Katelyn

       "I don't have to prove anything to you, you two bit schemer," another voice sneered as the old wooden door creaked open. Light flooded the small space, backlighting two men at the entrance to his cell. Master.

       "Alright, alright," the newcomer soothed. "I kid. Surely he must be something though, for you to live as you do."

       Master scratched pensively at his throat as he glared. His usually unkept pale hair had been washed and braided down the back of his head, so he must have had to make an appearance at the arena. Usually he would make Himiko or Kurogiri go, but Himiko had stabbed a mediator last time when the guy shorted her on her bets, and Kurogiri had been present, so they had both been banned from the fights for a while. Master had been very upset, but his look was a nice change from the severed human hands that tended to hang around him.

       He resisted the urge to growl at the newcomer, knowing it would get him punished. He'd been trained to be silent and obedient, so he stayed, still, his head cocked slightly to the side. He avoided Master's piercing red gaze, observing the moss covered stone floor with practiced respect.

       "Shit," the newcomer breathed. His voice was light and airy, but filled with a sudden nervousness that hadn't been there before. "He's enormous. How long have you had him? Does he speak English?"

       Even enormous was an understatement. His hulking form sat silently in the darkness of his cell, broad shoulders and strong arms outlined in the light. It was very rare that he met a person bigger than him, in either height or mass, and this stranger was neither of those things.

        He felt himself choke up, let the tears bubble and fall freely. This was a cemetery—who was there alive to judge who didn’t feel the exact same way? “I hate you had to die. I wish I’d found you sooner. I wish I'd met you sooner. I wish I'd been clearer. I wish I hadn’t let Deku turn back. I wish I told him how bad it was. I wish All Might had been faster. I wish they’d sent real medics. I wish I’d thought of another way to get you out. I wish you’d never been there in the first place. I wish the League never wanted to hurt people. I wish...”

*** Searchlights broke through the haze as the rocks lifted, and a man came into sight, a foot taller than Kirishima and ten times his bulk. "Never fear!" He called, his voice booming in what Kiri guessed was supposed to be inspiring. "Why? Because I AM HERE!"

       Kirishima leveled a glare at the hero. "No," he muttered, "you are late."***

        Kirishima sobbed, then, finally breaking, the real problem bubbling up. “I wish the world didn’t need heroes to save us. I wish there was one still here for me.”  

        The skies broke into a low rumble, rain beginning to patter slowly on the grass and the stone, though there were few clouds. Kirishima turned when his cheeks dried just enough to blame the remnants on the rain and spotted Midoriya behind him not far away. The green-haired male was more open with his tears, mourning his best friend, the brother he had lost.  

        Kirishima offered him a nod, turning his back on Bakugo's gravestone, three over-turned sake glasses, an empty bowl of curry, and a creased note laid open under the glasses.

        Kirishima stopped, looking down at the dark marble gravestone.

*KATSUKI BAKUGO* A Son, a Friend, a Spark.

        Someone had come by already today, and they’d left a rather large bowl of curry by his grave. Three sake glasses sat on the marble, two empty and overturned, one still full. There was a note pinned under the glass, but Kirishima wouldn’t read it. He wouldn’t pry.

*** "What's your life like?" The blonde asked suddenly. "Outside the mask, of course."***

        “Hey, Blasty,” he said softly, wincing when his voice came out cracked. He was going to cry again, probably, all the stress of the past year bubbling up. “’M sorry I don’t come by often. I wish I could say it was because I was busy or something, but I really just hate seeing your grave, man. Makes me remember too much. I keep thinking—you'd say that was dangerous and I would laugh and agree—but what could we have been?  

*** "You said last night that you were going on a date today, so spill."

       "Like shit, how's yours?"

       "According to him, it wasn't a date, so just as terrible."

       "If someone didn't get decked in the face, it sure as hell could have gone worse."

       "I did hit someone in the face."***

        “Honestly, I’d have settled for just friends, but I like to think we could have been more. I’ve never had a boyfriend before. Just the thought kind of scares me, but I’m... getting better, I think. Watching you and Tamaki die kind of messed me up again, though. It’s hard to work without him. It’s hard to go to Miso’s knowing the last time I went there was with you.”

*** "I think you should stop talking and save your strength," the redhead diverted, focusing on the wound.

       "Stalling," Ground Zero called it. "Are you blushing or is that the heat of the fire?"***

        Eijiro smiled ruefully. “You really messed me up, didn’t you? Got me thinking all the time about what ifs and have nots. Got me missing things I never had. I never went to school. It didn’t feel right. I never even got the chance to tell you I’d been accepted. Class 1A, too, dorm 413A. We’d have been neighbors. Isn’t that funny?

*** "You're purely evil," Red Riot indulged, anything to keep the guy talking and awake.  

       "You... really cute, y'know," the blonde muttered, letting his eyes flutter closed again.  

       "Tell me more about that," Riot tried, not listening at all.

*TAMAKI AMAJIKI* Destined to Devour the Sun.  

        Oh, if only that destiny still rang true, Kirishima thought sadly, looking over the carved wings in the granite by his name. Tamaki hadn’t deserved to die. None of them had deserved to die, but Tamaki had really been too good for this world.  

***Another hero appeared beside him, seeming to phase out of the rubble itself, but a quick glance at his burly blonde form told Riot that it wasn't Suneater and therefore he couldn't bring himself to care. He helped clear away the wreckage, muttering and growling to himself.

       Deku rushed in, a pink-clad girl on his back touching rocks and steel as she passed them. The things she touched began to float, relieving pressure off anyone trapped beneath.

       "There!" Riot beckoned at the hand that had been crushed by rubble. He and the other hero hauled a rock off the arm attached to it and Deku circled back around. The girl, who Red now recognized as Uravity, touched as many rocks above the fallen hero as she could, relieving their weight and making them easier to shove around.

       The sight beneath them wasn't pretty. His ribcage was crushed, and his visor had shattered. He had raised his wings to protect himself and the hollow bones had collapsed under the assault. The hero was covered in his own blood.

       Suneater was dead.

       The blonde hero that had come to help knelt beside the battered body, muttering nonsense words. Red Riot finally recognized him by the fiery red cape. Lemillion, a hero that Suneater knew.***

        She, Sero, and Midoriya were already struggling to hold themselves together. Todoroki was there, at Midoriya’s side, like always, leaning on his cane. He’d been badly injured when the tower collapsed, losing his right arm and severely damaging the same leg. He’d had to retire from formal hero work, though Kirishima had heard he was using his family’s money to restructure the city, and he’d grown to have a bit of a bad temper with the press. It had been his father’s building that had been attacked, and Kiri knew he felt like it was his responsibility to make amends for the deaths.  

        Another man in dark clothes lingered nearby, and Kirishima recognized Aizawa, the scruffy college dean. His new limp betrayed the presence of his prosthetic right leg, another casualty of the fire and collapse. He’d been their teacher at UA, responsible for training the students to survive disasters like that. Kiri knew that he felt he’d failed, too.

        Mina sniffed, pulling back from the embrace and wiping carefully at her eyes. “Mirio’s inside,” she managed. “He wanted a second alone, I think. We’re still waiting for Momo and Jiro, and I think Hado’s coming, too.”

        “That’s fine,” Kiri smiled. “We can wait.”

        Sero nodded, but the motion caused him to wince, and Mina’s hand automatically came up to massage his back and shoulder. Nerve damage from an accident with her acid caused him muscle seizures and phantom pains sometimes.

~~~"Riot?" The response was echoey and far away, but strong. "Red, is that you?"

       "Pinks!" The hero cheered in relief, turning towards her voice. "Keep talking. Are you okay?"

       "I'm fine," she called back. "My acid burned away the debris, but Cellophane fell on me from a few stories up, and I think I burned him pretty bad."

        Ground Zero. No--

~~~"You know how I said I wouldn't know your shitty secret identity?" The blonde choked out. Blood dripped from his chin, and he made no move to wipe it away.

       "Yeah?"

       Ground Zero drew in another shaky breath and Red turned to him curiously. "K-Kirishima? Is that you?"

       Red Riot froze, locking with the ruby eyes that stared back at his own behind the black mask. It took him a moment--a moment longer than it should have--before his heart skipped with his realization.~~~

        Katsuki Bakugo.

        His death had been especially hard on Kirishima. Unlike the others, he’d held the dying hero in his arms, fruitlessly trying to keep him alive just a little longer, until the final breath passed his lips. A long-time running romantic admiration for a man he’d never met brought to an abrupt end—because it was only in the hero’s dying moments that they realized they had known each other. As civilians. They’d been… tentatively flirting with each other. They’d even gone on a date, a dumpster fire that made Kiri wish the blonde was still here to laugh about it. Kirishima had just been accepted into school with him. And now…

~~~"Bakugo!"~~~

        Now all that was over. Nothing more than a fever dream.

        If Kiri had been a little clearer, the hero might have gotten the medical attention he needed.

        He couldn’t ever bring himself to wear the school uniform, couldn’t bring himself to sleep next to a dead man’s vacant room, so he never ended up going. He couldn’t bear going to the school of a dead friend, to sit in a class with two missing students. According to Mina, the redhead was still enrolled as a student at UA University, and they continued to send him letters and paper assignments and such, but he didn’t go.

       Last year, a new Todoroki Industries Research and Development lab had caught fire, a catastrophe that would later be revealed to be the work of the criminal League of Villains that terrorized Musutafu. Heroes had flocked to the forty-story tower to rescue the researchers and technicians trapped inside, and the building had nearly been completely evacuated when disaster struck. The structure failed, and the tower collapsed on top of the heroes that had been scouting for more civilians.

~~~They had just made it to the doors when the building collapsed.

      The force of the escaping air pushed Red Riot back from the entrance. He hardened his quirk instinctively as he was battered by shards of glass and steel. Something hit him in the head, likely a large rock.

      He shook himself off as he came to a stop, his ears receiving sound again as his quirk disengaged. The people on the ground were screaming, Eraserhead was shouting something, the radio system in his ear being bombarded with chatter and Deku raced over from across the building to see what had happened. The other hero's face paled when he reached Red, and he took that as a bad sign--the other hero was a copycat of the trademark All Might grin, and it took a lot to shake that smile.

      "Red Riot, you're covered in blood," he breathed. The green hero was bleeding too, cut across the chest and shoulders by flying debris.

      Blood? No, he didn't feel any pain. Looking down at his left arm, he did see that it was smeared with dark red liquid, but he didn't see any wound. Unless--

      "Sun..." He croaked. He shook his head violently, forcing himself to his feet. "Suneater!"~~~

       Tamaki Amajiki, the hero Suneater, had been crushed instantly by falling debris. Kirishima, who had been standing as his hero persona, Red Riot, next to the shy, anxious hero, had been spared only by the reflexive activation of his quirk. Kirishima had been the first to find the body, the first to see the broken, tattered wings, and the tattered shell of the hero that had been his friend.

       Kirishima’s eyes locked onto the feather as it drifted to the floor, long-familiar sorrow clenching his heart. It had been a year since those feathers had burst through his store, and he was still finding them tucked away in all corners of his life. Each one of them brought forth a new burst of grief. Grief for the friends he had lost.

       Taking a shaky breath, Kirishima moved around the counter and gently picked up Tamaki’s feather. He’d take it with him today, when he went to meet Deku, Shoto, Cellophane, Mirio, and Mina. Thinking there to be no better time to leave, he lifted a wrapped bundle off the counter and pushed through the glass door of Chivalrous Arrangements and into the gentle morning, locking the door behind him.

      ~~~Mopping up the last of the water, Kirishima returned the mop to the storeroom. "I feel bad," he confessed suddenly, leaning on the counter again. "I think I need to go back and apologize to him."

      "No, I forbid you from doing that," Mina barked, wagging a finger at him. "The prick deserved it, and if not from you, then it would have come from Bakugo."

      Tamaki flicked on the radio beside the register. The station was reporting a building fire and collapse in the warehouse district, a bad side of town.

      The report distracted the two, both of them letting the issue slide from their minds. "The warehouse district?" Kirishima repeated. "Did they say which building?"

      "They're warehouses on a Saturday," Mina retorted, tapping her long fingernails against the counter. "No one's probably hurt."

      He felt something catch the inside of his lapel and instantly relaxed. Making great effort to calm himself, he gently pulled a second ring from beneath his coat, where he hid it. The carvings matched the ring on his hand, however instead of the orangey citrines, it bore bright scarlet rubies. Katsuki clutched it tightly in his fist, sliding down the wall and resting his forearms on his knees.

~~~"I'm gonna catch you, loser!"

      "Ha! You wish, Your Majesty! You couldn't catch a wounded fox kit if it laid down at your feet!"

      "Are you trying to start shit with me, you big lug?"

      "My, my, what would the queen think of that language?"

      "Don't bring my mother into this! You'll pay for that!"

      The laugh that followed his threat rang in his ears as the other boy disappeared around the corner. "You'll have to catch me first, Kat."

      "Of course I will! I--" he rounded the corner in time to see the shadows twist and gather in a tight spiral. A hand shot out from the inky blackness and clamped tightly around the other boy's arm. The fun and amusement morphed abruptly into terror, terror that he'd never seen before.

      "Katsuki!"

      The cry for help sent the prince back in motion, a hand desperately stretched out to save him. "Ei!"

      He swiped. He missed. Those initial seconds if hesitation had cost him. Cost him everything. The blackness receded as quickly as it had come, leaving Katsuki's arms empty.

      A silver ring fell into the grass.

      "Eijiro!"~~~

      "Eijiro..." Katsuki whimpered, clutching the ring as though he clung to life. "Eiji... fuck. Please... please come back to me."

     It's been seven years, and Katsuki's broken without his other half.

        The other man glanced up to meet his gaze, recognizing that he was allowed to rise, and nervously ran a hand through his green curls before forcing his anxious habits back into the proper positions behind his back, his freckled checks tinged pink with embarrassment. "Sorry, Kacchan. I wasn't thinking at all. Denki said I could find you here, and he was worried that you seemed distressed."

        The prince scoffed, shrugging off his concern. "Of course I'm distressed. It's nothing you can help me with." His tone softened as he spoke, his eyes drawn once more to the portrait which captured what very well night have been his last recorded moment of true happiness.

        Izuku Midoriya had worked at the palace practically since birth. He'd been born to a maid and royal guard, and had lived his entire life inside the palace walls, as Katsuki had. His father served Katsuki's father, and his mother was a favorite of the queen, so the two boys had seen a lot of each other growing up. When the time came, Katsuki had selected him as his personal steward, knowing that there was no one else in the castle he trusted more. His keen intellect and knack for strategy analysis had made him an obvious choice either way.

        The steward's eyes wandered to the portrait, his gaze saddening. He moved quietly to stand beside his prince, offering his silent support. Izuku had been the first to notice when Katsuki had fallen hopelessly in love, the first to pinpoint the boy that had caught the prince's eye. For hell's sake, they had been nine, yet Izuku had always known when something was amiss.

        "I'm afraid I bear bad news," Midoriya finally sighed when he felt their vigil had gone a respectful length of time.

        "It's the seventh anniversary of my fiance's disappearance; what could possibly be considered bad news?" The prince snapped.

        Izuku bit down another frustrated sigh. "King Enji is here, Your Highness."

        "Oh, for the love of--"

        "There's more. The... suitors..." Izuku hated saying that word as much as Katsuki hated hearing it, "have grown restless, and King Enji of course has taken it upon himself to get involved. Again. They're not..." He drew in a shuddered breath, glancing almost guilty at the painting of his friends. "They don't understand why they have the day off. They can't fathom why you haven't chosen, either. The council is also getting restless."

        "Those vultures can fight amongst themselves, for all I care," Prince Katsuki growled, turning to face the other man. "They want my crown and they can't have it. I have a right to choose when I wish, and I don't wish to choose. And the council can't stick it--they should know by now that neither my mother or I care one but about their silly superstitious traditions. They can't give me a damn time limit, and if I go down in history for being the price with the longest cour de cour in the entire decided history of the Bakugo family since the beginning of time, then so be it. To hell with them all."

        "You want me to paraphrase that when I say that to King Enji, or would you like me to use those exact quotes?"

        "Edit out the parts that would start a war, but make sure to tell him I think he's a contentious prick."

        "Ah, so tell him you wish not to be disturbed by the matter. Understood."

        It was the closest anyone was allowed to get to a joke today, but Katsuki allowed it. Everyone grieved differently, and unlike the Prince, Midoriya tended to be a bit more open about his feelings and had therefore grown to accept them. He'd... he'd even opened himself--like most everyone else had, by this point-- to the notion that... that he... wasn't... wasn't coming back. For surely... surely if he was... surely if he wasn't dead, he'd have returned to where he belonged by now, so surely... surely he must have been gone.

          The prince placed a hand over his mouth at the thought, swallowing the tears. His other hand came up to his neck, finding the thin chain hidden beneath his coat and tangling his fingers in it. He hated this. Hated that he wasn't even allowed to cry over it.

        Midoriya noticed his quietness. "Prince Katsuki--"

        "Leave me," the other man growled lowly, barely keeping his voice from breaking with his despair. His fingers moved along the chain, searching. Where is it?

      The prince gently rubbed the ring with the thumb on the same hand, once again admiring the memorized pattern of intricate lines of carve-braided silver studded with smooth, polished citrines. The gesture imperceptible to most members of the court, and one he had fallen into often, usually whenever the subject of him finding a spouse came up in their proceedings. If the court realized how much he still clung to the past, they'd probably deem him an unfit ruler, too encumbered by trivial affairs of pesky emotions.

      Ha! So be it, Katsuki didn't care. The council was never pleased, especially not when it came to him. It had taken months, if not years, for his mother the queen to convince those old-fashioned baggers that nowhere in their laws did it require him to wed a woman, and they still moaned about the disgrace. For him not to choose at all was unheard of, unthinkable. A kingdom needed two rulers, and that the laws did state. Katsuki would be married--to either sex, he no longer cared--before he took his crown. He'd fight it tooth and nail before he conceded, but he knew he'd never love again. He'd experienced love, and it was great, wonderful, beautiful, just like the stories, and just like the stories, a tragedy always befell the happily ever after. Tragedy was overrated; he didn't need to experience it twice.

      The prince stopped again in the path to the Great Hall, his eyes locked on a vase beside a portrait, and his mouth ran dry. It wasn't the portrait that caught his attention, nor was it the vase, but the flowers inside. The sorrow he had so successfully choked down bubbled up again, and this time he couldn't stop the silent tears.

      Save one day of the year, Gerbera Daisies were forbidden in the palace. Their deep red hue and large thin petals were all too familiar, another painful memory. They had been his favorite. They'd always reminded Katsuki of his eyes.

      His eyes flickered up to the portrait. It was one of him, done on his sixteenth birthday, but the blonde boy smiling brightly at the painter looked nothing like the older Prince staring into this window of the past. This boy looked far too innocent, too naive, too enamored by a love that as much as he hated to admit, was only temporary. His chest puffed out far too proudly and he held his head up far too grandly. Oh, to be this boy again. If he had the chance, Katsuki would warn him. He would tell him to cherish that moment forever, for his happiness would shatter only three months later.

      Katsuki rubbed at his ring again, finding the painted match prominently displayed on his younger self. He'd been showing it off while he was being painted, too giddy to sit still but too conceited not to. The ring had been a gift that year. That very day. A promise. An oath. Prince Katsuki had been young and dumb and stupid, but he'd been in love, and he'd said yes.

      There was a hand laid across the teenager's shoulder, and Katsuki could almost feel it's presence on his own now. He knew the hand was rough and surprisingly large, weathered from years of building trinkets with the jeweler, but kind. There was subtle strength in the arm the hand was attached to, connecting from there to a comfortable shoulder, broad-ish chest, and gangly build. His jaw had just started to sharpen, transforming him almost overnight from an awkward boy to an eligible bachelor.

      The prince's eyes clouded over, but he forced himself to look. Long raven hair worn down to his shoulder, braided back and tied with a silly white bow, but the queen had insisted upon it. A kind, open-lipped smile that showed off sharp freak-of-nature teeth that Katsuki couldn't help but be fascinated by. But most of all, his eyes. Bright ruby things so similar yet so different to his own, Prince Katsuki had fallen in love with those eyes. The painted boy looked at his painted self with a wonderful amount of awe and wonder in his gaze. Kind. Happy. Content. Loved.

      Whole.

      And then an actual hand landed on the prince's shoulder, and he nearly jumped out of his skin as he twisted, clapping down on the reflexive magic that threatened to soar from his palms.

       Soul mates didn't exist, of course, a fairy tale for children's books, but Price Katsuki felt as though he'd lost his. A part of him that he'd never be able to get back. He'd lost his heart when he lost him, and he'd never get it back.

       The prince growled suddenly, pushing of the path and twisting back inside the castle. He didn't want his good-for-nothing heart back. Not without him.

       The crown felt too heavy on his head today, as it often did. The weight did little except remind him once again that there had one been a person who had promised to share that weight with him, help him with the burden of feeding and defending an entire nation of hapless fools. He loved his people, he truly did, but if one more person named their child after him, he was going to lose it.

       Thinking of his people helped calm his aching heart, and Katsuki looked out one of the humongous glass windows towards the amphitheater. If today brought one good thing, it was that his mother had been sensible enough to cancel the day's festivities and let him grieve properly. He couldn't bear dealing with the suitors, not today.

       The hallways were quiet as he walked, a welcome change from the usual bustle of the palace. The staff were always cautious to avoid the prince on this day, as he tended to be quicker to anger than usual. They never spoke the thought on their minds: that he was not angry at them, but at himself.

       He'd been sixteen when he'd lost his other half, and the servants said that he'd been a happy boy. Drunk off love and addicted to smiles, the help that remembered said he'd always been laughing. Their hearts broke with his on the day his laughter stopped.

       It had been harmless. Childish, even, as most things they did together were. A silly game played with the squire children and the apprentices. Running and chasing, foolish nonsense, and it was the young prince's turn to be the one to catch them. The others kept their distance, just in case, but they knew that Katsuki only ever had one target when they played.

       Him.

       Japanese and European history. A fascinating subject to anyone who cared, which very few of his pupils ever did. The mumbling, stuttering, freckled boy in the front row, and his loud, uptight friend did, at least. The pop star imitator in the back couldn't care less. And the energetic sparkplug dead center? Forget it.

       Katsuki growled to himself and pulled up his coat collar around his cheeks, his breath fanning out before him in an icy cloud. Teaching no longer gave him the same reprieve it used to. No longer made him feel as though he was giving back to humanity for all the pain he had caused it. Now it was simply nothing more than a human job with idiot pupils and idiot colleages each more titled and pompous than the last. Not one could tell him when his birthday was, and he'd been working at the college for the past two decades. Not one noticed he looked not a day over thirty. Fools.

     Growling louder, bitterly, Katsuki turned and stomped up the steps to the museum. He'd been asked to verify an artifact that had been excavated out of a tomb in Kyoto, and he'd decided to do one last favor for the university before retiring at the end of the semester. He hadn't been to the western side of the world since the war. Maybe he should visit. California was supposed to be nice this time of year.

       Inside it was stiflingly warm and reeked of air purifiers and squished humans. And death. Places like this always reeked of death. An enormous Tyrannosaur stood on display in the middle of the foyer, threatening the guests with its terrifying maw. Now there was a beast far older than Katsuki, a reigning king long before the time of humans, when magic from the heavens had wiped out their kind. Poor, wingless dragon.

       He strode past the lifeless bones, his scarf pulled over his nose to protect it from the rank smell of death. Even after all his centuries, he still forgot he didn't need to breathe. He had a task to complete here, and then he could leave.

       He shook hands with the museum curator when they crossed paths, a gangly, severe-looking fellow, and the human male led him through a new wing of the museum to a dark, cool room filled with artifacts. Many were broken, some were being restored to the best of their capabilities, but the vase from Kyoto that Katsuki had been sent to inspect was standing proudly on one of the tables.

       Katsuki sucked in a breath when he saw it, the faded markings stirring something very old within him. "Well, what do you know?" He mused. "It is real."

       "Pardon?" The curator looked a bit taken aback, and Katsuki realized he must have interrupted to fascinatingly boring spiel about the museum's proudly drab history. "Ah, the vase. How can you tell?"

       Katsuki hummed lowly as he approached the pedastal, pulling one hand from his pocket to hover over the clay lip of the jar. Already he could feel the magic humming from it, but this man wouldn't accept that answer. Humans rarely realized the presence of magic relics. "Tell me," he grinned. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

       The curator scoffed. "I believe in science."

       Katsuki's smile fell. Oh, for the good days, when people feared the right things. "Pity," he sighed. "Jars like these were thought to have once been used to hold ancient spirits. Ghosts, demons, immortals--their essence. The paint on this one is at least four, maybe five hundred years old. According to the markings, this one held a vampire."

       The curator did not look impressed. "You can read that?"

       "I'm an expert in most languages." Comes with living through their creation. "The scripture says she made tools out of blood, a princess of her time." He passed closer to the jar, hoping to feel a hum a familiarity. His hopes faded, and he slipped his hand back into his pocket. His friend was gone. Maybe they would cross paths again, now that she was free of her prison. He somewhat missed Momo. "However, it seems she's moved on. Lucky for you, I suppose. I take it I'm done here?"

       Grumbling to himself, the curator offered no protest, so Katsuki turned to leave.

       As he did, his eye caught a smashed piece of clay. "What is that?

       "Another ghost pot," the man responded, the roll of his eyes audible to Katsuki's ears. "This one we found in--"

       "Chiba," Katsuki finished. His long silent heart seemed to thump in his chest. "The demon of stone. You've broken it."

       "The excavators hadn't known what they found," he sighed. "They allowed it to fall when they moved it."

       Fall. "I see," Katsuki forced himself to speak over the driness in his tongue. He needed a drink. "Pity, it would have been quite the matching set." Thank you.

       He turned and left, striding through the halls with purpose. His sudden thirst clawed at him, and he knew the dark hallways would tempt him if he stayed too long. It had been days since his last meal. He made a turn into the art gallery, welcoming the light, and slowed his pace. The doors were ahead of him, fresh air away from the temptation of human, if he could just--

       His eyes caught again, and this time his breath left him.

       A woman and two men stood before a painting right in the middle of the hall. The small petite female acknowledged Katsuki with a nod before turning back to the artwork that Katsuki knew so well, her head inclined in interest. "He looks so sad," she remarked as her two companions moved on.

       Katsuki swallowed the painful lump swelling in his throat and tried to take a calming breath, but even the scents of this place haunted him, so he held off. "Yes," he agreed. "He was."

       She looked at him curiously, but he paid her no mind. His eyes stared transfixed at the man in the painting, long raven hair falling over his back. It was a side profile for the most part, but a simple turn of his shoulder revealed most of his back and the intricate mess of red braids and knots down the back of a dark kimono. But he faced down, away from the painter, and his red eyes did look very, very sad. Drooping from his hand hung a red, battered tulip

       'I can't stand this anymore. The war is outside, and--'

       'And what would you do, bring the war here? They're human, they'll die anyway.'

       'But this is senseless! Why must they fight like this? For what?'

       'Because they're foolish, now sit down--'

       'Why do you care if I fight? What harm can they do to me?'

       'Of course, I care. I have no wish to see my love upon a stake. If they found what we are, they could do quite a bit to you. Please, Eijiro. Sit down.'

       Katsuki's hand twitched, his lip quivering in threat.

       'Keep painting, Katsuki, but I won't sit. I won't watch our home burn down around us.'

       "You speak like you knew him," she chuckled nervously.

       I did. "I'm a historian," he said instead, choosing his words carefully. "This is... this is the last painting this artist ever completed. It's almost seven hundred years old. He gave up painting after this man moved on."

       "Oh," she smiled, and looked back at the painting. "Is he famous, then? For you to know much about him."

       "No, he wasn't. And the artist only signed his work by hiding red tulips in his designs. He never gave a name."

       "Red tulips," she mused. "How romantic. I'm an literature major," she supplied when Katsuki looked at her curiously. "Tulips, red in particular, are used to show--"

       "True love," Katsuki murmured. "Yes, I'm well aware."

       She clamped her lips shut, but Katsuki couldn't care if he had offended her. She bounced back quickly enough, just as he was turning to leave. She nodded her head at her friends, whom had wandered down the hall. "Maybe you could help us, actually. My friend is looking for something specific. Do you think you might know where it would be?"

       Katsuki hummed. She had been a pleasant conversationalist, at least. "That depends on what it is."

       "A ceramic, I think he said. A kind of clay jar, but really old, and--"

       He stiffened. What a fucking coincidence. "What business does your 'friend' have looking for a kameosa?" he growled.

       "He says he thinks it will help him with his memories," she answered slowly. "Um... he's also looking for a sword? He said something about... cutting the um... the painting."

       Katsuki's eye twitched, a fang threatening to extend. Fuck, he was hungry, and now he was pissed. He motioned for her to come closer, and growled at her when she did. "Tell that friend of yours that he'll be hard pressed finding a katana in the condition he wants here, and tell him to keep his fucking claws off my painting."

       "'Your--'" Her shock faded surprisingly fast, quickly replaced with startling clarity. "You must be familiar with his diet then. Can you help him?"

       "No," he growled. He was sure his fangs did distend then, as she backed away.

      One of her two friends swooped in to rescue her, the other on his heels. "Okay, Ochaco, that's quite enough. Let's leave the nice man alo--Professor?"

       Katsuki blinked through the haze, finding the one who had recognized him, a primal, rumbling growl still reverberating deeply in his chest. "Midoriya."

       Human. Which meant the other had to be--

       "Katsuki?"

       Katsuki's growling came to a choking halt as the old voice, achingly soft and lilted from an ancient forgotten dialect, shot through his ears. He forced himself to look past the other boy to the vampire. Fangs extended, glowing red eyes and all. Red hair stuck out in a freshly cut mass on his head, pushed out of his face by a stretched out headband that matched the hodpodge of other clothes that didn't fit him. Tall, broadly muscled, lost. Hopeful.

       Eijiro.

       The girl, Ochaco, pulled Midoriya to the side and said something to him quickly. Midoriya stiffened, probably realizing that his history professor had been a vampire all semester.

       Eijiro, Eijiro, Eijiro.

       The other vampire swallowed nervously, uncomfortable under Katsuki's startled gaze. "I'm sorry," he whispered, quiet enough for only Katsuki's ears. His voice trembled. "You were right. I should have listened. I shouldn't have gone. I should've--"

       Mine.

       Space moved at Katsuki's speed, ancient magic pushing him forward. Suddenly the past six hundred years didn't matter. He'd waited centuries to hear that voice again, waking everyday to longing and regret. But those years wouldn't matter if he got to hold him one more time. Where any other creature would have broken under the force of the impact, Eijiro's arms snapped around him tightly, hugging him against a familiar body he thought he never feel again.

       "Stupid, blood-brained, idiot," Katsuki scolded against his neck. Pressed there against the gentle thump of the recently fed, the stolen life under his skin. Katsuki burrowed into the warmth, hiding the way he shook in the other's arms, the way the heat behind his eyes threatened to spill.

       Was this even real? Could this just be a hunger-induced hallucination?

       Eijiro sobbed quietly into his shoulder, squeezing him tighter still. He smelled of cinnamon and spring rain, undercut by bitter hints of rust and clay dust. He smelled like blood. He smelled old. But he smelled like Eijiro. "I thought you'd be mad at me--"

       "I am mad at you. Six hundred fucking years, Ei. I missed you, goddamnit."

       His laugh brought down a slice of heaven to their cursed souls. Katsuki relaxed, though the sound was gone just as quickly, replaced by a sniffle. "What's a goddamnit?"

       "A lot changes in six hundred years," Katsuki scoffed. "You've missed everything."

       "I'm sorry. I'm here now. I--"

       The infuriating brunette piped in. "How's that amnesia going?"

       Katsuki snarled and twisted, devestatingly hungry now, and Eijiro had to hold him away from his smug human friend and... her human mate? "I made it up. I was confused. I'm not now."

       Ochaco nodded. "Yeah, I figured. But," she jerked her thumb at the small gathering crowd of mortals. "You're kind of attracting an audience."

       She looked to young Midoriya for support, but the unfortunate boy looked to be in shock. "My teacher's a vampire..." He muttered. "My teacher is a vampire."

       Her disappointment in him was palpable. "Well, he's useless." She turned back to the pair and nodded at Eijiro. "Take him home, please. He's had a rough couple of weeks."

       Eijiro perked. "I can do that--"

      "No, I was talking to your violent history nerd. You're just as useless as Izuku."

       To Katsuki's delight, the redhead deflated like a balloon under the truth in her words. She had also been right about another thing--they were attracting quite a bit of attention. He pulled Eijiro's hands off him slowly, threading their fingers together to keep him close, chuckling when Eijiro blinked dubiously at the modern display. He sniffed at the girl, trying not to gag when he realized the spun sugar smell was her. "I'll take him home. Thank you. For returning him to me." Begrudingly, he pulled a card from his coat pocket and handed it to her. "Whenever you'd like me to return the favor, I'll answer. I dislike being indebted."

       Midoriya stuck himself back into the conversation. "I dislike the midterms--"

       "You're still taking the exams, you useless Deku," Katsuki sighed through his teeth. To the girl, he threatened, "If you give him that number and he calls for review questions, I swear, on all you hold holy, you will be my next meal."

       Izuku Midoriya paled. Ochaco did not. She grinned. "Deal. See you around," she glanced down at his smoldering sleeves, still sparking for the earlier magic burst, "Blasty."

       Katsuki's fangs demanded he eat her for the insult, but he managed to hold off until she and her irritating companion were out of sight. Eijiro, thinking he was being sneaky, slipped his arms around the blonde again, his teeth against his ear. "Hungry?" He asked quietly.

       "Starving," Katsuki replied immediately, leaning instinctively into the affections he had missed for so long. He cast a quick glare at the people around them, fighting a snarl at their judgement, and pulled away again. "Let's get out of here."

       Eijiro smiled at him, centuries of wondering if he'd ever see that smile again fading away. "Show me home, Katsuki."

        He tabbed over to the next article, a spread of the many times one of the pair had jumped into the other's arms after a particularly grueling mission, titled 'A Partnership for the Ages.'

        Partnership. As in teamwork. Their fucking jobs.

        The next article. A full wide-shot, five years prior, of him and Riot during the annual Hero Parade. Eijiro, dressed in full battle regalia, kneeled on one of the passing floats. Publicly fucking proposing. 'True Bromance: The Things Your Best Friend Should Do For You.'

        Katsuki actually screamed out his fury, throwing his laptop--his very expensive, agency-paid laptop--across the room. It didn't shatter--it was too good for that--only switching to display the most infuriating headline yet.

        'The DynaRiot Affair: What Their Wives' Must Think.'

        Eijiro ducked his head into the room, tilted in confusion at the discarded laptop and his husband angrily blasting bubbles into buckets of steaming water in their home gym. "Uh... How's physical therapy going?"

        Katsuki let forth a Howitzer into the water, alternating with his hands to get the best impact. "I. FUCKING. HATE. THE MEDIA!"

        Poor oblivious Eijiro only blinked, sidling into the room to lean against the door frame. "Sounds... fun? What did they do this time?"

        Katsuki kicked at the bucket, pissed when it didn't budge the way he wanted it to, and plopped back onto a lifting bench. He breathed heavily, trying to catch his breath. "We're gay, right?"

        Ei paused, caught off-guard, because how does one prepare for a question like that? "Last time I checked, yes."

        "Right," Katsuki gasped out. "So this--" he gestured between them. "Not platonic?"

        Eijiro furrowed his eyebrows in obvious concern, holding up his left hand to display the marriage band there as though Katsuki had forgotten.

        "Exactly. You proposed in front of all of fucking Tokyo. So why the fuck," Katsuki demanded, "does the whole fucking media think we're cheating on our wives?!"

        Eijiro choked on his own spit, holding back a coughing fit. "They--WHAT?!"

        Katsuki threw his hands in the air. "No, sorry, that's wrong. Half of them think that. The other half is insisting we're buds, the best of friends, totally fucking platonic, no matter how many times they catch us fucking frenching in an alleyway!"

        "But we don't... have wives?"

        "You better not have a fucking wife," Katsuki scoffed irritably, arms crossing sourly over himself. "I'd fucking kill her."

        Eijiro luckily seemed to be able to take the news in better stride, moving to sit beside his husband on the bench. "Maybe we could set her up with your wife. Then they both could be happy, and we all could be platonically gay together."

        "That's not funny."

        "Eh," Ei shrugged. "Bet we could get Ochaco and Mina to do it."

        "Oh my fucking God, you actually want to fuck with them."

        "Well, if they're going to be wrong," he reasoned, "we may as well give them an actual reason to be wrong. If they haven't figured out that Denki, Tetsu and Hitoshi are in a three-way homosexual relationship, I don't think they'll notice if we pull a few strings."

        He ran to the mirror.

        Oh, no. No no no no no.

        God. Fucking. Damnit.

        "DUNCE FACE!"

        He stormed down the halls, down to the common room, bursting into the sitting area to find the idiot duo holding in their snickers while Kirishima sulked. His hair was down and wet from the shower he'd taken just before Bakugo.

        "I'm telling you, guys, I can't find it anywhere," the redhead sulked, and Bakugo understood. The prank hadn't been meant for him. It had been meant for Kirishima.

        That wasn't going to keep them from getting their asses kicked.

        "Are you sure, man?" Denki teased at the same moment Sero looked up and caught the blonde--former blonde's--eye. "It's probably right in front of you."

        "Dude," Sero elbowed him sharply, his look of dread telling Bakugo just how much rage he wore on his face. "I think Bakugo found it."

        Denki and Kirishima turned--Denki went pale and Kirishima went pink.

        "Oh, shit--"

        "Bro, I had no part in this--"

        "Let's be fair, it was Sero's idea!"

        "Hey!"

        "What?! If I'm going to die, I'm going out honest!"

        Bakugo stormed over to the couch and Denki attempted to run, but he tripped over a couch cushion and Bakugo caught him by the collar. "One of you better fix this shit RIGHT NOW. MY HAIR IS FUCKING PINK!"

        "Your hair is what?"

        Damnit, if he'd known Icyhot was in the kitchen, he wouldn't have said that so loudly. Now the bi-colored boy stood in the doorway, holding his phone, and he took a picture.

        Then he ran.

        "ICY HOT, GET BACK HERE--DUNCE, YOU'RE DEAD!"

        "It was Sero's idea!"

        "I DON'T CARE!"

        "Babe, it's just color conditioner--it'll wash out. Eventually."

        "I wouldn't look like this at all if you didn't leave your shitty hair gunk in my shower!"

        "Where else am I supposed to put it?!"

        "Any of the other showers!"

        "But then where will--"

        "SHUT UP--" Bakugo took a long breath in through his nose, trying to calm down before he said something he'd really regret. He turned to Denki--because Sero had long since disappeared in the confusion. "You know what, I'm going to wear this color and fucking slay it, and you dicks better watch your backs, 'cause I'm coming for your left shoes."

        Denki whined, snatching a pillow off the couch to hold in front of him like a shield. "Okay! Got it!" His brain slowly processed another comment, and he turned to Kirishima. "Bro, are you taking showers with Bakugo?"

        "Bro--"

        "THAT'S IT, YOU'RE DEAD!"