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GrimmIchi - Post Winter War - Canon Divergence Ichigo Kurosaki was the hero of the Three Worlds—until he wasn’t. He lost his powers, his purpose, and the people who swore they’d never leave. With each day, he slips further away, one foot in death’s realm in a way he never has before. Then Grimmjow finds him—a king with no kingdom, a warrior with no war—and a rematch he refuses to let go of, even if they never cross blades again. Read here

“Why can’t the people you trust know about me, huh?” Grimmjow growls.

“What–exactly–am I supposed to explain?!” 

But they’re both rhetorical questions, because Grimmjow's fingers skim Ichigo’s jaw without pause, a touch light enough to be deliberate. It’s so similar to Orihime’s gentle perusal of his face, which feels like ages ago, but her touch felt nothing like this. He means to pull away and instead, he stays rooted to the spot, the full blown morning sun blinding into his eyes. Grimmjow’s nails scrape just faintly as he lingers at his chin, tilting his face up an inch—not enough to force, just enough to test. Ichigo feels the strain in his heart rather than his neck. 

"There’s nothing left of it," Grimmjow murmurs, gaze heavy, too knowing . "This is what humanity does to you. Of course you're miserable." Ichigo’s breath hitches. His skin feels too hot where Grimmjow’s fingers were. It takes him a moment to understand: Grimmjow means the bruise. 

“I’ll be in peak fighting condition now, though, isn’t that better?” Grimmjow, outlined in fiery yellow from the window, hums in acknowledgement, but his eyes rove over his jaw, his lip, his collarbone—as if he could see the shadows, the marks rejected out of existence. Ichigo squirms under the scrutiny, and truth stuns them both as it comes out: “I’d rather have a bruise from you than a random stranger.”

Grimmjow lets out all his breath at once, his gaze wide in surprise, his finger’s twitch where they dig into Ichigo’s face. 

(Maybe, what makes him say something so foolish is the sadness suddenly dipping in the lines of Grimmjow’s face. Maybe it’s the guilt, he iskeeping him like a dirty secret. Mostly, Ichigo just wants to erase the sudden heaviness in Grimmjow, the way his lips pull downwards in something too unhappy to call a pout—Ichigo feels like it’s his fault even if he doesn’t understand it.) 

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CD Where pre-UA Izuku joins the LOV | Slow burn BKDK Before hero and villain, they'd just been Kacchan and Deku; and what that meant changed a lot in the span of ten years. Read it here

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he commiserates, “but hurting yourself is no good.” He reaches into his bag, rummaging in between analysis notebooks, at least ten pens of varying brands and his giant 7 subject school binder until his fingers wrap around his target. The cream isn’t anything special, just hydrating, but it does seem to help, even if he’d have to put his life on the line to get a recommendation from Kacchan. 

He’d meant to be curt and concise when asking for something to help Tomura, but as soon as he’d been close enough to Kacchan, he’d open his mouth to ask what he would use if he had dry, itchy skin that sometimes scraped from scratching. Instead, he’d ended up mumbling up a storm. Everything from what the issue was (Tomura’s dry skin) to why Izuku needed to know (help Tomura) to why he’d ask Kacchan (which was not because Kacchan had bad skin but the contrary and because Izuku knows he has a skincare routine because he’d gotten skincare for his last birthday and he hadn’t exploded it on the spot which meant that Kacchan liked it) and to why Kacchan would help him (because he usually answers Izuku’s questions even if he complaints the entire time) and why ask Kacchan instead of a girl (because girls might use something less practical and more trendy and—)

For fuck’s sake, Kacchan had blown up, literally, hands gripping the metal edge of his school desk, I don’t need to fucking hear every single thought you’ve ever had, you freak. Izuku, embarrassed and out of breath because that had been a lot even for him, had the very real sinking feeling that Kacchan might actually not help this time. Instead, Kacchan had ripped Izuku’s notebook out of his hand, fishes around Izuku’s own pocket for a pen and written down three creams that he figured would fit his needs in aggressive cursive. He’d smashed Izuku’s notebook against his chest forcefully, red eyes blazing and annoyed, and fucking check for allergies before putting any shit on. Now, scram! 

Izuku was terrified of Kacchan’s life-threatening helpfulness–but he relied on it all the same.

Besides, he thinks to himself as he slowly pulls out the cream. Izuku intends for Tomura to see him squeeze a little out on his palm, a heads-up to what Izuku will do next. Tomura’s eyes are just as fierce as they stare him down; there is such a thing as out of the pan and into the fire. Izuku smiles at him, small and gentle.

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GrimmIchi - Post Winter War - Canon Divergence Ichigo Kurosaki was the hero of the Three Worlds—until he wasn’t. He lost his powers, his purpose, and the people who swore they’d never leave. With each day, he slips further away, one foot in death’s realm in a way he never has before. Then Grimmjow finds him—a king with no kingdom, a warrior with no war—and a rematch he refuses to let go of, even if they never cross blades again. Read here

“You look a little lighter, Ichigo,” Orihime pitches in, leaning into his space and wrapping herself around his arm. Ichigo cannot see her face as she squeezes him, the hood of her coat tickling his cheek. She only holds on for a beat or two before strolling slightly ahead. “Whatever’s changed, I’m glad it did.” 

It’s another reminder of how dishonest Ichigo’s being, even in such a heartfelt moment. 

(He knows exactly what’s changed.)

He thinks about Grimmjow for only a moment: thinking of how he looked leaning over him in the couch with hair on his face and eyes that seemed to glow in the fiery lights of sunset lighting up the living room. Ichigo had felt so tired and so done and so haunted, and still had the space to think how otherworldly Grimmjow looked, even when scrambling his sense of self pity, even when tearing down every wall Ichigo had unknowingly built. 

He tries not to ponder about Grimmjow in general.

Ichigo resents the way his eyes scald wherever he looks at him, and doesn't want to look any further for the origin  of the frustration Grimmjow tears out of him. With claws extended and willing to tear him to ribbons as long as he finds whatever’s buried within Ichigo. Ichigo had seen Grimmjow at his peak, pushed beyond even the boundary of an Arrancar in the heat of battle thrice fought and won, won and lost. Blood-drenched and primal, a reversion to everything carnage and destruction amounted to, the original form of a hollow who wanted to be king and earned its shape to will his way to do so. 

In Ichigo’s living room, Grimmjow raised no sword, but bared his teeth; did not unsheathe his claws, but Ichigo could feel his hands on him, inside him, squeezing where he’s softest. His eyes, human eyes with no stigma, saw even in the darkest corner of the concave of Ichigo’s chest—a place Ichigo himself refused to visit.

Maybe stop letting everyone take a bite outta you.  

At that moment, Grimmjow had never been more dangerous.

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CD Where pre-UA Izuku joins the LOV | Slow burn BKDK Before hero and villain, they'd just been Kacchan and Deku; and what that meant changed a lot in the span of ten years. Read it here

Kurogiri explains early on that they need to develop some real skills out of this camping situation. Being self-sufficient enough to cook is one of them. Despite being younger, Izuku’s helped his mother in the kitchen at times, which means he has more experience than Tomura, who looks at a cutting board like he’s never seen one in his life before right this moment. 

It goes as well as could be expected for an exercise that requires common knowledge, patience, attention to detail and at Izuku’s insistence, love . By which Izuku means that it’s a total disaster. As the days pass by, Izuku steadily makes his way through onigiri, okonomiyaki, miso soup, and he proudly leaves the house knowing how to make Katsudon from scratch. Tomura refuses to even wash the rice for three days after he decays two pots and showcases a true lack of talent when Kurogiri gives him a cup of instant ramen and the result is somehow worse than an already poor-meal. 

“I’m sorry,” Izuku says, looking at the burnt noodles, and then his neatly packed bento; he feels guilty. Kurogiri told him to not worry about it, but he feels terrible for Tomura, watching Izuku be so good at something he’s struggling with—it’s like Izuku’s rubbing it in. 

“You didn’t burn it,” Tomura points out, logically. 

“But still,” Izuku bites his lip, “don’t you mind? That I’m good at cooking?” 

Tomura frowns at him, Izuku is on a little stool that allows him to reach the counter, so they’re roughly the same size. 

“Why?” he responds, “I get to eat the same food and put in none of the effort.” 

This comment startles a laugh out of Izuku. 

“Guess you have a point there,” Izuku answers, a sudden thought rising in his head. “Wait!” He turns to look at Tomura, glances around to make sure Kurogiri’s not within earshot and whispers, “are you being bad on purpose?” 

Izuku knows he’s seen Tomura smile before, but this is the first instance he will recall many years later, how the mirth  reached all the way into Tomura’s eyes. 

“Who knows?” he quips. 

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GrimmIchi - Post Winter War - Canon Divergence Ichigo Kurosaki was the hero of the Three Worlds—until he wasn’t. He lost his powers, his purpose, and the people who swore they’d never leave. With each day, he slips further away, one foot in death’s realm in a way he never has before. Then Grimmjow finds him—a king with no kingdom, a warrior with no war—and a rematch he refuses to let go of, even if they never cross blades again. Read here

"How was Hueco Mundo?" Grimmjow throws the other man a glance, meeting only the top of his bucket hat, Urahara continues to write away, hunched over the desk. 

"It's a war-torn desert of immortal cannibals," Grimmjow growls, "it was shit last time you asked, and it was shit this time too."

"One never knows," Urahara muses, "not all nights are the same."

(Grimmjow thinks of ants crawling through his gut, lightning shooting down stubs that eventually grew into fingers. He spits out sand again and again, it plasters on to him where blood spilled from when he fed. He takes cover, resting a few minutes at a time, teeth chattering with depleted Spiritual Pressure, critically low as it struggles to put his body back together.)

"Yes, they very well fucking are."

He glances around. It's still early in the day, Kurosaki will still be in class, where Grimmjow assumes he went this morning–or yesterday's morning. (He's not great at measuring time when he returns to Hueco Mundo.) He might as well kill some time before he jumps into his meat sack. Besides, annoying Urahara is always an interesting pastime; the shopkeeper has definitely stolen a few laughs at Grimmjow's expense.

Urahara has a pile of ofuda and seals over the counter, some crumpled and some smeared. Grimmjow eyes them vaguely, grabbing a fistful. He smells them and lets them drop, a few flutter beyond the counter, landing midsts Urahara's occupied hands, others land on the floor; Grimmjow eyes them in distaste as he moves on. If Urahara dislikes his pettiness, he does not voice a single protest, still hyper-focused on whatever new abomination he has planned or at least, pretending to be. 

"Speaking of nights," ah, and here comes the real question, what the shopkeeper is always gunning to know. "How is Young Ichigo doing?"

"Ask him," Grimmjow grouches, eyes piercing where Urahara ducks slightly his head away from him. If Grimmjow wasn't looking for it, he would've missed it and if Urahara hadn't kept asking, he would've dismissed it. "You're not exactly far away," he taunts. 

"Things here are always so busy," Urahara deflects, "and Ichigo already seems to have his hands full with enough spirits around."

Grimmjow narrows his eyes, jibe sliding right off him. There's something that has been bugging him. He's already thrown it at Ichigo's face, but Urahara also brings it to the forefront of his mind. 

"Too busy to check on your hero?" He mutters disdainfully, the scratching of Urahara's pen is stubborn and loud in their silence. "What a way to thank him for saving all your asses."

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CD Where pre-UA Izuku joins the LOV | Slow burn BKDK Before hero and villain, they'd just been Kacchan and Deku; and what that meant changed a lot in the span of ten years. Read it here

“I went to the quirk specialist,” Izuku whispers towards his knees.

(For a moment, just a second, something freezes in Tenko’s chest. It’s a pile of puppy. His sister's back. His mother’s fear. The despairing scream of your life decaying around you. The clear, clear intention to kill a man.)

“What is it?” Tomura asks, a little out of him, a little like ants crawling all over his skin. As tremulous eyes stare up at him, he cannot decipher the exact shade of sadness in Izuku’s face. There’s none of the sunny or wary disposition he’s come to know, only shame and deep-rooted fear.

“I’m sorry,” Izuku whispers, choking up. His voice rises in pitch, almost hysterical and this Tomura recognizes, so unlike the first look he gave this place. This is where Tomura knows his way around: the fringes and the pain, that no matter how loud never disturb the peace everyone else keeps paving no matter the cost. “I’m sorry, Tomura, I’m sorry!”

Tomura doesn’t reach out, but his voice comes out of him anyway. He’s staring at Izuku, but no thoughts take form in his head. His posture straightens, he feels electrified, alert. What is this feeling? 

“Whatever you’ve done,” Tomura pauses, doesn’t understand where this is coming from, “I’ve done worse.” It tastes like a promise. Izuku sobs. Tomura has seen Izuku cry a dozen times, but it’s never been like this. Tomura doesn’t move. “What is it?” 

Whatever Izuku mutters, it is not audible enough but he seems to realize it himself. Before Tomura can press on, it comes out: 

“I don’t have one,” Izuku cries. “I don’t have one. I don’t have one. I’m never going to get one. I was never going to get one. I—” Izuku’s pain travels through his body, has his finger’s digging into the dirt, head slammed back against the tree and his yelling seems to be causing a few parental eyebrows to be raised. Tomura doesn’t process anything beyond a soft glow in his chest, the itching quenched in a way that no scratching ever had. What is this? “ I’m sorry, Tomura .”

For what? Tomura wonders, almost giddy in the knowledge.

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GrimmIchi - Post Winter War - Canon Divergence Ichigo Kurosaki was the hero of the Three Worlds—until he wasn’t. He lost his powers, his purpose, and the people who swore they’d never leave. With each day, he slips further away, one foot in death’s realm in a way he never has before. Then Grimmjow finds him—a king with no kingdom, a warrior with no war—and a rematch he refuses to let go of, even if they never cross blades again. Read here

“I’m tired, okay?” Kurosaki tells him, head thrown back against the couch, gaze up at the white ceiling. His voice is hoarse and raspy and choked up in a way that has never been directed at him but he has overheard more than once. “I fought a war and then returned to school and life and extracurriculars like I hadn’t. Do you know how fucking ridiculous it is to go from worrying about your friends dying and then struggling to see if you pass your semester? The whiplash of realizing the world moved on and it didn’t even know how close it was to ending? I need—I just need time.”

At this moment, Grimmjow thinks of strength. 

Not strength like Aizen’s or Kurosaki’s. Blaring showcases of dominance and onerous resilience, reaching the peak of mountains made of bodies stepped on and shattered, if not in body then in will. 

Strength like Stark—present in every corner of a room, crushing you down little by little. 

Strength like Ulquiorra—hidden behind vacant eyes, bottomless beyond imagination. 

Strength like Harribel—to create a way out where there is none, to live on and keep her fracción. 

Grimmjow thinks of the strength that pedalled him through hundreds of souls to be King, crawling his way through evolution. It wasn’t his insurmountable spiritual pressure or his unparalleled regeneration or his command of the hoards. Grimmjow is an apex predator, he’s unmovable, driven and patient. He’s bloodthirsty and unhesitant once he pounces, but he can wait, limbs frozen, belly to the sand for as long as it takes, for as long as he needs. Grimmjow knows when it’s time to go for the kill, when mercy–if ever present–must be vanished from his mind. 

This is not that moment. 

If Grimmjow’s brashness was all it’d take, Kurosaki would be fresh as a daisy. (And Grimmjow would be long dead.)

Hunters adapt, predators evolve—Grimmjow’s keen eyes have envied and stolen power to get where he is. He knows when it’s time to pivot.

He grits down, feels his heartbeat in his ears, exhales. Does the unexpected, the deliberate instead of the instinctual and lets his rage go. Leans over Kurosaki, grabs him by the shoulder until he has nowhere to rest his eyes but Grimmjow’s face. 

“It’s been time, hasn’t it?” He phrases it like a question. Kurosaki’s eyes are wide, surprised.

“You don’t piece your life back together overnight, Grimmjow,” Kurosaki mutters, an explanation and an excuse.

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CD Where pre-UA Izuku joins the LOV | Slow burn BKDK Before hero and villain, they'd just been Kacchan and Deku; and what that meant changed a lot in the span of ten years.

“Tomura has high praise for these analysis notebooks.” Kurogiri wonders about Shigaraki having ‘high praise’ for anything. Kurogiri pauses, recalling how the boy pours over them, fingers twitching as he traces lines of ink. He doesn’t just read Midoriya’s notes—he absorbs them, eyes gleaming with an intensity that makes Kurogiri wary.

“He studies them, Master,” Kurogiri corrects. “Like he’s learning a blueprint.” In this, Kurogiri also agrees, he has never seen anyone break down quirks the way Midoriya can, not only is it accurate and detailed but also palatable, understandable for even those ignorant of the intricate disciplines involved in the analysis. While his analysis is good, his communication of his findings is what truly makes it special. 

“Midoriya’s definitely clever.” Kurogiri concurs. “Stubborn, as naive as they come, but he really is an encyclopedia of knowledge on heroes.” 

“How is Tomura with him?”

“Surprisingly subdued,” Kurogiri admits, thinking of the crippling amount of video games that are now played loudly in the bar’s lounge. Kurogiri’s been ordered to buy anything multiplayer that hits the market, almost unheard of purchases previous to Midoriya’s arrival. “I think they’ve somewhat bonded, which I would’ve put beyond his abilities. But I don’t trust that Tomura won’t just vaporize him on a whim.”

“Is he a threat to Tomura’s development?” 

“Not at this time. Shigaraki sees Midoriya as a tool, an asset to be used for his whims, he’s been having Midoriya build anti-hero profiles without his notice.” This time, Kurogiri does know that his Master is pleased. 

“Corner that child. Get him in deep enough he has nowhere else to turn. We might as well use him, if not for the analysis, then as an incentive for Tomura, for now. 

“I’m concerned about his discretion and his character.” Kurogiri hesitates—not enough to be considered insubordination, but enough to be noticed .

“He’s eight, Kurogiri, eight-year-olds are putty, they don’t have character. You know that.” Kurogiri swallows, grateful that it is invisible through his quirk. He’s very suddenly reminded that Shigaraki—ill-tempered and blood thirsty and uncaring–is a product of All For One’s child rearing. “If he becomes a threat,” AFO continues, voice smooth, unbothered, “just kill him. Nobody will bat an eye for a quirkless child, as we well know.”

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GrimmIchi - Post Winter War - Canon Divergence Ichigo Kurosaki was the hero of the Three Worlds—until he wasn’t. He lost his powers, his purpose, and the people who swore they’d never leave. With each day, he slips further away, one foot in death’s realm in a way he never has before. Then Grimmjow finds him—a king with no kingdom, a warrior with no war—and a rematch he refuses to let go of, even if they never cross blades again.

TW MENTIONS + INTENTIONS OF SUICIDE, DEPRESSION

“It’s a…” Ichigo says, “a human thing.” 

“I don’t know a lot of those, clearly,” Grimmjow says skeptically, stretching his back but keeping his chin low, never breaking eye contact. “But you’re the only human I've seen running themselves into the ground.” Ichigo sits up, slowly enough that Grimmjow stops looming above him, his fingers twitching in his bedsheets. He swallows, knowing what the answer will be but needing to ask anyway.

“Have you been… have you been watching me?” 

“Yeah,” the Arrancar says, bluntly and without care, as if he’s not ripping all of what’s left of Ichigo’s dignity in one fell swoop. The wrong thing must show in Ichigo’s expression, because the Arrancar lifts a brow. “Are you afraid?” Whatever mild amount of energy he’d woken up with is gone now, Ichigo lays back down. He stares at the ceiling, unable to meet Grimmjow’s eyes. He thinks about every single embarrassing thing he’s done and gone through over the last few weeks and feels like his shame is enough to kill him where he lies. Grimmjow continues, “though I figure with this unwillingness to live I must look like a godsend, don’t I? I did promise to kill you dead.” 

Ichigo should’ve known better than to voice his thoughts aloud. He’d been keeping his despair so tightly wounded in his chest, even through his sorrow. He knew the effects of his words on the real world of people who cared about him; they couldn’t see with clarity, not like Ichigo can now.  He was useless since the war ended, a burden and a haunting memory. He figured if anybody could take the truth at face value, it would be Grimmjow. The Arrancar is not wrong, to Ichigo, he looks more like the sweet release waiting upon a sword’s edge than a fully formed person. Hollows had no heart, no reason Grimmjow wouldn’t be glad to put Ichigo out of his misery. 

Except that Grimmjow’s been here before, watching him. If he wanted Ichigo dead, Ichigo would be. 

“You don’t need a gigai for that.”

“I don’t, I  don’t even need both of my hands,” Grimmjow agrees.

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CD Where pre-UA Izuku joins the LOV | Slow burn BKDK Before hero and villain, they'd just been Kacchan and Deku; and what that meant changed a lot in the span of ten years.

My quirk is called Decay , Tomura tells him, shredding a flower into dust with a smile that is all chapped lips and no cheer. His grin stretches at Izuku's surprise, but it isn't happy. Izuku knows that not everyone smiles because they're happy. So, he stares very hard at Tomura's palm, runs his fingers into the little mountain of dust left in their chair, and allows his mind to work at its usual marathonic pace because he knows –no matter what anyone says– that all quirks are good quirks. He's seen a similar expression before, a kind of dare, judge me it seems to ask.

Izuku refuses. Instead, he smiles up gently at his friend, in an afternoon that looks like all the others they’d shared, and mumbles, coming out of deep thought:

It must be terrific for rescue operations.  

It's the first time he sees Tomura's features twist into surprise.

Izuku knows it's not the obvious answer.

You're not afraid? This is a villainous quirk! I could kill you.  

Izuku thinks of the burn of palms along his collarbone. Of the smell of acrid nitroglycerin and anger. Of broken friendships, disdain, and hate. Of all the unmarred expanse of skin in his forearms. In Kacchan, who runs every morning, meditates in the afternoons and yells himself hoarse day after day, and laughs. The strongest person Izuku knows, destined for greatness, surrounded by rumors of deviousness and villainy that fail to take root within him no matter how long they persevere.

No way. Izuku laughs, ecstatic all of a sudden. There is no such thing as villainous quirks.  

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GrimmIchi - Post Winter War -Canon Divergence Ichigo Kurosaki was the hero of the Three Worlds—until he wasn’t. He lost his powers, his purpose, and the people who swore they’d never leave. With each day, he slips further away, one foot in death’s realm in a way he never has before. Then Grimmjow finds him—a king with no kingdom, a warrior with no war—and a rematch he refuses to let go of, even if they never cross blades again.

Grimmjow knows something is wrong here. Firstly, how hard it is to wake Kurosaki up. He jumps onto Kurosaki, hears all the air leave his lungs and the crack of a rib. Immediately, he readies for a counterattack and… nothing. He looks down from where he’s straddling the Death God. He just… did one of his bones just crack? From Grimmjow landing on him? He shakes Kurosaki several times, his frown growing but no wakefulness manifests. Grimmjow presses down harder against the new injury, knee digging into soft flesh by the Death God’s navel and finally, Ichigo’s mouth twists and his breath hitches, a whine leaving his lips. 

When Kurosaki finally does return to consciousness, his eyes are groggy and dazed. Drugged? 

Even when Grimmjow shakes him harshly, Kurosaki only looks confused, looking down where Grimmjow has grabbed onto his pajama top, fabric extended. Some understanding appears in his eyes, but they do not sharpen and do not focus. He looks up at Grimmjow, through Grimmjow. 

“It’s happening.” The smile that slices his face doesn’t deserve the title of smile. Grimmjow has never seen Kurosaki bare his teeth in such bitterness, it clashes with everything he knows of the man—it’s desolate, a field that’s been burnt down. Is this really Kurosaki? Weak and powerless and apparently drugged out of his mind? “Do your worst, it doesn’t matter.” His voice comes out broken, as if he has trouble catching his breath. “I can’t… fight back anyway.” Grimmjow lets go of him as if burned, scrambles back carelessly enough that Kurosaki holds his fractured rib, movements jerky and strained.

“What the…?” The human seems puzzled, not yet processing his newly acquired injury.

Kurosaki… can’t fight back?

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BKDK AU - Villain!Izuku - Slow Burn Before hero and villain, they'd just been Kacchan and Deku; and what that meant changed a lot in the span of ten years.

There is no scar from the first time Izuku experienced Kacchan's explosion quirk, only soft, silvery skin and a handful of freckles covering his shoulder. Izuku was almost eight-years-old, and he didn't know he was quirkless yet, but the word had been whispered already, enough times that Izuku knew what it meant. (He’s late, really, really late.)

Maybe that's what he and Kacchan were arguing about back then; Izuku's not really sure. What he does recall in vivid detail is the stinging pain of heat igniting nitroglycerin in the palm of a chubby hand and the blast of an explosion going off. It was nothing compared to what Kacchan would master years later, but in the quiet forest, it was the most frightening thing Izuku had ever lived through. Rationally, even baby Izuku knew that Kacchan was upset and wanted to push him around—he'd done it before, after all, even before his quirk. Maybe the blond was having a rough day. Maybe it really was just an accident, an involuntary activation of a God-given power made more dangerous in the hands of an eight-year-old.

Kacchan had never meant serious harm before.

Izuku has never forgotten the ringing in his ears, the dizziness as he fell to the floor. He had scraped elbows and a bump on the back of his head, but he only remembers coming back to himself as he looked up to the blue sky, not a cloud in sight on the humid summer day. It's just one more day of dozens that he shared with Katsuki Bakugou, but this one would stay with them for a long time. Izuku's shoulder is bleeding slightly, no more than it would if he'd fallen on the pavement of the schoolyard. His head is pounding, and he's too shocked to cry, but he would in a minute. Kacchan's face appears in his line of vision, and Izuku had never known Katsuki to worry, but even disoriented as he is, Izuku's assumption was that he would. Izuku was on the floor, bleeding.

But Kacchan wasn't worried.

No.

Kacchan was angry, and their story was doomed even back then.