, but it needs to be said. “Besides, it’s not like he could beat All Might anyways.”
“All Might, All Might, All Might,” Kacchan parrots back in a mockery of Izuku’s voice. “You know damn well Endeavor would win in a fight! He shoots literal fucking fire!”
It’s a well-worn conversation at this point. Ever since the Flame Hero: Endeavor single-handedly defused a high profile hostage situation in D.C., he’s been all anyone can talk about, and his newly-minted Seven status is taking the nation by storm. No one has garnered so much attention since All Might became the OFA's first Superhero fifteen years ago. To the two of them, at just barely eleven years old, it feels like superheroes have been around forever.
“But All Might is stronger,” Izuku insists.
“It doesn’t matter how strong he is, Deku.” Kacchan huffs out an exasperated sigh. “Endeavor is strong, too. Strength doesn’t beat fire .”
“All Might’s been around longer!” Izuku’s loyalty to the red, white, and blue hero will not be shaken.
“So you’re saying All Might’s old ?” Kacchan’s smirk is vindictive. There’s nothing like trapping your opponent into a corner.
“No,” he says, pouting. “I’m saying he has more experience . Besides, he can fly!”
“What are you, stupid? Endeavor uses his flames to fly!”
“That’s hardly flying, Kacchan. It’s propulsion. Endeavor is basically a hot air balloon.”
“You’re an idiot,” Kacchan says, trying to mask a snort. Izuku feels like he won the argument, simply because he was able to make Kacchan laugh.
They’re too busy bickering to notice the get-away car barreling down the street. A windowless van, like the ones in spy movies, veers too close to the sidewalk, heading straight towards them. Before Izuku and Kacchan realize the amount of danger they’re in, Rabbit Hero Mirko’s furred feet break through the hood of the van effortlessly, knocking it off-course and saving the boys from a deadly collision. To save the day before anyone even knows the day needs saving is the mark of a good hero. The awful, tearing sound that accompanies crumpled metal grabs all of their attention. The two boys whip around to survey the scene, eyes wide. Under normal circumstances, Izuku couldn’t fathom dropping twenty dollars worth of trading cards on the dirty sidewalk, but this isn’t normal.
Two men come tumbling out of the van holding some very scary, very large guns. It doesn’t feel real, and Izuku is frozen in shock. This sort of thing doesn’t just happen to someone like Izuku, not in broad daylight, and definitely not in his sleepy, little hometown.
Kacchan does his best to yank on Izuku’s arm, to try to get his lead feet moving, but it’s useless. One of the men grabs the collar of Izuku’s shirt, and Kacchan goes tumbling with him into the man’s chest. Izuku can’t see the man’s face, hidden by a black balaclava, but he sees the fear in his eyes clearly enough; the man is anxious to point his gun at Izuku’s head before Mirko gets a chance to tear through him.
His partner is not so lucky. The other criminal, so easily forgotten in the flurry of motion and the burning wreck of the vehicle, is quickly immobilized by a swift, superhuman kick to the groin. His gun fires out half a clip as his trigger finger goes limp, but Mirko stands unaffected and entirely bulletproof.
Wow, Izuku thinks, and it’s the first coherent thought he’s had since the van caught fire. Izuku and Kacchan, however, are not bulletproof, and he’s made painfully aware of that fact as the cool metal of the barrel of a semi-automatic is pressed to his temple. Distantly, Izuku notices that Kacchan has grabbed his hand, hanging on for dear life. It’s clammy, but comforting.
“One more step, rabbit-bitch, and the kids die!”
Mirko hesitates, pausing in a crouch. Her eyes are shrewd and calculating as she turns her head just so, as if to ask, are you sure about that?
Izuku, for his part, can only look between the gun pointed in his face and the car wreck in front of him and think if I survive this, my mom is going to kill me.
Of course, it just so happens that the mark of a great hero involves always having backup.
Above Mirko, All Might appears in all his glory, floating above the scene, his American flag cape fluttering behind him. In an instant, his eyes glow red and the masked man holding Izuku and Kacchan cries out in pain. All Might’s laser eyes burn through the midsection of the gun, slicing it—and a few of the man’s fingers—in half, rendering the weapon utterly useless. The criminal collapses to the ground beside his partner, but Izuku pays no mind—all he sees is his hero.
“All Might?” Izuku squeaks, absolutely dumbstruck in the face of the leader of the Seven. He’s larger than life and even when his red boots touch the ground, All Might still seems above them in every way.
Double wow.
“Don’t worry, boys!” He hits a heroic pose, as if it’s second nature. His winning smile is blinding in the noonday sun. “I am here!”
Izuku blinks, overwhelmed by All Might’s signature catchphrase even more so than he was by the gun to his head. It’s a struggle not to pass out in the presence of such showmanship.
“Oh, my god, Kacchan. He said it,” Izuku breathes in excitement, kicking off a storm of mumbled nonsense. Kacchan elbows him in the gut before he can really get going, grounding him in the moment. “Um, sir, c-can we get your autograph?”
“And a selfie!” Kacchan barks. Izuku smiles affectionately at his ill-tempered friend. He practically screamed at the best hero in the Seven.
“Of course!” All Might beckons them over with a wave of his giant hands, and Kacchan looks absolutely giddy. Izuku elbows him lightly.
“See, Kacchan. Told you he’s way cooler than Endeavor,” he whispers with a cheeky smile. Kacchan rolls his eyes, but anyone looking at the photo commemorating the moment would never know that. All three of them smile brightly for the camera, the two boys barely tall enough to reach his hip.
When Izuku and Kacchan get back to their rented room, Auntie Mitsuki has Izuku pinky-promise that he won’t tell Inko what happened. Izuku is only too happy to oblige.
Later, Kacchan flips through different news stations, looking for any news coverage of the robbery they witnessed. Izuku is flopped out on the couch, head hanging over the edge of one of the cushions, giving him a neat view of everything upside down. They’ve been at this for a while—who can blame Izuku for trying to keep things fresh?
Right now they’re in the midst of another bout of ads. On the screen, a trailer for The Seven: Civil War plays, and normally, Izuku would point and jump alongside a reluctantly excited Kacchan, but seeing the same clip four times in one hour would sap the enthusiasm out of anyone.
The movies are nice, but it’s the real life crime stopping that Izuku can’t get enough of. Those sort of clips, shot on shaky, out of focus cameras are what Izuku watches endlessly on repeat. Now, he can’t stop thinking about their run-in with real criminals and real heroes.
He loves upstate—the glittering finger lakes and the time spent on Kacchan’s couch—but he can’t help but wonder when real things will start happening in his life. Izuku feels blood start to rush to his head from being in the same unconventional position for so long.
Finally, footage of the robbery—their robbery—plays. Kacchan jumps to his feet. Izuku does the same after an undignified roll off the sofa and onto the ground. There, on the screen, is a faraway view of Izuku and Kacchan standing on either side of All Might. All Might’s trunk of an arm is outstretched, Kacchan’s phone in hand, snapping photos of the three of them. Izuku and Kacchan both look like they’ve just had the best day of their lives. They crowd close to the television set, determined to soak up their small slice of fame.
“That’s us!” Izuku shouts. “She’s talking about us !”
“Shh!” Kacchan throws an arm in the vague direction of Izuku’s face. ”Shut up, so I can hear!”
“Heroes Mirko and All Might stepped in today to thwart a bank robbery, saving the lives of not only two children, but millions in assets.”
The segment ends almost as soon as it begins. It’s a fluff story; Heroes do this sort of thing all the time, so it’d be ridiculous to spend more than a minute covering the story. Still, Izuku is over the moon. He looks like he belongs there, in the promised land of concrete and never ending bodegas.
“Someday, I’m going to live in this city, and we’ll see heroes all the time.” Izuku says, still transfixed by the screen.
“Well, I’m going to move here first, stupid Deku.” Kacchan leans over to flick the back of Izuku’s head.
“We can go together!” Izuku says, unfazed and turning around to beam at him. “Wouldn’t it be cool if we could be heroes, Kacchan? We could be partners. Like All Might and Mirko.”
“All Might and Mirko are practically married, Deku.” Kacchan scoffs. Izuku blushes hard at the comparison, turning to hide his reddening cheeks in his arms.
“R-right. Silly me,” he mumbles, mortified.
“Besides, you gotta be born with powers.” Kacchan says, crossing his arms. “You can’t just become a hero because your nerd brain thinks it’d be cool.”
“Yeah. That’s true.” Izuku frowns and turns back to the TV. It may be true, but that doesn’t mean Kacchan needs to say it. What’s wrong with daydreaming about it? Kacchan would make the best hero. He’s so brave. Izuku reaches for a sofa cushion and starts to pick at the edge of it, just to give his hands something to do and his eyes somewhere else to look.
Kacchan pokes the down turned corner of Izuku’s mouth, startling him out of his thoughts. He can’t help but feel flushed and hot all over when he meets Kacchan’s red eyes. They’re softer than usual.
“We can still move to the city. Together.” It’s Kacchan’s turn to look away now, uncomfortable, like he always is whenever he says something nice. Kacchan clears his throat. “Not like you’d give me a choice—following me around all the damn time.”
Izuku smiles in return. “Thanks, Kacchan.”
15 years later
Ochako’s alarm goes off every morning at six am. She gets up with the sun. She’s sure she doesn’t even need the alarm at this point.
The early bird gets the worm, she thinks. Her mother has been telling her that since she was six years old. It’s ingrained in her. She stretches, and all her bones pop comfortingly, as she gazes out at the window at the steadily rising sun. She throws her hair in a bun and dons a pink tracksuit.
Ochako doesn’t even bother going to the kitchen before her run, jogging lightly down the stairs to get her heart rate up. That’s ingrained in her too. She needs to run at least five miles before she can have breakfast, and even then she’s only allowed a protein shake.
“You can eat after you train,” she mumbles to herself, parroting her mother’s words, anytime her stomach rumbles.
She starts her run, keeping an easy pace as she runs from her front yard until she’s made it to the main thoroughfare of her small town. She knows her route like the back of her hand, jogging past the brick behemoth that was her K-12 building, the asphalt sea in front of their local grocery store, rows of identical, sun bleached homes, and a total of 7 stoplights to pass before she’s on the country roads, pastures as far as the eye can see, and clouds of red dirt kicking up as she runs harder.
She takes a left turn, and she’s not far from her family’s small construction company now. The yard looks abandoned more often than not these days, and she uses the empty space to train much of the time. Her mom tries to hide it, but the business has all but gone under. Even before her father left, money was tight. Every extra penny goes into maintaining Stratosphere’s image—her PR team, her custom, designer costume that needs to be rebuilt on a regular basis, her dietician. It’s the only way to compete with the pros. Hopefully, someday, OFA will sponsor her.
Everything is for you, sweetheart. Her mom always says that, and it sounds nice enough, but sometimes Ochako imagines an edge to her voice. A tone that dares her to be ungrateful. She sprints harder at the thought, pushing herself to her limit, and then harder still.
She reaches the construction yard, home to old equipment and an empty warehouse, and starts her real exercise regimen. Concrete blocks held together with mortar, piled up just for this purpose, break apart beneath her hands. She feels the resistance, allowing the shock of each blow to flow through her body. There’s something really empowering about total destruction. It's great to blow off some steam, as well, especially when she’s hungry, but that’s not why she does this every day. She does this to practice for the real thing—to save people, to apprehend the bad guys. She once punched through the doors of a bank vault in an adrenaline high. She made national news for that, and her mother was so pleased she took her out to dinner. They even split dessert.
When her hands are red and aching she switches to kicking, though it’s not her strongest method of attack. Eventually, the wall comes down entirely, and she uses the bricks for target practice, sending them flying one by one to the other side of the lot. Her aim is improving, and so is her ability to manipulate many small objects at once. Her Quirk is like a muscle, and practice makes perfect.
When it comes to testing her Quirk, the crawl loaders and excavators are the best. The sheer weight she can lift with her telekinesis is important, of course, but maneuvering machines with such unwieldy shapes, bringing them from one end of the yard to the other, flipping them around in a slow, 360 spin, is where she can really test her control.
By the time she’s done training, she’s exhausted and starving and the sun is bright and punishing in the middle of the cloudless sky. The run back home doesn’t even register in her mind—before she knows it, she’s back at the front door of the house she grew up in.
She knows she should stretch, or shower, or eat, but her muscles ache so severely that all she can do is collapse on the couch and pray the remote is within reach. Blessedly, it is, and the television comes to life, perpetually stuck on the national news channel. She watches it mindlessly until her mother comes into the den, arms crossed and brows furrowed in disapproval.
“What heroes do you know of that made it to where they are being a couch potato?”
“I just sat down.” She sighs, not bothering to move from where her nose is buried in a musty cushion. “Give me ten minutes. I’m tired.”
“Not good enough, Ochako. Do you think Mirko watches TV?” Her mother clucks her tongue. “I bet All Might doesn’t even own a couch.”
Ochako knows the beginnings of a long-winded lecture when she hears it. With her shrill voice and the TV running simultaneously it’s easy to tune both out. It’s not like she hasn’t heard both spiels before—same conversation, same news reports, just a different day.
Of course, that is, until the show cuts to commercial and the OFA Seven logo comes into view. What really grabs Ochako’s attention and rouses her from her prone position is the heroic tune that accompanies most all serious OFA promos. The banner of text running across the screen reads: Are you Super-abled? OFA open casting call.
“Mom,” Ochako says, her aches and pains all but forgotten now.
“Don’t interrupt me when I’m speaking.”
“No, Mom. Seriously, look!” She points at the TV, eyes wide as the web address for audition tapes appears, followed by the demographic they’re looking for. Super-abled females, ages 21-35.
“Oh, my god,” they both say in unison. They've been preparing for this moment since Ochako was born. It’s overwhelming to see it in front of their eyes. They’re frozen for a full minute, watching the commercial come to a close, absolutely flabbergasted. Then, all at once, they’re making plans for the future.
“Hello, I’m Stratosphere. I’m from Independence, Kansas.” Ochako struggles to focus all of her attention on the camera in front of her and not the woman manning it. It feels weird to be in her hero outfit without any actual hero-ing going on—she rubs at the suede material of her pink gloves and resists the urge to adjust her skirt for the dozenth time since she sat down.
“Tell us a bit more about yourself, please,” the interviewer says. The woman’s voice is easygoing enough, but the command sends Ochako’s heart rate up a few ticks. “Why do you want to be in the Seven?”
Ochako holds back a relieved sigh, smiling like this isn’t the most nervous she’s ever been. This is a question she can easily answer. It’s an explanation she and her mother have practiced since she was young, but despite the repetition, she finds herself meaning every word.
“I used to do the Little Miss Hero pageants when I was younger. I hated them, to tell you the truth,” she admits. Ochako lets out a practiced, self-deprecating laugh. “The smell of hairspray still makes me gag, but my mom liked them, so I stayed with it for a long time.”
The woman remains impassive, and Ochako wonders, briefly, if she’s bored, or just good at maintaining impartiality. Ochako's smile turns almost wistful, right on cue, just like she’s practiced in the mirror.
“I remember at every pageant, the judges would ask what my greatest wish was. I always said to save the world. They’d laugh, like they thought it was cute or silly, but I was completely serious. I’m still serious about saving the world, or at least doing my part to contribute.” Ochako gives a little nod to the camera, her nostalgic expression hardening into something serious.
“I want to show the world that hopeful isn’t the same thing as naïve. My power is more than just cute, and so is my resolve. To be part of the Seven…” She pauses, overcome with the sheer enormity of it all. “Well, that would make all my dreams a reality.”
“Your power,” the interviewer parrots, the question implied.
“My Quirk is Zero G.” Ochako says. Before she can go into a detailed description of her ability, the weight and distance restrictions, the interviewer nods.
“Please, demonstrate,” the woman says, shutting the binder that holds Ochako’s resume, and robotically moving to the other side of the room to give her space.
Ochako nods, a small, nervous smile on her face, as she stands on the black X of tape in the middle of the room. She takes a deep breath to center herself, eyes closed. When she opens them again, they glow with hot pink energy. Her fingers spread wide at her sides, but aside from that, she looks to be making little to no effort.
Suddenly, everything in the room is levitating, higher and higher until it bumps into the ceiling, as if they were all balloons. The camera floats too, and Ochako uses her fine control to bring it closer, so the judges who will inevitably watch this footage—the people who will decide her future—can see the cocksure smirk on her face. Just for the presentation of it all, she lifts the back of her cape behind her too, manipulating it so that it looks like it's fluttering heroically in the wind. With a minor flick of her head, the camera turns around to face the production team, also suspended in the air.
“Is that enough? Or would you like me to launch all these props through the roof, as well?”
Katsuki wakes with a groan, the ache of a hangover pervading his entire body, starting at his head and radiating down to his extremities.
I can’t keep doing this shit, he thinks, while simultaneously considering cracking open a beer with breakfast.
The sight of his shitty studio apartment only makes his headache pulse harder. He sits up, his back aching like he’s sixty-two, instead of twenty-six. He should buy a bed frame, but he has enough trouble keeping the lights on without adding in frivolous expenses. He pushes onward, sidestepping dirty clothes and piles of unpaid bills on his way to the kitchen. Normally, he’s a neat, collected man. Normally, he has all of his shit in order, but Katsuki hasn’t been normal in two years. He used to plan every meal, buy ingredients, and make things from scratch. He used to get up with the sun and cook Camie frittatas and crepes and whatever fancy recipe she showed him on Pinterest the night before. He used to be happy, even if it only lasted for a few short years. He pushes the thought of her away as he opens the freezer, mulling over his sparse options. Normally, Katsuki gives a shit about what he puts into his body. Today, though, he pops another hot pocket in the microwave, and watches his pathetic meal rotate, stewing in his misery, letting it slowly turn to rage.
I can’t keep doing this shit.
Izuku sits behind the register at Plus Ultra Comics, reading a copy of the new shipment of All Might comics that came in this morning instead of unpacking and shelving them. The bell above the door dings and Izuku scrambles to hide evidence of his laziness in case it’s his boss, Mr. Torino, who walks in. In his haste to hide his shame, he falls backwards off his stool.
“Ack!”
It isn’t until he sees a familiar head of red and white hair that he realizes it was all for naught.
“Reading the merchandise instead of shelving it again, I see.” Shoto leans over the display counter, his lips curling in the barest hint of a fond smile. Izuku’s heart gives a little lurch—he can’t help it. His boyfriend is too handsome, and Izuku is a nerd and a fool and also currently splayed out on the floor of a comic book shop. He’s hopeless.
“Do you like what you see?” Izuku asks, half hopeful, half sarcastic, doing his best to stand upright with as much dignity as possible. Shoto leans further across the counter, until they’re perilously close. He gives a serious nod.
“Of course,” he says simply, like it doesn’t defy all logic and sense for him to be attracted to Izuku. Izuku is incandescent with happiness.
“So, what brings you here?” Izuku asks instead of closing the distance between them like he so desperately wants to.
“I was in the area, and I thought today might be the day I finally learn to love comic books.” Shoto’s expression is placid, like the surface of a pond, revealing nothing.
“Shoto,” Izuku starts, mock-horror on his features. “Are you trying to tell me you’ve never read a comic book?”
“No, I’m trying to tell you I can’t read. I’m stupid,” he says, absolutely no inflection in his tone. Izuku laughs. Shoto has a way of joking that always keeps Izuku on his toes. When they first started dating, it always took him a full thirty seconds to decide if he was serious, or not. After a year, he got used to it.
“Mm, I like that in a man.” Izuku kisses his cheek, caving in to his desires, and he’s rewarded with a rare blush. Shoto has the best poker face, and he only ever seems to break it for Izuku. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”
“Have you taken your lunch break yet?”
“Nope,” he says, popping the last syllable like sugary bubblegum. He’s already coming around the counter, keys in hand, to lock up.
Izuku recently found a hole in the wall taco place nearby. It looks moments away from a health code violation, but the street tacos are the best he’s ever had. That, and he loves to watch Shoto eat undignified foods —his words, not Izuku’s. They set off down the street, hands lightly brushing every now and then. It’s bliss.
“Did you ask Mr. Torino for a raise yet?”
Ah, the bliss is gone. Izuku grimaces, hands anxiously bunching up the hem of his shirt.
“Well, no. He was so busy today, and you know how grumpy and… odd he can be.”
“Izuku,” Shoto says, and it rings with disappointment. “This is just like when we started going out. I had to make all the moves.”
“Wha—! What moves? There were no moves.”
“I asked you to go to the movies,” he says.
“With all your hot guy friends. I didn’t know that was a date!”
“I held your hand first.”
“Well,” Izuku says, frowning. “Yeah. That one’s true.”
“You freaked out when I tried to kiss you.” They’ve all but stopped walking now because Izuku can’t be bothered to multitask while Shoto’s eyes are doing that handsome, smoldering thing.
“You said I had something on my face! I was embarrassed.”
“I was trying to be romantic,” Shoto mumbles, slightly embarrassed. Izuku grins at him, but lets him finish his thought. “To kiss it off, like in the movies.”
It’s easy to forget, sometimes, how Shoto matches Izuku in awkwardness—and then his boyfriend goes and reminds him that most of his courting advice comes from movies. It’s cute on him, though. On Izuku it’s just sad.
“Well, we’re here now, aren’t we?” By here, Izuku means together. Together and happy. Izuku can’t imagine where he’d be without him. He’s so steady, so present. He keeps Izuku’s head above water.
“Yes, and, hopefully, looking to the future.” Shoto says, cryptic as ever.
“What do you mean?”
Izuku hates the future. He hates the uncertainty of it all. He doesn’t want to know what the future holds because there’s too much room for him to stay stagnant. If Izuku thinks too much—which, admittedly, he does a lot —he sees a future where he still lives with his mom, still works at Plus Ultra for a pittance, and, worst of all, a future where maybe Shoto will come to his senses and run off with someone more exciting.
“Well, we’ve been together for awhile now,” Shoto says, and he looks off nervously. His cheeks are pink again.
“Yeah…” Izuku waits for him to continue, though he’s not entirely sure he likes where this is going.
“And I hate my roommates. And… well, no offense, but I think our sex life would be a lot more fun if we weren’t always doing it at your mom’s house.”
That’s fair, Izuku thinks, trying not to wince. Shoto gives him a look, like he’s begging him to understand where he’s going with all this, but all Izuku can really think is the worst. There’s a flashing alarm in his head, and it’s screaming, he’s going to break up with you! Izuku stays silent. Shoto sighs, and grabs his hands, thumbs rubbing loving circles into his skin, a balm to his nerves.
Shoto steps off the sidewalk, so they’re closer to being eye to eye. He’s so much taller than Izuku.
“So I was thinking… once I graduate, maybe we can move in together. I think that’d be a bit more feasible if you got a raise.” Shoto unleashes his full smile on Izuku and it’s so blinding Izuku wishes he hadn’t left his sunglasses back at the shop. “Not to mention, you deserve a raise. Even if you spend half your time reading comics.”
“R-really?” Izuku doesn’t make a habit of stuttering anymore, but it’s hard not to when the conversation has taken a complete 180. It’s flattering. It’s more than flattering, actually. It feels monumental.
“Of course. I love you.” Shoto’s smile is unwavering. “I want us to have a future together. More together than we are now, you know?”
“Shoto, I love—”
And a blast of wind nearly blows Izuku back.
His eyes are almost too sluggish to understand what happens in front of him. He doesn’t even have time to close his eyes and mouth before warm liquid mists his face and body.
He sees Shoto’s face—he sees that spot where the marred skin of Shoto’s left side pulls taut over high cheekbones, stretched into a smile. Then he sees that skin—impossibly slow and impossibly fast, all at once—tear apart.
Strands of Shoto’s hair, once attached to his body, stay suspended in the air for what feels like forever. He tastes bile in his mouth, and something else—something strange, like old pennies and salt and—
Shoto isn’t in front of him anymore.
When did Hawks get here?
Hawks stops with a skid that breaks the concrete beneath his feet. He’s staring at Izuku, his feathers coated in something dark and thick and shining. Blood. He looks a mess.
“I can’t stop,” he says, spitting blood and viscera out of his mouth, wiping chunks of stringy muscle off his visor. Izuku feels like he’s in a horror film, and he wonders where Shoto has gone so quickly.
“I can’t stop,” Hawks screams again, clutching a bag to his chest, and Izuku sees his wings flap once before he’s a blur in the distance. Izuku feels cold, like maybe he’s not really in his body anymore, and his breath quickens, and where is Shoto?
Izuku looks down, and finds that Shoto—what's left of him, anyway—is still holding his hands. His arms, usually pale and graceful, are cut off at the elbow. The rest of him is a smear of blood, bone, and gore across the sidewalk. Like he was never there at all.