we're not alone

“No, I don’t think they are,” Takashi replies instantly, refusing to let Sensei’s suspicions pollute the kappa’s mind. “Rest assured, Sensei and I are going to make sure that nothing happens to you or other youkai in the area.”

“I swam back home once you left, so I don’t know what they did. This morning when I came here nothing looked different.”

So nothing has been destroyed, at least, which is good to know. If a god truly got upset because of an abrupt and rude departure, then Takashi is certain the country wouldn’t be standing anymore. Bad luck or not, gods are supposed to care for the land they walk on, right?

Takashi makes the kappa promise him to seek him out if he encounters any anomalies before heading to class. Sensei said he’d be on the lookout, in case Yatogami comes back for whatever business he has in the area—it should reassure Takashi, but instead it makes him worry that things will get messy should Sensei and Yatogami meet again. He can only hope that the day will be normal for everyone involved.

He doesn’t recount the encounter to Tanuma or Taki. There is no need for them to imagine the worst when nothing happened truly; on top of that, he doesn’t want them to fret over the existence of real gods, and the knowledge that their prayers might be actually heard. It’s already disturbing enough that Takashi himself has apparently met a god in the past and forgot him… The Dew God’s story remains fresh in his memory and he can’t let it repeat for anyone else.

-----

As soon as the bell rings, Takashi rushes out of the classroom while apologizing to Nishimura for leaving early. Sensei is already waiting for him, sitting at the top of the gate’s wall, like a polite pet waiting for his master to return. The other students love watching him, but as soon as they try to pet him, he hisses at them (“he’s not a real cat, after all”). Sensei jumps down, glancing back at Takashi to make sure he’s following, and together they head near the forest.

There is a payphone next to the bus stop. Somewhere isolated, away from prying eyes, and within easy reach of youkai friends. Takashi thinks the precautions unnecessary, but they are more for Sensei’s peace of mind than for his own. Sensei worries too much, sometimes, when Takashi least expects it.

“If the god doesn’t answer your call, we’re going home,” Sensei says in a tone that doesn’t leave room for negotiation.

Takashi fishes a few coins from his pocket, inserts them into the payphone, and dials the number written on his note. It hits him, then, that the motions of going through all these steps are comforting; there is giddiness and anticipation in equals measures, like this is the first time he calls this number. It brings back the memory of seeing the phone number tagged on walls and billboards, thinking that calling it was a last resort. He’s thrown back to his childhood and he thinks that maybe, this is a bad idea.

What if he’s repeating a past mistake and only setting himself up for disappointment…?

Takashi can hear his heart hammering against his ribcage all the way into his skull. When the phone keeps ringing and ringing, he thinks he might throw up.

And then, a click.

“Hi, thank you for calling! Fast, cheap and reliable, delivery god Yato at your service!”

It sounds surreal. At that moment, Takashi blanks—how do you greet someone you don’t really know anymore?

“Hello? Is anyone here?”

Something bumps into his leg; Takashi looks down to see Sensei narrow his eyes, impatiently waving a paw. Like he’s telling him that this was Takashi’s idea, and that he should take care of the situation alone.

Takashi swallows. His heart has never beat so fast, and so loudly.

“Y-Yes, sorry… I actually don’t know how I should put this…”

This conversation feels like déjà-vu. Takashi isn’t one to talk on the phone.

“Um… Do you remember the beast youkai you met yesterday…?”

Takashi hears Sensei groan and he feels himself getting flustered while his palms are starting to get clammy. What an embarrassing sight he must display.

“…What beast youkai?” Yatogami asks, confused, but still willing to continue this call.

“A wolf-like beast. White and big.”

“Oh! Yeah, of course I remember that one. Who’s asking?”

This is it. This is the moment where Takashi has to reveal himself. The ringing in his ears is killing him.

“I don’t know if you noticed yesterday but I… was with the beast youkai… My name is Natsume Takashi. We met a long time ago.”

A long time ago for Takashi, in any case. He most likely wouldn’t have remembered they ever met, had Yatogami not shown up. How many people and youkai did Takashi see when he was younger, and completely forgot as he grew older?

For an agonizing moment, only silence greets him. Sensei is sitting very still at his feet, ears clearly on alert even if he can’t hear much from his position.

“Were you a kid who asked me to kill an ayakashi that was bothering your family?”

Takashi wants to cry.

“I was!” his voice nearly cracks. “I mean, I think I did ask something like that? It’s been years so I don’t really remember but I know that you’ve helped me in the past.”

Takashi doesn’t even need to glance down to know that Sensei is sighing heavily, like he can’t believe that Takashi is still spouting this nonsense when he clearly warned him against gods of calamity. Yatogami’s voice is quiet and pensive, so unlike what Takashi is used to; is it a bad sign?

“Hey, you mind if I teleport to your location?” Yatogami asks.

Takashi blinks. He doesn’t object to it, of course, but… Oh well. Sensei will get over it soon enough.

“I don’t see why not.”

The words barely left his mouth that suddenly a silhouette appears next to him in a flurry of light and flicker, startling both him and Sensei. Yatogami still has his phone stuck to his ear while he stares first at Sensei, assessing and prudent—Sensei returns the distrustful gaze, going as far as taking a step forward to place himself closer to Takashi. Then Yatogami shifts his attention to Takashi, and the storm in his eyes immediately clears.

“The little Takashi, of course!” Yatogami exclaims, all smiles. “Wow, you weren’t joking when you said it’s been years, you’re not a kid anymore!”

Yatogami snaps his phone shut and approaches Takashi, ignoring the way Sensei seems to puff up and ready to pounce. He claps Takashi’s shoulders with both hands eagerly and keeps them there, in a gesture reminiscent of a family member seeing a young cousin or nephew and showing approval. Takashi, confused, feels a bit out of his element.

“How many years has it been? Do you know?” Yatogami continues on a joyful tone. “Must have been something like five years.”

“Six years, actually,” Takashi replies absentmindedly. “I’m going to turn sixteen this year.”

“Huh. You look way too well-behaved to still be a teenager. But I’m not surprised, you were a polite child.”

That might be the first time someone ever said that about him to his face and meant it. The glint in Yatogami's eyes shines with so much cheer that Takashi is starting to think his entire reaction might be forced. He dismisses the thought as soon as it comes because he is absolutely not going to be influenced by Sensei’s doubts.

“I didn't think you would remember me,” Takashi says softly. “I'm sorry I forgot about you.”

Yatogami snorts in an undignified way and withdraws his hands to stuff them in the pockets of his jersey, absolutely unconcerned by the remark. He’s exuding that carefree attitude that Takashi remembers most about him; it might be a façade to better lower people’s guard, in the scenario Takashi thinks like Sensei does.

Yatogami still doesn't acknowledge Sensei's hostile aura as he keeps conversing.

“Don't worry about it, humans don't always remember encounters with gods. I don't blame you for something you can't help.”

But it doesn't feel right, Takashi thinks. He doesn't want to continue living as if nothing happened; what if he forgets again in a few months? Isn't he the one who should make efforts to remember instead of simply accepting that it is the way the world is? Gods can’t keep living if there are no believers left.

“Besides, if I remember correctly, we only met a handful of times,” Yatogami continues. “It wasn't enough for your kid brain to believe that gods actually exist.”

Takashi isn't convinced, but Yatogami is smiling and it would be rude to ruin the mood by insisting that something feels wrong.

“I suppose,” Takashi answers, nodding slowly.

“Anyway! I’m really glad that you’re looking well. It’s rare for me to meet again past believers, after all, so seeing you all grown up is making me think I should check on other people. I could be surprised.”

“Are all gods of your caliber always this infuriating?” Sensei finally snaps.

When Takashi glances at him, he half expects to see his bodyguard baring his teeth—instead, Sensei is sitting very still, simmering in his wariness and irritation. Yatogami’s words haven’t alleviated any of his suspicions and he looks even more incensed than before. If a fight breaks out between a beast youkai and a god, Takashi isn’t sure he will be able to stop it.

“Sensei,” Takashi chides gently. “Don’t antagonize Yato-sama.”

“This guy hasn’t given me a single reason to want to be in his presence,” Sensei scoffs, and he manages to convey disdain by simply staring down at Yatogami from his position on the ground. “What does a god of calamity want from a human except making them their follower?”

Takashi should be used to Sensei’s blunt words and lack of tact but he can’t help wincing. It’s in this kind of situation, where Sensei is too stubborn and unwilling to disclose what actually bothers him, that Takashi realizes there is much about Sensei he still doesn’t know. He truly cannot read what is going through his mind—the last time he saw him so guarded, it was against Matoba-san.

Yatogami, for his part, waves a hand in the air in a dismissive gesture. Even to Takashi’s eyes, it somehow looks insulting, which further exacerbates his feeling of dread.

“I didn’t even do anything and I’m accused of committing some crime! Who is this, Takashi?”

Sensei doesn’t miss a beat and scowls.

“I am a great and noble beast youkai, one who will make you cower in fear,” he says haughtily. “You can call me Nyanko-sensei.”

A beat. Takashi opens his mouth, then promptly closes it. Doesn’t Sensei want to look more intimidating by revealing who he truly is…? Doesn’t this nickname severely undermine his reputation…? Now that he thinks about it, Sensei has never introduced himself with his real name; even in front of Matoba-san, he only ever responded to the name Takashi bestowed him.

Yatogami picks up on that detail as well, judging by the quirking of his eyebrow. He looks amused, but not angry or confused. Maybe he is used to youkai giving names other than their own—who knows what youkai think of when they want to play pranks on people.

“Very well, Nyanko-sensei. That’s a cute name for a youkai.”

“I, uh, gave it to him”, Takashi explains hurriedly. “Please don’t pay attention to him, Yato-sama, I don’t know why he’s acting like this. He’s not as rude usually.”

“I can be plenty rude if I want to,” Sensei grunts.

Takashi side-eyes him. “Don’t.”

“I have no idea what kind of relationship you two have, but it’s quite entertaining,” Yatogami says, nodding sagely like this is some performance he’s watching. “You’re too careful, Takashi. Your friend seems the type to dislike going in circles while no answers are provided, so my continued presence is driving him crazy.”

“I didn’t think you would be able to understand that so quickly,” Sensei snorts. “You’re smarter than you look.”

“I have experience dealing with people who don’t want me around.”

This entire conversation is bad for Takashi’s heart. This is like watching Misuzu and Hinoe wrangling Sensei into doing something that “sounds stupid and unworthy of his attention”, but ten times worse. If they don’t stop, he fears that they will truly start fighting.

“Stop antagonizing Yato-sama,” he tells Sensei again, with a pointed look. “He hasn’t done anything harmful and he doesn’t intend to. I think it’s pretty obvious he’s not the malevolent god you pretend he is.”

Before Sensei has time to retort something most likely scathing, Yatogami claps his hands and catches his attention.

“Everyone calm down! I still have no idea why I’m the topic of a misunderstanding but I swear that Takashi isn’t going to get hurt or anything. He hasn’t seen me in years and as a god, I’m more than happy to see that he remembered me.”

Yatogami turns towards Takashi and winks while holding two fingers near his temple in a salute, the perfect picture of someone being unperturbed by the circumstances. Takashi offers him a strained smile; this is the type of attitude that is most difficult to read and predict—even if there is no imminent danger, Sensei isn’t going to take at face value such blatant, over-exaggerated enthusiasm.

“Since I can’t hide it from the noble Nyanko-sensei, yes I am a god of calamity,” Yatogami continues, unreserved. “Used to, anyway. I don’t tend to announce it, it’s bad marketing, you know? I’m a delivery god who aims to become rich and revered by lots of people.”

“I do remember that,” Takashi pipes up, feeling the heavy weight of 5-yen coins in his pockets.

“Unbelievable,” Sensei mutters. “Gods don’t get to decide what they are or are not.”

Then, for a fraction of a second, Yatogami drops the act. His curled lips aren’t quite smiling, and the glint in his eyes looks…appraising. Dangerous. Takashi resists the urge to take a step back or to let shivers take control of his body.

“That’s what you think,” Yatogami says in an almost whisper, confident. “Watch me.”

Takashi thinks this is a prayer.

Who listens to the prayers of gods?

Thinking that enough is enough, that Yatogami doesn’t have to put up with them longer than necessary, Takashi bends down and gathers Sensei in his arms, ignoring his cries of protest. The flash in Yatogami’s eyes is a warning—against what, Takashi is not sure, but there is no doubt Sensei will take it the wrong way.

“I believe in you, Yato-sama,” Takashi states firmly. “You may be a god of calamity, you still helped me when no one wanted to.”

He reaches into his pocket, closes his fingers around a coin, and extends his fist towards him. Yatogami, momentarily stunned, only stares. Takashi shakes his fist a bit in invitation.

“I’ll remember you. And if I don’t, Sensei is here to remind me.”

“I didn’t agree to such a thing,” Sensei complains.

Slowly, Yatogami reaches out as well and places his palm under Takashi’s fist. Takashi drops the 5-yen coin onto his hand, and he doesn’t miss the way Yatogami slightly tenses upon being offered the proof of their shared past. Maybe more than shock that colors his face, it is surprise at getting that precious coin without even asking.

“I didn’t fulfill any wish yet,” Yatogami indicates, though he still closes his hand around the coin.

“I know. It’s a gift for answering my call and coming here.”

Sensei doesn’t try to ruin this moment. Takashi knows he senses that this is important to him; whether he’s acting in childish wonder or blind trust, Takashi will not abandon Yatogami like he did once. No more.

It is hard to pinpoint what emotion is flickering on Yatogami's face at that moment, unsmiling and still as he is. He most definitely didn't expect such a gesture, and it occurs to Takashi that he must have been wondering all along what would happen during this meeting. Nobody ever requests the presence of a god for a chat, after all.

“I'm not a child anymore. I will keep my promise,” Takashi says fervently.

Yatogami slowly, deliberately, relaxes his shoulders. It wouldn't have been visible if Takashi wasn't paying attention to it.

“Thanks, Takashi,” Yatogami says. “If only there were more humans like you.”

What a loaded statement. Takashi doesn't think he's anyone special.

“Time to go,” Sensei grouches, swatting at Takashi’s arm. “We've stayed here longer than necessary.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Nyanko-sensei.”

Yatogami flashes him a smile that is more mocking than sincere, and Sensei ignores him with such grace that Takashi feels oddly proud.

“Take care of yourself, Yato-sama,” Takashi tells Yatogami.

Yatogami nods. “You too. See you around then!”

And just like this, Yatogami turns on his heels and walks away, waving a hand in the air. This sight is familiar to Takashi, but instead of feeling like he’s lost something precious, his heart swells with relief. He commits that moment to memory.

Sensei waits until they are back at the Fujiwara house to speak about the encounter.

“I wouldn’t trust him yet,” he announces calmly, a lot less irritated than he had been during the day. “Don’t stick your nose into business that’s not yours to deal with.”

“Come on, Sensei,” Takashi sighs. “You saw that Yato-sama wasn’t dangerous, right?”

“For now he isn’t. You don’t know what will happen in the future.”

Takashi dangles a piece of the pancake he’s eating and Sensei immediately snatches it from his hand, successfully distracted. There is no point discussing about the topic further, given how adamant Sensei is—nothing, for now, will change his opinion on Yatogami. Takashi isn’t against practicing some caution or keeping a safe distance from a god who is apparently malicious, but he can’t bring himself to doubt Yatogami’s kindness. Who would spare so much effort into creating a positive image of themselves if they weren’t at least a bit honest about it? Is he being too naive again?

Gods and youkai are different, of course, but Takashi remembers missed opportunities he’s had with youkai. Misunderstandings, even, especially in Reiko-san’s memories. Gods most likely experience this feeling as well, despite their status. Takashi wants to believe that he still has a chance to reconnect with Yatogami because Yatogami looked so vulnerable when he accepted the 5-yen coin, as if that simple gift was something world-shattering.

She didn’t manage to make the first incision—the fact that His Majesty appeared out of nowhere to perform this task is mortifying enough, but it is even more humiliating to think that her brother trusted her to carry out this surgery and she failed the first step. She also couldn’t do it alone. She trained so much, and yet… Did she go in the wrong direction? Had she learned more about medicine beforehand, would she have been able to operate on Fan Xian without his guidance?

“Ruoruo,” Lin Wan’er says gently. “You did a wonderful job.”

Fan Ruoruo glances at Lin Wan’er, blinking several times to fully allow herself to come back to her body. Her sister-in-law is displaying such a calm and serene face, with the only remnant of her earlier anxiety being the tired lines around her eyes. But her smile is genuine.

“You should get some rest. Following all these instructions from Fan Xian must have been hard.”

Fan Ruoruo shakes her head. “Ge shouldn’t have been awake for this… this surgery, or whatever term he uses for what we’ve just done. I know that I was successful, but I can’t help thinking that I should be able to do more.”

Her brother put his faith in her, and Wu Zhu-shu also believes that she is capable of honoring the promise she made to him. Stable hands, yes; Fan Ruoruo will transform any tool in her hands into the best shield to protect her brother. But having such determination and control is almost useless if she doesn’t have the practice and actual experience.

This can’t do. She has to get over herself and see this opportunity as the eye-opening she didn’t realize she needed.

“I need to do better,” she says firmly, exhaling slowly. “And I will.”

Lin Wan’er never stops smiling, as she reaches out and places her hands on top of Fan Ruoruo’s. She squeezes once.

“This is why Fan Xian trusts you so much,” she tells her. “You don’t back down from hardships. It must be a Fan trait.”

A small chuckle escapes Fan Ruoruo. “Yes, that is most likely the case. I think the better explanation is that Ge’s own stubbornness had a big influence on me and Sizhe. His inability to give up rubbed off on us.”

What would her life have looked like had Fan Xian not come to the Capital? Would she have found something to fight for just as ardently? Fan Xian is an important person within the Palace and the political scene, but he also changed his family’s lives for the better. Every day has become unpredictable, chaotic and full of wonders that no one would have imagined possible. Fan Ruoruo wouldn’t want it any other way.

“I feel exactly the same,” Lin Wan’er laughs, rubbing small circles on Fan Ruoruo’s hands. “Fan Xian makes us want to do things we have never thought of before.”

“I’m glad that you found each other,” Fan Ruoruo replies. “You are good for him.”

Lin Wan’er doesn’t say anything in return, but her face softens and her eyes shine brighter. Fan Ruoruo doesn’t doubt that her brother often tells his wife how much she means to him, but hearing about the positive influence she has on him from someone else is probably another sentiment entirely. Fan Ruoruo doesn’t need to see them together to know that they care deeply about each other.

This is another precious thing Fan Ruoruo wants to protect—this happiness that clings on their skin, despite the threats and the malice that surround them. She has the means to help.

So he doesn’t understand why they are suddenly acting angry for no apparent reason. Breakfast time is uncomfortable, each member at the table keeping their eyes glued to their plate while the silence is slowly suffocating them. Takashi doesn’t dare say anything and shovels rice into his mouth to leave the table as fast as possible.

“I’ll be home late tonight,” his uncle grunts.

“Tonight, like yesterday, and every other day of the week,” his aunt sneers.

“It’s not my fault my boss makes us work overtime!”

“I already told you months ago you should change jobs!”

“As if it’s that simple!”

Takashi picks up the last piece of tomato, barely chews it before swallowing, then gathers all his plates to put them in the sink. Then, he grabs his backpack by the genkan, hastily puts on his shoes and shuts the door behind him as quietly as possible. His aunt and his uncle are locked into a fight and they won’t realize he’s gone. The first time it happened, a week and a half ago, Takashi was sure he’d get scolded for leaving without saying goodbye first—but they didn’t reprimand him in the evening and acted like nothing was wrong.

His guardians’ outbursts are more frequent day after day and it’s starting to get worrying. Takashi has no idea what he should do, and stepping in in their fights sounds like a recipe for disaster; he has no right to meddle when the topic of their conversation doesn’t concern him at all. He doesn’t have anyone to reach out for help.

On his way to school, he always passes by a payphone. He’s never truly noticed it before, but ever since he met Yatogami, he thinks that he’s lucky to have a phone just within reach in case he needs anything. Maybe…

Takashi pats his pockets, fishes out a few coins and inserts them in the machine. He takes out the slip of paper with Yatogami’s number on it, copies each digit with care, and waits. There is one ring, then two, and Yatogami picks up.

“Hi, thank you for calling, this is the delivery god Yato! Fast, cheap and reliable, I’m at your service!”

Perhaps Yatogami should change up his welcoming phrase from time to time?

“Yato-sama, it’s Takashi.”

“Oh Takashi! You weren’t kidding when you said you’d call sometimes.”

“Well… I can handle whatever I see on the streets, but today I’m calling because my aunt and my uncle are acting strange. They suddenly got angry for no reason and it has been going on for almost two weeks. I don’t know what to do.”

The line is silent for a moment, then Yatogami hums.

“They’re not usually angry, you say? Are you sure they aren’t just fighting because of some problem they have?”

“It doesn’t sound like it. One day my uncle started shouting and my aunt immediately got upset, which doesn’t happen usually.”

“Did you notice some ayakashi hanging around your house?”

Takashi feels dread and shame overwhelm him in equal parts. He hasn’t even thought about ayakashi causing harm to people this way.

“I’ve always thought that the monsters wanted to hurt us by eating us,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, well, some youkai and ayakashi do eat people, but ayakashi corrupt them by amplifying their negative emotions first. And when those people are too far gone, they get absorbed. So eaten.”

Takashi almost drops the phone. “There are ayakashi who are trying to eat my aunt and uncle?!”

“Hey, calm down, kid. I, uh…” There is some shuffling in the background, like Yatogami is moving around to speak somewhere else. “I can’t come right now, but I’ll swing by later, alright? Probably in the evening or in the middle of the night, so don’t wait up for me. Just put a coin in the genkan for payment.”

“What…are you going to do?”

“I can kill the ayakashi and stop them from affecting your guardians. Don’t worry, it’s an easy job for me.”

And the thing is, Takashi trusts Yatogami more than he’s ever trusted anyone else. He doesn’t know who he is, what he does on the regular or what kind of god he actually is, but Takashi keenly feels drawn to him. Yatogami tells him everything will be fine, and Takashi believes him.

“Okay,” he says, a little more reassured, and so relieved to have found a solution. “Thank you for always taking up my requests.”

Yatogami snorts. “Business is business! See you later, Takashi.”

Yatogami is the one who hangs up first. He’s most likely in the middle of another job judging by his hasty exit, which is good news for him, since he wants to earn money. Takashi should ask him sometime why he needs money so badly. (Surely a god doesn’t have to buy food or a house with real, human money? Do they really collect the money used for prayers at temples?)

Takashi hangs up, smiling to himself, and goes to school with a lighter heart.

-----

During dinner, Takashi notices that there are indeed ayakashi riding on his guardians’ shoulders. He wonders if they were hiding up until now, or if they only come out at night to…absorb the negative emotions? Takashi keeps a careful eye on them, but they seem too busy being delighted at feasting upon the anger that’s consuming their targets.

He’s not worried. The ayakashi aren’t that big, and Yatogami said he’d take care of it. His aunt’s drawn out features tell him she’s becoming exhausted day after day, and his uncle’s frown gets deeper with each passing hour. If Takashi didn’t call for help, he’s not sure that the situation would have been resolved by itself.

On his way to his room, he drops a 5-yen coin in the genkan next to his shoes. Even if his guardians find the coin before Yatogami arrives, they probably won’t bother picking it up—Yatogami’s low price has some advantages, after all. No one would expect that such a small coin could buy so much.

Takashi only hopes that whatever Yatogami plans on doing won’t be dangerous for anyone involved.

-----

“...sure you want to do it?”

“It’s just a regular job. I have to find the ayakashi and kill them.”

Takashi’s eyes flutter open. There are voices coming from the living room.

“You’re spending too much energy on such foolish jobs. The ayakashi might not even be present in this house. You know you don’t need to grovel at people’s feet to survive if you come back.”

“We’ve talked about it, I don’t want to repeat myself over and over.”

It’s Yatogami. He’s with someone—a young girl, by the sound of her voice, and Takashi wonders if it’s the sleepy haze in his mind that makes him think Yatogami isn’t really happy to be here. Or maybe he isn’t happy with the person who is accompanying him.

Takashi slips out of his futon and pads over his door to press his ear against it. He can hear their conversation more clearly, now that they are heading towards his way, most likely to reach his guardians’ room which is at the end of the corridor.

“That boy. It seems that he remembers you, if he called you multiple times already.”

“Spying on me when you’re bored, Nora? You’re always sticking your nose in my business.”

“Father is worried, that is all. He wants to make sure you’re not running to your death with every ridiculous plan you come up with.”

Nora. What a strange name; is she a god as well?

Yatogami’s voice doesn’t raise at all, but Takashi hears irritation starting to seep into it.

“Yeah, of course.”

“You already promised, anyway.” There is laughter in Nora’s voice.

Takashi doesn’t understand what they’re talking about, but he knows that Yatogami isn’t acting like he usually does. He sounds so cold and subdued, in a way that makes Takashi feel sad for him. Hopefully he will be able to cheer himself up after tonight.

(Takashi also hopes that Yatogami’s strange mood isn’t due to his request. He should call tomorrow to make sure everything is alright.)

Yatogami and Nora don’t say a word more, silently walking towards the room in the back. Their footsteps stop right in front of the door, or so Takashi assumes—it’s not easy to make out what a god is doing, when they’re trying their hardest to be quiet and invisible. In some twisted way, gods and youkai aren’t so different; they’re living their life right under ordinary people’s nose and those who can’t see them will never be able to figure out what is the cause of the odd events happening around them.

“Hiki.”

The word leaves Yatogami’s mouth just as the doorknob creaks, and from then on all Takashi can hear is hurried footsteps and things banging against walls.

Takashi’s stomach drops and panic seizes him—what if his guardians wake up because of the noise? What if Yatogami breaks something during whatever exorcism he’s doing? Is Yatogami trying to kill the ayakashi? Surely there is a more discreet method to get rid of them! 

For a full minute, Takashi’s heart hammers against his ribcage and his ears are loudly ringing as he listens to the commotion in the room. For a full minute, it sounds like an animal is being chased by a bigger prey, leaving behind sounds of a voice squeaking and wood groaning.

Then, silence.

Takashi’s heartbeat is louder than anything in the night. He puts his forehead against the door, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. He shouldn’t have made this request.

“That was a quick job well done. Return, Hiiro.”

Something touches the floorboards in an almost imperceptible noise, like a feather dropping on water.

“You haven’t complimented my skills in a long time,” Nora says, in that odd cheerful voice that makes Takashi’s skin prickle. “That boy must be truly important to you.”

“I just didn’t want the people sleeping in the bed right next to us to wake up because we broke something. And I know you like being the best there is among regalia, so.”

Yatogami doesn’t finish his sentence, but Nora seems content to absorb the words as they are. Takashi is too dazed by the events to properly make his mind come back to his brain—all he knows is that he didn’t make a mistake, and his guardians are wholly unaware of what just occurred. He hasn’t felt so much stress in his life before.

Yatogami and Nora pass in front of his room once more, then the door of the apartment opens.

“What are you doing, Yato?”

“Takashi left the coin next to his shoes.”

Nora doesn’t reply, but it seems that she patiently waits for Yatogami to finish whatever he’s doing. When the door quietly closes behind them, Takashi breathes.

-----

It hasn’t been easy to go back to sleep after the night he’s spent. He hasn’t seen any of what actually happened, but the conversation between Yatogami and Nora left Takashi puzzled and with a lot of questions. He never thought before that there could be more to the world of youkai and ayakashi than what he sees every day; maybe gods do live a life much like humans, with their own sets of problems and people to look after. Nora sounded like someone close to Yatogami.

Takashi tries not to yawn or rub his eyes during breakfast. His guardians look healthier and they haven’t shouted once since they woke up, so Takashi considers his request fulfilled. His aunt even smiles at him and gives him an extra egg.

“Don’t forget to take your sports clothes,” she says.

“I have my clothes in another bag,” Takashi answers. “It’s in the genkan with my school bag.”

“Good. I don’t want you to cause trouble to the teachers.”

Takashi nods stiffly, and eats the egg. He knows what this sentence means—don’t cause trouble to the teachers, so you won’t cause trouble to the family. He knows that all his relatives talk about him among themselves to find the best way to make him stop attracting problems.

He thinks that he’s gotten better at avoiding youkai, though. None of them has entered the apartment for weeks and he didn’t come across angry youkai waiting for him at the end of the school day. Following Yatogami’s advice truly helped him spend more normal days, but he can’t say any of this to his guardians.

As usual, he clears his plate and puts it in the kitchen sink before going into the genkan to put on his shoes. When he reaches for them, he stops short and blinks. There is a piece of paper in one of them, neatly folded in a small square. Takashi gently works it open, and he feels himself starting to grin, his heart full.

Thanks for doing business with me ✩ Take care, Takashi!

The note isn’t signed, but it isn’t necessary. The fact that Yatogami bothered at all truly makes Takashi feel like the call he made all those weeks ago is the best thing that has happened to him in a long while.

On his way to school, he considers calling again to thank him for taking care of the ayakashi corrupting his guardians, but he imagines that Yatogami must be overwhelmed with requests and doesn’t have the time to simply chat with a customer. Though if Takashi bumps into him in a temple or even in the street, it will be a lot more satisfying to talk and interact with him—so he goes on about his day, a little brighter, a little happier.

-----

Right when classes end, Takashi runs outside and makes a detour to the local temple. A curious youkai watches him from afar, hidden behind a tree, but hasn’t shown any signs of taking a special interest in him, so Takashi ignores it and tries not to look too anxious while doing so. He’s getting better at pretending to be a normal boy, but he suspects that youkai always know he’s different anyway, since they never stop staring.

The temple grounds are devoid of a tracksuit-wearing god, unfortunately. There was only a slim chance that Takashi would meet Yatogami again in the same place, around the same time, but it couldn’t hurt to try. Many visitors are praying at the offering box; with so many prayers and money to collect, Takashi does hope there is an actual deity watching over them to fulfill all these wishes.

Takashi goes back home and tries the phone number. He really doesn’t want to bother Yatogami, but he needs to express his gratitude. He pulls out the piece of paper from his pocket, dials the number, and waits. Waits for one ring, two rings, three rings. Nothing. Yatogami is probably busy. A little disappointed, Takashi puts back the handset and decides to try tomorrow.

-----

Yatogami doesn’t pick up the following day. He doesn’t pick up either two days later, and doesn’t show up anywhere in the neighborhood.

It’s starting to worry Takashi. Something must have happened to him—an ayakashi corruption? a youkai attacking him? Takashi doubts Yatogami is the kind of person who forgets to call back someone after receiving multiple missed calls.

At dinner, for a few days in a row, his uncle asks him mundane questions about school (it’s fine), friends (also fine, Takashi is used to staying on the sidelines) and how he likes the city (better than expected). He has that thoughtful look on his face that Takashi can’t decipher, like there is a difficult choice to make and his uncle is finally seeing what he should do. His aunt is giving him smiles, but Takashi feels that something is…wrong. These piercing yet neutral looks they give him make him feel like there are thousands of ants crawling in his body.

That feeling is familiar and Takashi, down to his core, already knows what will happen. 

Takashi doesn’t understand. He hasn’t caused any problems for his guardians in months, he hasn’t broken anything in the house and he doesn’t ask for things that aren’t school supplies. They never seemed to…to consider him a burden to take care of. So why?

A week later, his uncle tells him over breakfast, “I finally quit my job. We’re going to move to another city, and we can’t take you with us.” He waves his chopsticks around in an offhand manner. “We’ve been discussing this for a while. You’re going to go to one of my cousins who lives here, not too far actually. You’ll be able to go to the same school.”

A small comfort, Takashi thinks numbly. It’s not too bad. He doesn’t have to leave the city and get acquainted with new places and new people.

“They already have a room for you,” his aunt says as kindly as possible, though Takashi still hears a drop of relief in her voice. “We can visit them this weekend, and then you'll move in next week. That gives you plenty of time to pack your things.”

“Thank you,” Takashi says without thinking twice, not knowing what else to answer in front of those two earnest, satisfied faces.

They aren't bad people, of course. They've taken care of him and they weren't as irritated as his previous guardians; they are one of the most comfortable families Takashi has lived with so far. He can't blame them for wanting to live elsewhere, with maybe a child of their own, after giving so much of their time for him.

It's okay. He's used to it. And, like his uncle said, he won't even move to another city.

That night, after the moon's risen high in the sky, Takashi tiptoes to the living room and uses the phone. There's no harm in trying again, even if all his calls never connected for the past week. With each key that his finger presses, his heart beats louder and his stomach twists itself into tighter and tighter knots. He's hoping too much. He knows how this call will end.

It rings, and rings, and rings. No recipient. No voicemail.

The window's slightly ajar, to let the night breeze in despite the cold weather. Takashi can hear the quiet howling of the wind in the silence.

That night, more than any other day, Takashi feels alone. He slowly puts the phone back on the stand, staring at the figures making up the phone number that he has now learned by heart. Did he imagine all of this? Did he finally lose his mind, and his brain tricked him into thinking that there was a solution to youkai and ayakashi—a solution that involved having someone listen to him? Yatogami probably doesn't even exist. There are no gods who answer every human’s whims through a simple phone call. Shrines are built for a reason.

Takashi lets his legs bring him back to his room, and when he slips into his futon, he squeezes his eyes shut and wishes that the last months never happened.

-----

Days blur together. Takashi wakes up, eats breakfast, goes to school, runs away from the occasional youkai, and does his homework. He has always lived that way, task after task and event after event, with nothing to look forward to.

There isn't much to pack in his room—a small box with some clothes and books, his school backpack and the shoes he's wearing. The box has been used for years now, and Takashi is surprised that it hasn't broken yet after moving so many times. Then again, it's not as if he fills it to the brim. He places the items carefully into it and rearranges them so that nothing will get damaged during the car trip, though he most likely doesn't need to be so meticulous about it for such a short trip.

The scraps of paper hiding a phone number, scattered in his school bag and his coat, are shoved to the bottom of the box. Takashi doesn't want anyone to find them, in case they get the wrong idea and think he's in contact with someone external to their family—he doesn't want them to worry or to be angry right after settling into a new place.

Takashi prefers not to think about the phone number at all, in fact. When he reaches into his pocket and his hand closes around one of the pieces of paper, his stomach lurches and he immediately pulls back his hand. He's terrified. Everything felt so real and true, but he only has a few drawings and a phone number to prove that he hasn't had a very convincing dream. But it wouldn't be the first time a youkai pranks him either.

It's alright. He's fine. He's lived with the burden of seeing another world for years, without anyone believing him, and he has always managed by himself.

On the way to and from school, he observes. There is a blue frog on the sidewalk, hopping around people’s feet, like it’s trying to sniff a good prey. Takashi doesn’t feel threatened by it—he glances at it curiously, wondering if it will climb on someone’s leg, but it looks harmless enough. It’s still early morning and the cold is making everyone shiver, but Takashi doubts that feeling cold and being frustrated at the weather are emotions that ayakashi will feed on. And such a tiny frog most likely doesn’t have much power.

Around a corner, there’s always a youkai with horns sitting on the fence in front of the 7-Eleven, watching people walk in and out of the store. Sometimes a friend keeps them company and they complain about humans’ stupid cars and unnecessarily complicated food packaging. They never took an interest in Takashi, so Takashi happily passes them without glancing their way.

He learns that as long as he doesn’t make eye contact with a youkai, he’s mostly safe. If he doesn’t react to their remarks or flinch when they get too close, he can get home without running. But It’s hard sometimes to remain completely still when he doesn’t expect any of them bursting from behind a garbage can or flying over his head at full speed—and in these cases, they try to chase him.

It’s during one of these mad hunts that Takashi races towards the nearest temple. A sort of ghost with wings is hot on his heels and Takashi barely makes it through the torii before collapsing on the stairs, panting and exhausted. He looks up at the sky, and sees that the youkai is agitatedly circling the temple’s grounds, searching for a way to land. Takashi hopes it won’t have the patience to wait for him to leave this place.

Sighing, Takashi unfolds his limbs one by one and starts climbing the stairs. He’ll go sit on a bench and rest for a while before heading back—it’s already starting to get dark, and his guardians don’t like it when he comes home late. Though there are a few people visiting the temple, he picks out some unoccupied spots that won’t draw the attention on him.

However, while surveying the area, Takashi’s gaze lands on a figure who is completely lying down on the hard cold stone of a bench, head pillowed on crossed arms. He’d recognize that strange tracksuit anywhere.

“...Yato-sama?”

Yatogami’s eyes snap open and instantly flit over Takashi, and Takashi feels the instinctive need to take a step back. For a second, it looks like Yatogami doesn’t recognize him or considers him a threat to be eliminated, but that moment quickly passes and a much softer glint replaces that hard fire in his eyes.

“Hey, you’re that kid from before,” Yatogami says, sitting up and stretching his limbs. “Takashi, right?”

Takashi slowly nods, shaking off whatever uncomfortable feeling is clinging to his body. “What are you doing here?”

Someone nearby throws a suspicious look his way, and Takashi shrinks on himself. Right. They can’t see Yatogami.

Yatogami notices the person who is watching them (or rather, Takashi), tilts his head, then jerks a thumb towards the back of the courtyard.

“Let’s hide near the trees. There are less people and in the worst case they’ll think you’re talking to a bird or something.”

The prospect of being seen as a naive child talking to animals doesn’t appeal to Takashi at all, but he supposes that it is better than talking to thin air.

Yatogami puts a weary foot on the ground, takes another moment to twist his body this way and that, like he’s been frozen in the same position for hours. Takashi can hear Yatogami’s hips and shoulders pop, which is kind of disconcerting. So even gods can get stiff limbs and tense shoulders?

“I was taking a nap but it’s really too cold to sleep on a stone bench,” Yatogami mutters.

“Don’t you have a coat? Or just… a house?”

Yatogami starts walking towards the trees without a word, leaving Takashi to follow him in hurried steps. From the back, just like this, Takashi only sees a man strolling the temple grounds after going for a run. This person could be anyone passing him by in the street.

“Eh, I’m more of the wandering type,” Yatogami says with a shrug, not looking back at Takashi. “Can’t stay too long in the same place.”

“You’ve been in the city for a couple of weeks now. Does it mean you’re going to leave soon?”

Takashi hasn’t thought about that possibility. What will happen if he tries calling Yatogami and he can’t come to help him?

Yatogami cuts a glance at him. “Has it already been weeks since you called? I didn’t realize.”

Maybe time feels different for gods. They must have a lot of things to do each day—every minute is probably precious to them. Takashi’s call must have been one of the many that Yatogami receives.

“Well, for me it has been really good weeks since I met you,” Takashi says earnestly. “Thank you for your advice! Youkai don’t bother me as much, even if sometimes they still chase me and try to talk to me. This is the third time I had to hide in a temple in the past two weeks, today a youkai with wings almost got me.”

Yatogami reaches the base of a tree and promptly collapses against it, his back firmly pressed against the bark, and he gestures towards the empty spot in front of him as a clear invitation. Takashi gingerly sits down, placing his backpack on the ground next to his legs. When he looks around him, he admits that they have more privacy than he thought they would.

“You’re facing the tree, so most people won’t see that you’re talking unless you’re speaking really loudly or they’re walking near you,” Yatogami says.

“Oh. That makes sense.”

It’s a little less stressful not to see people staring at him while he’s having a conversation with an invisible entity, but there are people who are bound to wonder what he’s doing all alone in the cold. Takashi doesn’t want to disrupt their visit to the temple, so he really hopes people won’t take any interest in him.

Yatogami rubs his eyes, like he’s trying to wake himself up. His entire demeanor is quite worrying, if Takashi is honest.

“Are you okay?” he asks, feeling a bit guilty for interrupting his nap.

“Yeah, don’t sweat it,” Yatogami replies with a smile. “I’m just tired. I was actually running away from ayakashi myself, so we’re both hiding here. I’m glad that my advice helped you stay safe.”

“So even gods can be targeted by youkai and ayakashi? That sounds… inconvenient.”

“We usually have a way to defend ourselves, but I'm kind of on my own right now. But I'll be fine soon and back into action just as quickly.”

Takashi senses that Yatogami isn’t completely… comfortable with that topic. He doesn't know what Yatogami is hiding, but he is clearly unwilling to share that information, judging by his clipped words and hard eyes. Maybe there are some secrets that gods can't tell humans, like rules that were implemented to keep some sort of order in the world.

It is most likely for the best that Takashi stops asking questions. But he's curious, and there are slips of paper with a phone number that are dispatched in his things waiting to be used.

“Um… if I call you but you're in another city, would you still come visit? It's also possible I'll move somewhere else at some point, so I want to be sure I'll be able to reach you.”

There hasn't been signs of his guardians being tired of him yet, but Takashi knows that one isolated incident can sometimes be enough for his family to stop wanting to take care of him. He doesn't blame them, of course; it's difficult to care for someone like him, who can see strange things and bring trouble into the house.

Yatogami nods, slightly more relaxed. His eyes remain cloudy, though.

“No problems on that front, I can teleport to anyone who is calling me, like I did last time.”

Takashi perks up. “That's great news! I'm really happy. This is going to sound weird but…can I sometimes pay you 5 yen just to answer some of my questions? You're probably a busy god, so I'd feel bad if you don't take money when I bother you.”

What Takashi doesn't say is that he wants to keep talking to Yatogami. He feels safe—he listens to Takashi and doesn't make fun of him, because he understands. They are both living in a world that is invisible to other people, hidden by layers and layers of half-truths. Takashi has never felt so confident since he met this eccentric god.

It must be an unusual request, because Yatogami casts him a funny look that seems to convey all his surprise. He furrows his brow, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Well… I normally do jobs to get paid, answering some questions isn't really a job.”

“But you took my 10 yen for some advice,” Takashi insists. “Maybe…”

And here Takashi fidgets, suddenly self-conscious of what he's going to say.

“Maybe consider it like a babysitting job? I just… I just want to talk to someone, sometimes.”

It sounds stupid and embarrassing to his own ears. Takashi suddenly finds the roots of the tree that Yatogami is leaning on very fascinating. He didn’t mean to come off as childish.

However, Yatogami sounds equal parts amused and interested. “Babysitting, huh? You’re not the worst kind of kid to look after. I can do that, if you really need an attentive ear.” He pauses, hums to himself. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Oh, uh, I’m ten years old.” Takashi risks a glance at Yatogami. “You… actually don’t mind? Coming over just to talk?”

“You’ll learn that I love talking, kid.” Yatogami’s grin splits his face in two, almost erasing all the exhaustion that is etched on his features. “Besides, I’m a well of knowledge! Ask me anything and I’ll give you an answer.”

“Because you’ve been living for a long time?”

“Yeah, and I open textbooks, sometimes.”

The image of a god sitting at a library table to study is hilarious to Takashi. He bursts out laughing, immediately covering his mouth with his hand to try muffling the noise but his shoulders are shaking so badly he can’t hide his amusement at all.

“I-I’m sorry!” he says through his giggling. “I’m not making fun of you!It’s just—I didn’t think gods had to read books too.”

When Takashi wipes away a stray tear and looks up, Yatogami is staring at him owlishly. It looks like he’s been struck by a rock.

“You’re a happy kid after all,” Yatogami says softly.

Takashi blinks, laughter all but forgotten. “What?”

“Nothing, just thinking out loud. I really don’t mind spending a few hours with you just to talk. Don’t worry so much about everything, Takashi.”

Yatogami keeps grinning at Takashi like he hasn’t just said the most confusing sentence Takashi has ever heard. It’s a weird thing to say. What does it mean?

Lost in thought and taken aback, Takashi remains silent long enough for Yatogami to consider it an invitation to continue talking.

“You found yourself a babysitter, now! Do you need me to walk you home? It’s not good for kids to stay outside after dark.”

It’s not totally dark yet but Takashi supposes that it is preferable he gets back home before dinnertime. He nods, slowly standing up and hoisting his backpack on his shoulder. He quickly looks around and notices that no one is paying attention to them, which makes relief wash over him. He really didn’t want an adult approaching him to ask him all kinds of uncomfortable questions.

Yatogami picks himself up as well, the earlier tension from his body a lot less visible in his movements. He stretches for a few seconds, then gestures towards the exit of the temple.

“Lead the way,” he says with a smile.

“The house is maybe a ten-minute walk away from here,” Takashi says thoughtfully. “So it will be fast.”

“I’ll be on the lookout for ayakashi and youkai.”

Takashi nods again, suddenly overwhelmed with both joy and embarrassment. Yatogami is truly taking his job as a babysitter seriously, even though Takashi only suggested it on a whim. He won’t admit it out loud, but walking in the familiar streets and passing by shops with someone next to him feels…warm. Takashi is feeling so happy to go home accompanied by a person who understands what he sees every day—he’s not the only one who follows with his eyes the little youkai mouse slipping by people’s shoes or who strains their ears to hear the singing of a masked bird atop a tree branch. This is a world that he can share.

But he doesn’t say anything. He simply walks, listening to Yatogami’s humming, imagining that this is probably what other children with older siblings get to experience. This is the closest thing Takashi will get, anyway, and he’s satisfied with it. He also doesn’t wish to push Yatogami for more answers, since he obviously prefers keeping some things to himself, despite his claim that he’ll answer any questions. Adults are strange like that.

“That’s a nice neighborhood,” Yatogami comments. “Full of trees and small little shops. I’ll probably try to get a job around here.”

“A real job?”

“Hey, my services are real jobs too! I meant leaving my number and searching for places that might need me.”

A pang of guilt twists Takashi’s stomach. “Ah, yes, of course. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, I told you to stop worrying over everything. You’re going to get even more nervous if you overthink every word you say!”

“It’s not that easy…”

“Yeah, but you’ll feel a lot better if you start saying the things you want to say.”

Takashi doesn’t reply. He’s made a habit of carefully selecting his words and thinking twice before speaking, since he’s not sure if what he sees is visible to others or not. Years of blurting out whatever came to mind, including asking if a youkai was a guest at the dinner table, are long behind him.

The gate of the apartment building is within sight. Yatogami seems to recognize it because he makes a noise of satisfaction.

“You’re home and in one piece!”

There is a small skip to Yatogami’s steps as he walks ahead. He then pushes on his feet and jumps to land right at the gate, which makes Takashi laugh at his antics.

“I suppose that I used up my remaining 5 yen?” Takashi asks.

“That’s right! Be sure to have 5-yen coins next time, alright?”

Takashi smiles. “Thank you so much, Yato-sama. I had fun spending time with you.”

Yatogami chuckles, like he can’t believe that someone would say that to him, but he puts two fingers on the side of his head and salutes.

“Always a pleasure to do business with you, Takashi! See you around!”

Yatogami shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket and walks away. Takashi watches him go until he turns a corner and disappears into the crowd.

So one day, he scribbles down the phone number he sees on walls and billboards on his way back from school, thinks that this Yato god must be fake but… but the phone number is tagged in large and ugly handwriting and nobody seems to notice it. People would have gossiped about vandalism if they could see it. So that means this is a real god, right? A god who is only visible to those who need help?

Takashi runs home to avoid encountering any monsters. He pushes the door open, throws his backpack on the ground and quickly surveys the apartment to make sure his guardians are still at work. Only silence greets him, which makes him sigh in relief. He retrieves the piece of paper from his pocket, ambles towards the house phone, and dials.

He feels like his hammering heart is going to crash through his ribcage. There is one ring, then another, and these are the most nerve-wracking three seconds of his life.

And finally, someone picks up.

“Hi, thank you for calling! Fast, cheap and reliable, delivery god Yato at your service!”

Takashi slowly moves the phone handset away from his ear, and blinks. He’s not sure what he expected but it is…not that.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

Takashi fumbles with the handset in his haste to reply. “Y-Yes, sorry. Thanks for answering my call.”

“Oh, a kid. What’s troubling you?”

“Um. I don’t know how to explain it.”

He hears something like a sigh on the other side. “Do you need help doing your homework? Did you lose something? Are you bullied at school?”

Takashi winces a little at the last suggestion, but this is not an issue he can’t resolve by himself, so he swallows and goes for it.

“I…I see monsters sometimes. They like scaring me and nobody believes me when I say they’re here. They all think I’m lying.”

Takashi nervously glances around the room, suddenly aware that any of the little monsters could have entered the apartment when he opened the door. He doesn’t hear or see anything hiding behind the couch, or flying over his head, so he’s probably safe for now.

Yatogami is quiet and doesn’t answer right away. Takashi’s heart drops to his stomach at the thought of a god not believing him either. Red-faced, his throat is getting dry and he feels panic rising in his body.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called,” he mumbles.

“No, no, kid, that’s alright,” Yatogami says hurriedly, and he tacks on a cheerful laugh at the end of his sentence. “You were right to call! So you’re telling me you can see ayakashi? Big colorful monsters with lots of eyes looking at you like you’re a feast?”

Takashi wracks his brain to find a monster similar to that description.

“I think I’ve seen small ones around on my way to school,” he says. “Like spiders? Or worms? But the monsters I usually see look like ghosts, or sometimes like people. They often wear traditional clothes or have masks.”

Takashi easily recognizes this type of monster (ayakashi?) because there is something unsettling about them—the one-eyed mask, the crooked fingers, the sinister smile. And they always specifically address him, even in a crowd. Then they follow him home and try to eat him.

The little colorful ayakashi don’t bother him as much, but he never expects to see them so close to other people or hiding in the cracks of the pavement, so that makes him anxious in a different way. What if they climbed on people and got into their homes?

“Hm… Well, you’re sensitive to both ayakashi and youkai, which is kind of rare,” Yatogami muses. “Do you mind if I come over to explain a few things? That will be easier than over the phone.”

Takashi startles at the request. “I-I’m not sure it’s a good idea… My uncle and my aunt are going to be home soon, and I’m not supposed to have guests over.”

“Don’t worry about that! They won’t be able to see me, and I can disappear just as fast as I appeared.”

And, probably to prove his point, someone materializes next to him. Takashi drops the phone and scrambles back against the wall, stupefied, while the man in front of him grins and lowers his cellphone.

“See? Divine teleportation!”

Yatogami is…a man no older than some of the cousins he sees at family dinners. He’s wearing a tracksuit. Takashi was imagining formal wear, like a kimono or at least a grown-up’s suit, so he’s completely taken aback by the ordinary person he’s seeing.

These blue eyes, however, are the most god-like feature on Yatogami—sharp, bright and all too knowing. Takashi feels pinned by that gaze, even though the rest of the god’s face is nothing but friendly.

“So, what’s your name, kid?”

Takashi does his best to refocus on the conversation, despite the odd feeling running the entire length of his body. Maybe being near a god naturally makes people uneasy.

“I’m Natsume Takashi,” he replies slowly. “Should I… Should I call you Yato-sama? You look so normal.”

Yatogami snorts. “Well, that’d be weird if ‘god’ was written on my forehead!”

“I mean, you’re wearing normal clothes…”

“They’re comfortable and perfect for the kind of jobs I do. And if you want to call me ‘Yato-sama’, go for it, Takashi!” The grin that splits Yatogami’s face in two looks genuine enough. “I’m a god after all, call me whatever you prefer.”

Takashi nods. “Yato-sama then.” It’d be rude if he doesn’t address a god with propriety, even if the god in question looks like he’s about to go on his morning run.

“I’m going to give you some advice, since you’re having trouble with ayakashi and youkai. Some people consider them the same thing, but in my experience ayakashi are less intelligent than youkai. Ayakashi are creatures that simply feed off people’s negative energy, while there are all sorts of youkai. You’ve probably seen many of them. Do you have paper and a pencil?”

Wordlessly, Takashi goes back to the front door to bring his backpack over. He reaches into it and retrieves the requested items (Takashi is giving Yatogami his math notebook, so he hopes there will be enough pages left for him to use at school). Yatogami takes them with a thanks and starts sketching on a blank page of the notebook with inhuman speed. He shows the results to a surprised Takashi.

“I’ve seen that one,” Takashi blurts out, pointing to a one-eyed, round body. “And the kappa. And some others that look a bit like what you drew.” He meets Yatogami’s eyes. “You’re very good at drawing.”

“One of my many hidden talents.” Yatogami winks. “What I’ve drawn are youkai. Most of them are capable of speech but they have varying degrees of intelligence. You should ignore them if they start talking to you, and if they’re really persistent, run to a temple. They don’t like their sacred grounds. Ayakashi will also leave you alone if you go to a temple, but you don’t have to worry about them as long as you don’t have strong negative emotions.”

Takashi frowns. “You said that… ayakashi like negative emotions? Like anger?”

“Anger, sadness, frustration, guilt, all sorts of things that humans don’t like feeling. So you’d better keep yourself in check, especially since you can see them.” Yatogami draws more figures on the paper, and this time the drawings only depict strange shapes with many eyes on their bodies. “They look kind of gross, right?”

Takashi gives a tiny nod. He doesn’t remember seeing huge creatures resembling the drawings, but maybe he just wasn’t paying attention. The small ones probably think they’re discreet enough to pass through the cracks and get closer to humans without them noticing.

“Thank you for telling me what these monsters are,” Takashi says, bowing his head. “I can’t talk about it with anyone, so I’m really glad you don’t think I’m a liar.”

Yatogami stills his hand, and his gaze settles on Takashi. There is…a dangerous glint in these blue, blue eyes.

“Humans are so frustrating to understand,” Yatogami sighs, shaking his head. “You’re just a kid, so you’ll grow up and become someone different. Surround yourself with people who like you for you.”

It’s easier said than done. All the friends Takashi tried to make eventually left him because they found him weird and scary—but he’s not going to tell that to Yatogami, who is only trying to help.

Yatogami sets the notebook and the pencil on the dining table, and with his back to Takashi, he says, “I can’t teach you how to defend yourself from youkai and ayakashi, but you can call me whenever you’re in trouble, alright?” Then he whirls around, and his gigantic grin is back on his face. “That will only cost you 5 yen!”

Takashi blinks. “5 yen?”

“Yeah! I’m not going to steal from a kid. Give me a 5-yen coin every time you call me and that will do.”

This is the oddest payment Takashi has ever heard of. He didn't even think about payment in the first place; he saw the phone number, a promise to help for any kind of issue and the hope of living a better life. But Yatogami seems sincere and he isn't looking at Takashi like he's pulling his leg or going to withdraw his offer. There is a sort of reassuring presence that emanates from the god—the aura of someone who knows what they're doing.

Takashi, despite the weird encounter, likes Yatogami. He's only had one conversation with him but he already looks forward to their next meeting.

“I probably have some coins in my bag… I'm not sure I have 5-yen coins, so if I give you 10 yen, does it mean I'm paying you in advance?”

Yatogami shrugs. “I usually only accept 5 yen, but I can make an exception.”

Takashi digs into his school bag, in the inside pocket near the bottom. He only gets enough money from his aunt and uncle to buy a snack every week or so, which means he should be really careful about storing it to avoid losing it. He pats around the pocket and finally fishes out a few small coins. There is no 5-yen coin, but like he suspected, he has a 10-yen coin.

“Here.” He hands the coin to Yatogami, who picks it up with a smile. “I don't know when I'll call you again, but I have your phone number written on a piece of paper so I won't forget it.”

Yatogami’s mouth quirks up, like he's resisting making a joke. He shakes his head, then flips the coin to toss it in the air and catches it in a swift motion.

“Thanks for the money. Be sure to call me back one day, because you'd be losing 5 yen if you don't!”

“It's only 5 yen,” Takashi says, puzzled.

“You have to start small to become rich, kid.” Yatogami looks around, stares at the front door a little longer than necessary, then says, “Well, I have to go now. Avoid trouble when you can, call me when you want me to deal with whatever problem you have! See you, Takashi!”

“Ah, uh, goodbye, Yato-sama!”

Right as Takashi’s words leave his mouth, Yatogami vanishes in a dance of light and the front door opens.

“Oh Takashi, you're already home?”

Takashi jumps towards the table to take Yatogami's drawings and stuff them into his bag. His aunt doesn't seem interested in what he's doing and simply heads towards the kitchen. She is humming a song that often gets broadcast on the radio, and Takashi hears some rustling from plastic bags. She is probably going to start on dinner, which means he should go back to his room and do his homework.

Takashi stuffs back Yatogami’s phone number in his pocket and lugs his backpack to his room. He should put the piece of paper somewhere that will be easy to reach—maybe in the pockets of his coat, or in the front pocket of his backpack. If he’s not at home, he can use a payphone to call. He should actually write the phone number on multiple pieces of paper, in case he loses one of them. And leave one under his pillow. That way, he’ll be able to call Yatogami whenever he needs to.

You rub your eyes, mindful of the traces of dried blood on your hands. It’s exhausting. You don’t have a lot of opportunities left—and you can’t stop, not now, when you’re starting to piece together parts of a puzzle that rules over your lives. Once it is completed, once you’ve grasped the knowledge it contains, you will be able to predict the future accurately. You will be able to protect him; so you won’t stop.

You inhale deeply, and clap your hands.

For a few seconds, as always, you are swallowed by darkness. The Passageway, you call it. The transition between the future and the past. You never asked Cheng Xiaoshi if it’s the same for him or not.

However, this time, the Passageway seems to keep you in its core longer than usual. Something’s wrong.

“And here you go again.”

You startle so hard you almost trip over your own feet, even though you’re not walking in that vast spread of emptiness. On your right, a silhouette is glowing.

“You fail, and you go back. Simple and easy.”

The light is blinding your eyes. You can’t make out who that person is, and how or why they’re here. Something deeply, deeply wrong is happening.

“How many times are you going to do that? Forever?”

“You don’t have forever.”

Another silhouette appears behind you. The void beneath your feet starts to look like a sea of black water. The cold that emanates from it slowly climbs up your body, and your heart is hammering in your chest like it wants to burst through your ribcage.

“What do you want?” you ask, clenching your fists. “What is the meaning of this?”

The silhouettes extend their right hand towards you, like one man. You swallow hard when you see a familiar watch on their wrists.

“Why is it you?” one of them says, voice blank. “It could be any of us.”

“You have jumped back so many times and you keep failing,” the other continues, in an angrier tone than the first one.

You take a step backward. The light surrounding the silhouettes is fading, and you’re face to face with grey eyes identical to yours. The Passageway never did this. It’s only a path.

“It’s not a path anymore,” one of them snickers. “It’s your punishment.”

“Because you take our place when you jump back. You kill us.”

A third figure materializes next to them, this one smirking and gloating and all wrong. You don’t look like that; you’re not cruel, you’re not as confident as him—

“We are all Lu Guang.” And here a fourth one claps a hand on your shoulder, looking at you like you are an insect under his shoe. “But you’re the only one who is allowed to spend time with Cheng Xiaoshi. Why? You aren’t better than us.”

“You’re the worst, I’d say. The most egotistical piece of shit I’ve seen in my life.”

Words die on your lips. You stare at each of them, each of these Lu Guang, and cannot comprehend what caused so much hatred to spill and overflow. They’re all—so artificial. You hardly recognize any of your traits in them, as if they are only wearing your skin and doing whatever they want with that face and that body. They’re looking at you like you are the one responsible for this madness.

Your lack of response seems to amuse them. They share a look between them, conveying a silent and mocking message.

“You didn’t know, did you?” Laughter resounds in the Passageway. “You thought we were all one and the same. But we’re not.”

“Just like how each Cheng Xiaoshi is different.”

“The moment you dive back in time, a Lu Guang dies.”

A horrible snap makes you jerk your head towards the sound, and you violently spring back at the sight of a distorted neck, bent at a sickening angle while that Lu Guang’s face remains impassive. He keeps staring at you—and his eyes devoid of emotions seem to judge you.

You can’t bear that gaze on you, lifeless and unseeing and haunting, so you turn your back on it, but then you’re greeted with an open wound that’s oozing with blood that nearly splashes you in the face. Your entire body freezes up, while your eyes follow the neverending crimson liquid going down, from perforated chest to twisted feet, painting the entire area in red. When you manage to lift your eyes to look at this Lu Guang, he opens his mouth and more blood pours out. He doesn’t even choke on it. He attempts a crooked smile—his teeth are red.

Someone has snaked a hand around your heart and is tugging with such vengeful strength that you can’t breathe properly. This must be a nightmare. Something that your mind made up because of the guilt you’re carrying. It can’t be right.

“I thought…” you begin, your throat dry, “I thought I possessed myself. That I took your place in the past, in your body.”

A bark of laughter. “That’s a comfortable thought, right? It’s the easy solution. Diving back in time through a picture would make you think that.”

“But you can’t truly make us believe you didn’t find it strange that you always managed to land right where you wanted to. If you possessed the body, you’d wake up holding a camera or a phone.”

“See, that’s why you’re the worst. You don’t think through. So you keep failing.”

They sneer and laugh at you, shaking their head like they would to a misbehaving child, uncaring of the blood that streaks down their temples or of the increasing stuffy air that makes your head pound. Your chest is heavy and not enough oxygen is being pumped to make you breathe.

“Stop saying that I keep failing!” you yell, frustrated and terrified and lost. “I’m close to finding a way to keep Cheng Xiaoshi alive!”

“At what cost, Lu Guang?”

A new figure is standing in front of you. Half of his face is burned, leaving only a mess of tissue and awful, angry marks that travel down to his collarbone, like the roots of a tree. One of his arms is missing—the right one, the arm where the watch is supposed to be. You have no idea what to do in the face of these…these versions of yourself that die in terrible circumstances.

“So many of us died. If Cheng Xiaoshi is destined to leave the world before us, no matter what you do, then you have sacrificed countless timelines to save a single one.”

“A single timeline that isn’t bound to happen. Maybe one of the other Lu Guang would have found a solution faster, but we’ll never know.”

You feel sick. You feel like your stomach is going to crawl up your body and get ejected through your mouth. You shake your head and look down at the black water turned scarlet. A head rolls and stops at your feet.

You recoil in horror and jerkily lift a hand to cover your mouth, and it takes all your willpower not to throw up right here and there. They can’t all have had atrocious deaths, can they? Why is it a necessary sacrifice for you to dive back in time?

This is insane. This is not real. Their wide, wide smiles are fake. You don’t smile like that.

“I need to get out of here,” you whisper, trying to find an exit.

But there is only a void around you. A black void and these monsters. They move towards you like animals ready to pounce on their prey, but with each one of their steps, something gives. One Lu Guang suddenly crashes into the water as his left leg turns into dust, leaving him face down and gurgling; another has his face peeling off, like he’s shedding the skin; and the one who had a gash on his chest seems to gain more and more cuts the farther he moves forward. They don’t look human anymore.

“You only exist in my imagination,” you say firmly, ignoring the bile that’s rising in your throat.

“You love the lies that you tell yourself.”

Someone suddenly grabs you by the neck from behind and you choke, stumbling back until both you and your aggressor fall down. The water soaks your clothes and your hair, and the rank smell of it drives you into a coughing fit. You blindly reach for the hand still around your neck and rip it off. A snort is the only answer you get for that gesture, and when you turn around to face the newcomer, you narrow your eyes at his still untouched and healthy body.

“Tell me. What do you intend to do?” he asks, a lazy smile on his lips. “Relive the same events and see if you can pinpoint the exact moment it will go wrong?”

“He already tried that,” a blank voice says. “Many times.”

“That idea didn’t yield any good results.”

“Oh, so are you going to keep Cheng Xiaoshi locked up to make sure he doesn’t get into trouble?”

You bare your teeth at this insolent brat. He only spoke twice but this one might be the most insufferable.

“Shut up,” you snarl. “I’m not stupid. I know it won’t work.”

“But you thought about it!” he crows.

He’s showing his white teeth and his eyes are vibrant, like crazed. He is unsettling. You don’t like the shivers that run down your spine or the dreadful feeling that’s crawling in your body when you look at this person. He’s not you. He can’t be you. None of them are people you’d become.

The fact that this one remains alive and not mauled by injuries is...odd. Maybe he didn’t die a violent death.

You’re still half-sitting, half-kneeling into the water, and everyone around you is watching every single one of your moves. Their lifeless eyes and their mangled limbs are enough to keep you rooted in this filthy spot; you have the feeling that they’re going to be upon you the moment you stand up. Which is ridiculous, because they’re—you are—

No. You told yourself that you’re not them, and they’re not you. There is savagery in them that will never be your own.

The water is getting redder by the minute. The head that rolled at your feet is being picked up by its body, though it’s simply resting at the hip instead of getting screwed back on.

“But seriously, I want to hear your plan,” that annoying clone says, his voice dropping low. “You can’t get out of here if you don’t have a solid plan.”

“What’s it to you?” you ask, finally snapping under all that insanity. “I already said I was close to finding how to keep Cheng Xiaoshi alive. I know all the possible deaths that we can encounter. I know how to protect him, so get out of my way.”

White, white teeth. “Cheng Xiaoshi is ours.”

That Lu Guang surges forward in one leap and wraps his hands against your neck, and squeezes. You let out a strangled noise as you fall back into the water again, and briefly you think he has an issue with necks and throttling people because he attacked you twice with the same method. You widely flail around and find purchase on his forearms to scratch them while he keeps applying pressure on your throat, and none of the other Lu Guang are lifting a finger to stop whatever fuckery is going on.

“Time’s up, Lu Guang. It’s the last chance. You can’t fail. We can’t fail.”

You feel yourself suffocating, desperately trying to make air enter your body. The water is sloshing around you, and through your teary eyes you see all these clones make a circle around the both of you, like judges. Executioners.

You won’t die here. Not when you’re this close to saving Cheng Xiaoshi.

With prodigious effort you knee Lu Guang in the stomach and slap his hands away. You take one precious second to painfully cough and inhale much needed air, before throwing yourself onto your opponent with the same kind of ferocity. You both roll into the water like two petty, immature children. Your ears are ringing and there’s something like haze in front of your eyes. You lock his legs with your own and you decide, in a moment of wild rage, to return the favor.

He doesn’t make a sound. The skin around his neck is turning purple and his eyes are bulging out, but he stays silent. Only his mouth is moving, to quirk up like this is some sort of joke to him, like he’s not slowly giving up his life to someone he tried to kill minutes prior. You push and squeeze and crush with all your strength, making your hands tense and your thumbs hurt. Your entire arms and your shoulders are starting to ache from the force you put into squeezing, squeezing, squeezing, but you don’t care because he’s finally not using his voice to spout bullshit that didn’t merit being out of his mouth.

His breathing has totally stopped. You feel your own coming in short, ragged puffs.

Silence.

“Congratulations.”

You blink. You slightly tilt your head, look at their scarred and emotionless faces. They’re staring at you.

Your heartbeat is still pounding in your skull when you look back down. The throat under your fingers is also staring at you. You can’t find the strength to withdraw your hands from that ugly, angry, grisly purple mark. You’ve done this.

“You’ve bought your entry into your new chance.”

Very, very slowly, you remove your hands from that neck. They’re still rigid, and the thought of moving your fingers sounds painful. You sit back on your heels, let your arms fall alongside your hips, and you lift your head to gaze at the endless void above your head. The body under your legs doesn’t even twitch. You don’t hear any ringing in your ears anymore. The complete silence that overtakes the Passageway is almost worse than the constant noise that was buzzing in your mind.

It’s over.

Your attention shifts to one mutilated arm pointing towards a pool of light. He’s only missing an eye, apart from his ruined arm that will probably fall into pieces any minute. More hands and chunks of arms gesture towards what is most likely the exit, in a weird and incomprehensible need to get rid of you.

“You’ve fed your sin. Get your reward.”

The water is turning black again. Blood has been spilled, death has claimed one of them. The price has been paid.

Your legs are as heavy as lead when you pick yourself up. Their shaking threatens to make you collapse with every step you take, but you won’t let them have the satisfaction of seeing you in a pathetic light once more. You keep going. You don’t look back, not at any of them, not at the corpse soaking in the darkness of the Passageway.

It’s only when you go through that light that your hands start trembling, as if it was one last parting gift from that nightmare. Your clothes are miraculously clean and devoid of the blood water whose smell is still clogging your nose. Having any kind of thoughts or making a plan right now slips in the realm of the impossible.

You don’t have to think about what to do, though.

A basketball rolls at your feet.

A blinding smile is aimed at you.

When you blink, your heart swells.

Qiao Ling just woke up and ran out the door in her slippers to rush down the street to the photo studio. She's putting on her jacket with one hand while the other is furiously, clumsily trying to hit the call button on her phone.

She tries once. Twice. It rings, and rings, and rings. She calls again. It rings, and rings.

One of her slippers gets caught on something and she nearly trips. She keeps running. Her jacket is still half draped on her shoulders and her phone is still ringing. Her legs are burning. Someone bumps into her but she doesn't even register it.

She feels like the oxygen has been sucked out of her body and she's left with poisoned air that is slowly killing her. When her feet screech to a halt and almost make her fall over again, she doesn't have the ability to think through the blood pounding against her skull.

There are cars parked on the road and policemen standing at the entrance of the studio. It doesn't feel real.

"Miss, you shouldn't stay here," someone says, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Qiao Ling keeps her eyes focused on the window of the studio. There is blood on it, on the other side, like someone purposefully smeared it across the glass.

"Please, this place needs to be investigated. You have to leave." There is a pause, and the hand on her shoulder vanishes. "Do you need help getting home?"

Qiao Ling swallows. Her throat is on fire, but the rest of her body is freezing, even though she ran the entire way here, even though she made sure to take a jacket. She doesn't remember whether the jacket is still on her shoulders or not.

Her phone keeps vibrating in her hand with incessant messages. No one is calling back.

"My… my brother lives here," she manages to articulate. "He isn't answering my calls."

The man doesn’t immediately reply. Qiao Ling watches two people enter the studio. One of them exits just as quickly and gives some orders to a third person, pointing to the various shops lined up on both sides of the studio. Right, investigation. They need to investigate and find out what happened.

“What is the name of your brother?”

Qiao Ling finally, slowly, turns her head to look at the policeman who has been talking to her this entire time. He looks young—his eyes are huge and his hair is a little unkempt, like he didn’t take the time to comb it this morning. Maybe too young to be on the field and to investigate this.

“Cheng Xiaoshi,” Qiao Ling says, but the syllables sound wrong; like sand and ash and dust.

She saw him just yesterday morning. Called his name, dropped a few pictures to look into, and texted him again in the afternoon. She texted him only once—perhaps she should have texted him more? Perhaps she could have obtained some information if she had been more present yesterday.

“This is indeed the name of the young man we found inside,” the policeman says, bowing his head. “I am terribly sorry, miss.”

He’s assuming she already knows what occurred. Why does he assume that she came here with the sole purpose of finding… finding a…

Qiao Ling slams her hands on either side of her head, and grips her hair. No. There is a mistake. Cheng Xiaoshi isn’t answering her calls because he’s still asleep, because he’s lazy, because the sun is barely up and he has never accompanied her in her morning runs. Cheng Xiaoshi probably got injured while cooking and the blood—

“There shouldn’t be blood on the window,” she chokes out, tugging harder at her hair. “The kitchen is in the back.”

She needs to see for herself. What the studio looks like inside. There is blood on the window and the curtains upstairs aren’t drawn, which is something that Lu Guang would never forget to do before going to sleep—

Qiao Ling surges forward and grabs the man’s arm, making him stagger in surprise.

“Lu Guang! Where is Lu Guang?”

The man blinks and stares at her. “There was no one else. Only… your brother’s body.”

Qiao Ling rips herself from the policeman and unlocks her phone (fifteen messages, twenty-two notifications—). She can’t see the screen clearly. Her fingers are cold and shaking so badly that she misses twice before hitting the right contact name. She brings up her phone against her ear, and listens for the ringing to start.

The call never connects.

It abruptly stops and she looks back at her screen, staring at Lu Guang’s icon. Why isn’t he answering either?

She tries again. The call doesn’t connect.

A strangled cry passes through her lips as she tries again, a call to Lu Guang that doesn’t reach its recipient, a call to Cheng Xiaoshi that keeps ringing and ringing, a call to the groupchat the three of them have created, but nobody picks up.

Qiao Ling cradles the phone to her chest as she sinks to the ground. They left her.

Cheng Xiaoshi died. Lu Guang disappeared.

Squall glances at their group of friends gathered around a fire, loudly telling stories or reenacting some epic battle that happened either in their world or in popular books. Squall’s not sure that blocking a weapon with bare hands can actually happen in real life.

“You got tired of the noise?” Squall asks instead of answering Hope’s question.

Hope turns his head to look at him, and the smile that settles on his face makes him look a lot older than his current body suggests. That will never stop being odd to see.

“I’m happy that everyone is getting along. But I guess I’m not used to so much liveliness around me anymore.”

… What a thing to say, in such a calm tone, when a few days ago Hope was happily mingling with the other kids.

“Some of my friends can’t stop talking, so I’m never passing up the opportunity to get some quiet,” Squall says, shrugging. “I don’t like constant buzzing around me.”

This is a choice Squall made, though; distancing himself from other people and only keeping for company the slashes of his gunblade. It’s simpler that way. Having friends with all sorts of personalities is more exhausting than he imagined.

Hope nods, always keeping that little smile. “Do you mind if I join you during these moments of quiet and peace, sometimes? I love hearing about our allies’ journeys and the adventures they went on, but I think that my mind is still adjusting after getting back my memories.” He looks down, tracing some patterns on the ground with his finger. “I need to put some order in it.”

Hope speaks more clearly, saying each word with intention like he’s carefully chosen them. He seems to be a natural at making those around him see and hear exactly what he wants. He doesn’t speak loudly, but his words have weight. No one doubts him.

Squall only noticed because he’s acting the same. He also prefers thinking his full sentences first before saying them out loud, though the difference is that a few people have no qualms calling him out when he’s taking too long turning a sentence over and over in his head. When he looks at Hope, he sees the earnest boy he’s met not too long ago, but these green eyes are glinting with a maturity he’s not sure many warriors possess.

“It’s okay if you prefer being alone, I just thought that maybe having someone by your side will prevent other people from coming and bothering you.” Hope glances at him, his lips stretching into a grin, more carefree and a little mischievous, like the one Squall often sees on Selphie.

“...I don’t mind. Don’t expect me to hold an exciting conversation, though.”

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t be sitting with you if I wanted to talk for hours.”

Squall’s eyebrow twitches, as he’s pretty sure this is a jab at him and his social skills, but Hope’s relaxed posture indicates that he’s only teasing. Well. He’s not the first one to say something along those lines.

“I can’t imagine Vanille or Snow not talking at you,” Squall says.

Very quickly, Hope’s composure breaks before he remembers himself and schools his features back into neutrality. Something unpleasant curls into Squall’s stomach as he realizes he touched on a sensitive subject.

“They would, wouldn’t they?” Hope chuckles. “Vanille has an endless list of conversation topics and Snow simply doesn’t know when to leave someone alone.”

If Snow sticks to someone like glue, and Vanille spreads joy like she breathes, then surely Hope would still be used to never ending chatting around him. Squall doesn’t point out the incoherence in Hope’s words. From the hints he dropped, maybe unconsciously, Hope’s future doesn’t sound full of happiness and little victories, even if Serah and Noel seem perfectly fine with the future they’re living in.

Something is bothering the Hope from the future, but Squall doesn’t know him well enough to prod and get answers out of him.

“They’re still the same, then,” he offers instead.

Hope shifts his gaze back at the sky, and extends a hand towards it. Maybe with the tip of his fingers, he’s touching a star.

“Yes, they haven’t changed, even after all these years. Time is different for everyone.”

“...Some people grow up and others don’t.”

Hope laughs.

This feeling of wrongness is an oddity that is shared among many of the Emblems, even Marth, who has arguably been around far longer than any of them. Engaging with someone develops a bond that cannot be replicated easily with the next person who decides to use the ring’s power. But an unbreakable bond is just as dangerous as a weak bond—some stories tell the tale of warriors and Emblems who lost themselves when their partner fell in battle.

Roy knows that. Some tools are only meant to be tools, but the human nature is to love. He can’t think of anyone deliberately trying to avoid becoming friends with the person they’re engaged with. It is also difficult to fight in an army without caring about the people that constitute it. For an Emblem, ignoring their warrior’s feelings and resolve is a tall task; they become one.

Which is why Roy is keenly aware of Diamant’s heart hammering against his ribcage like it wants a way out whenever he brings out the Binding Blade to set a part of the battlefield ablaze. Roy wouldn’t call it nausea, but it’s a near thing—Diamant is doing his best to remain calm and to direct his attack at the exact location it is needed, but the effort that is required looks far too taxing to be healthy.

“The path is secured!”

Diamant wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and grimaces when the metal of his gauntlet scrapes his skin. There’s only the slightest frown on his face when he looks at his gauntlet and sees that no blood was drawn. He sighs, takes a slow breath, and readjusts his grip on the Binding Blade. His fingers are firm around the sword, but the uneasiness never leaves. Roy should make Diamant disengage for him to regain his composure, but they’re in the middle of the battlefield and a new wave of enemies is rushing them.

So Roy keeps quiet and watches, as Diamant calls forth the fire of the Binding Blade while flinching away from it.

Roy, since he can’t exactly fidget when he’s incorporeal and not touching ground, hovers. Micaiah waves her staff and the bright green light closes most of the cuts on Diamant’s arms and face. She smiles at him and floats away to heal the next person. Diamant lets out a sigh, stares at his left arm for a moment, then pulls down his sleeve.

“What happened to your arm?” Roy asks before he changes his mind.

He’s seen the dark mark running across Diamant’s skin. On hot days, he’s seen the way Diamant purposely rolls up the sleeve of his left forearm just enough to avoid exposing the mark, while the right sleeve goes all the way to his elbow. This is a scar that Diamant isn’t proud of.

Diamant glances at Roy, his face not showing any kind of surprise, though his eyes shine with a glint of resignation—and Roy frowns at the sight.

“Sorry, if you don’t want to answer that’s totally fine,” Roy says. “The… bruise caught my attention a few times before and I got curious.”

He didn’t mean to be so blunt in his question, but if he waited any longer, he would never ask.

“I suppose it’d be impossible to hide anything from an Emblem who has lived with us for so long,” Diamant says, smiling.

Roy’s lips tug upwards at Diamant’s casual tone, but his stomach twists into knots. Even if Brodia’s royal family has protected Roy’s ring for decades, Roy doesn’t personally know them. He recognizes them through their aura, he can sense the purpose that runs deep in their blood, but he has started to get to know them only these past few months.

Getting to know someone and fully trusting them takes a long time. However, Roy won’t deny that a special bond is keeping them together, like they are truly destined to fight alongside each other.

“You know that as an Emblem, I can feel what you are feeling when you use my ring,” Roy tells Diamant. “So. It seems that you’re not entirely comfortable. Uh.”

Roy falters, bringing up a hand to rub the back of his neck. Now that he’s actually broached the subject, the words are failing him and he thinks that it might not have been the wisest decision. Diamant clearly doesn’t want people to notice the scar on his arm for some reason, and Roy, even as his partner in battle, can’t just demand an explanation.

The knots in his stomach transform into a heavy weight as he realizes that even though their bond is steady and strong, if Diamant is always on the verge of passing out when he’s using the Binding Blade, then maybe they’re not that compatible after all.

“What I’m trying to say is that… you look more bothered about your arm when you’re wielding my weapons. Specifically the Binding Blade, so maybe don’t force yourself to use it…?”

"Roy.” Diamant lifts up a hand and that effectively makes Roy stop rambling. “You don’t have to worry so much. I’m not angry or upset you asked that question.”

Diamant cradles his arm closer to his torso, like he is trying to protect it a little while longer. That doesn’t make Roy feel any better.

“I think I’m simply self-conscious about this injury,” Diamant continues. “I’ve had it for a long time now, but it is evidence that I’m not as flawless as people think me to be.”

“Is that… truly a bad thing?” Roy asks, frowning.

Diamant sighs. “I suppose not. But most days, it is difficult to remember that those close to me won’t think any less of me because of one injury that I sustained years ago.”

Diamant tries too hard to act and stand like the formidable, unwavering prince who does nothing but train to protect his kingdom. These are qualities that befit princes, without a doubt, but the pressure he’s putting on himself is going to crush him one day. Roy would know.

When Roy looks at Diamant, he sees a friend before a prince, but people have often told him that his dislike for rank doesn’t necessarily reflect well on everyone—some nobles think him impertinent, commoners find him out of touch with reality. He and Diamant aren’t as close as he’d like them to be; sharing a similar status is clearly not synonymous with sharing the same values and priorities. Roy isn’t sure how his words would help Diamant, a man who has built around himself a barrier of forced self-confidence.

“I know soldiers who are proud to show off their scars,” Roy offers instead.

“A lot of warriors in Brodia are the same,” Diamant answers. “I’m not ashamed of my scar, but every day I am reminded of my weakness.”

“You’re not weak.” Roy’s reply flies out of his mouth before he can even think it.

Diamant casts him a small smile, certainly to show he appreciates the comment but he’s not believing it yet. He extends his arm, then slowly unclasps hi armbrace one belt at a time before rolling up the sleeve of his shirt.

The scar is no bigger than the width of a small dagger, located right in the middle of Diamant’s forearm. The passing of time made it dark red, almost brown. It’s obvious healers concentrated their efforts on treating it, but the attack must have been of incredible force if it left such a mark even years later.

Roy glances at Diamant, looks at the scar, then at Diamant again. He’s seen this kind of mark before, during his battles against dragons.

“Did someone burn you?”

“No, not exactly,” Diamant says, looking down at his arm, and Roy feels a weight lift off his chest. “It was an accident. When I was younger, I was training with fire magic and got careless.” Diamant looks back at Roy. “Ever since I got that injury, I’ve been afraid of magic, and specifically of fire magic. It sounds kind of silly when I tell you that, right?”

“From the looks of it, it was a very powerful spell. Dragon fire leaves similar marks if it’s not treated properly, and getting injured is never a good memory.”

It was hard at first to understand how dragon magic worked and how to efficiently heal the burns, which resulted in many soldiers going home with scars. Roy wishes that they could have done more for these soldiers.

“Is that why you’re hiding the scar? The memory of the accident must have been terrible.”

“It’s not entirely because of the memory itself. I’m… truly afraid of fire magic. I’m not exaggerating when I say this is my weakness.”

A hot wave of determination overwhelms Roy in a snap, and he takes a step forward, gesturing wildly at Diamant’s arm.

“You can’t say that, Diamant. You say you’re afraid of magic but you’re still fighting in the war and holding your own against mages! I’m not calling that weak.”

He’s spent so long being attuned to Diamant’s feelings during battle—his desire to protect, his quick thinking when in a tough spot, his ability to always summon the right weapon at the right moment. Roy remembers most of his past wielders, who were always invigorated with the knowledge of being able to use a fire-based sword. Just like Diamant, they were all courageous and headstrong in their own way; they all went to the front lines with the reassurance they were accompanied by an Emblem.

This is Roy’s role. He’s an Emblem giving strength to his wielders and turning the tide of a battle, but he is first and foremost a support for these warriors.

“If anything, if you’re always afraid when you’re using the Binding Blade but still succeed in winning a battle, then you’re one of the bravest people I’ve met.”

Diamant is staring at him with disbelief, mouth hanging open. It’s not fitting of a prince at all. If Roy still had a corporeal body, he’d be shaking Diamant’s shoulders with both hands and try to physically shove those words into his skull. Roy himself has been called stubborn and blind to his own behavior, and without the help of his companions, he’d still be an awkward ball of nerves unable to stand his ground.

“I hope you know how much strength it takes to fight while scared,” Roy finishes in a low voice.

Just as it suddenly overtook him, the burst of energy vanishes right as the last word leaves Roy’s lips.

Silence falls between them, stretching long enough for it to become uneasy. But Roy doesn’t regret his words nor does he wish this conversation turned out differently. He crosses his arms over his chest, attempting to hide his urge to fidget under that tense atmosphere. Even after a year of working on his body language, controlling his nervous habits remains the most difficulty task.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Diamant lowers his arm and directs his eyes at the scar instead. His face doesn’t betray much; he seems to have retreated into his own mind.

“That injury will most likely never properly heal,” Diamant remarks, pensive. “I’ll bear it all my life.”

“It is most likely, yes,” Roy replies, thinking about the scars that Dieck and Garret can’t hide and have accepted as part of themselves.

“I try to be the perfect prince that Brodia needs. I’ve always thought that if people saw this scar, they would think I wasn’t worthy of the title of heir because I had a clear disadvantage against mages. Brodia is a kingdom of hardened warriors, after all.”

Then Diamant lifts his eyes, and something much more appeased settles on his face.

“But no warrior is infallible.”

Roy grins. “That’s right. And no heir is alone in their journey to become the ruler they want to be. Asking for help isn’t a weakness either.”

“I suppose an Emblem would know that better than anyone else.”

“The others also faced similar struggles, talking to them would be very insightful. I learned a lot from them.”

Even before getting acquainted with a younger Aunt Lyn, Roy befriended Marth and Ike; two heroes whose legends apparently crossed time and dimensions. They might not have led the same kind of campaign or lived the same experiences, but from one general to another, they had many pointers and ideas to exchange—and Roy is always eager to learn more about battle tactics. He’s had longer discussions about doing what is right and how to rebuild a nation with Lucina, though. And Micaiah knows a thing or two about different peoples learning to coexist.

Diamant nods, and he rolls his sleeve back down to cover his arm.

“I’ll probably talk to Alcryst first, if the opportunity arises. He’s always saying he’s weaker than me and is nowhere near my level. He’s wrong, of course.”

Alcryst could also use a pep talk, Roy thinks.

“Alcryst will be surprised to learn his brother isn’t as indestructible as he imagines, but not in a bad way,” Roy says, then pauses. Backtracks immediately. “I mean, it’s not good you’re not indestructible! But you’re not a superhuman, that’s what I want to say!”

“I know what you mean,” Diamant laughs.

There’s no doubt Diamant never imagined that Brodia’s precious ring would house someone who still stumbles over his words. Roy groans.

“You see, I might have been the general of my country’s army, but I can’t even hold a conversation without making a fool of myself.”

“Well, I’d say the majority of the conversations I’ve had with you were reasonable,” Diamant indicates with a hint of teasing.

“Speaking in clear sentences is still something I’m working on…”

“Then let’s do our best, shall we? You’re working on your speech, I’m working on my fear of fire magic. We can achieve our respective goal together.”

It’s always reassuring, in a way, to see that rulers weren’t born perfect—all of them had to struggle and to work hard to erase as many of their visible flaws as possible, without stripping themselves of their humanity.

Roy lifts a hand and summons the Binding Blade in a flash of light. Diamant blinks at it.

“I’ll teach you how to protect yourself from the fire of the sword and how to face fire attacks,” Roy says. “It won’t be as thorough a training as the ones you’re used to, but I hope it will help.”

The corner of Diamant’s lips curls upwards. He extends his hand, palm up, and Roy deposits the Binding Blade on it. The sword takes on brighter colors upon the contact.

“I’d be honored to have you as a teacher, Roy.”

“And in exchange you can give me some tips about speaking with absolute confidence.”

“That sounds like a honest deal.”

Your hands are those of a warrior who learned swordsmanship to become a soldier, but also to be a noble, to be the figurehead who leads a nation and inspires courage and determination. Your strong fingers look like Wolt’s, but in their essence, they’re like Lilina’s. A soldier and a noble. It doesn’t bother you. You know what you’re capable of, you know what people expect from you, even if it’s not necessarily what you want for yourself.

You lift your head and stare at your reflection in the mirror, showing you unkempt hair and a stained headband, lips pinched and nose wrinkled. You close your eyes and breathe in deeply, invoking the image of you that you have to appear as in front of armies and the people. Steadfast, confident, flawless both physically and mentally, close to everyone but also distancing yourself enough from prying eyes. Your father has taught you how to give just enough to arouse curiosity while dismissing audacious rumors at the same time. Marcus has taught you how to stand like a fearless leader, who doesn’t even waver before his comrades’ death.

This is a cruel world, with cruel methods and cruel appearances. It is one that you’ll rebuild from the grounds up and protect.

You flex your fingers, and cover your ears. They’re pointy.

Your eyelids flutter open and you glance at the mirror, and the blue in your eyes is mottled with an unusual carmine.

You sigh, squeeze your eyes shut again, and try to summon all the deities willing to listen to help you. You don’t know how to handle such a situation. You don’t know how to accept it without giving in to panic; panic isn’t a response you’re allowed to default to.

You’ve known for a while, now, but without frequent, visible signs to support that knowledge you weren’t worried.

You’re twenty years old, your father has stepped down after his degrading health stopped him from continuing his role as ruler of Pherae, and you’re about to sit on the throne, like the hero of Lycia that you are. But before the hero of Lycia comes the Marquess of Pherae. Marcus didn’t express any concerns. Sir Lowen, Sir Merlinus, Aunt Rebecca, Uncle Wil, they all proclaimed you will do a fantastic job as Marquess and the people will love you, because they already love the boy who led the Lycian Army to victory.

They weren’t worried.

They all told you the people had loved Lady Ninian.

You’re not sure that the people knew her secret, which became yours.

Can you truly show your face before the people you have to cherish and protect with your current form, that they probably won’t understand? Idunn went to Arcadia without a word like a shadow, accompanied by Sophia and Fae. They disappeared like ghosts. There’s no doubt a lot of people have nothing but disdain for the creatures that destroyed the world. Pherae won’t understand. They can’t understand.

You blink, and suddenly the red in your eyes vanishes to leave in its stead the familiar blue. Your fingers feel around but your ears aren’t strangely shaped anymore. Your blood is no more boiling with aggressiveness, almost alive in its desire to expel all that energy.

It has been a few months since these transformations started, tangible enough to raise questions, but still discreet enough that they don’t cause uneasiness. Details that would go unnoticed if no one was paying attention. Lilina, Wolt, your father and your close ones know about them; you can’t hide what’s happening to you from them and you desperately need their support—you can’t head into the unknown alone. But this is a part of yourself that Pherae’s people won’t discover. Not yet.

They’ve loved Lady Ninian, for her role and her kindness and her generosity, but they’ve only loved what they could see. You don’t want to run the risk of making a nation collapse, when you and your friends shielded it from the evil of the world.

You are Elroy, Marquess Pherae, General Roy of the old Lycian Army, Hero of Lycia, bearer of the Ice Dragons’ legacy.

Three of the top agencies usually don’t work together on small cases, but the world is changing and their generation of heroes is bringing shifts in the heroic scene, so Izuku has learned to take everything in stride and to fill his notebooks at twice the speed he normally does.

They’re sitting in a loose circle, behind a building that is probably blasting not-very-pleasant-and-too-hot air at their faces from the heating system. They’re down to only two water bottles and Todoroki seems to have forgotten that small detail, given the speed with which he’s emptying one of them.

“Hey asshole, give me that,” Kacchan grunts at him, extending his hand expectantly.

Izuku briefly glances down at the still unopened water bottle in his own hands, in plain sight, and remains silent. He watches Kacchan’s impatient fingers making grabby motions while Todoroki slowly lowers the bottle from his lips to stare at Kacchan. Something seems to pass between them. Izuku can see it in the way Kacchan narrows his eyes and in the slight pout on Todoroki’s face.

“C’mon.”

Todoroki sighs and throws the bottle at Kacchan, who catches it easily. Kacchan, without breaking eye contact with Todoroki in some sort of staring contest, uncaps the bottle, brings it to his mouth, and gulps down the remaining water in one go. He raises an eyebrow. Todoroki keeps staring, though he looks a little bit awestruck.

Izuku grips his water bottle tighter, and wonders if they forgot he was here.

***

“You,” Kacchan growls, literally growls like an angry wolf ready to pounce, “are the pettiest motherfucker alive.”

Flinging the door open like he owns the place wasn’t enough. Kacchan marches into the office with clear murder intents, a snarl on his face and sparks in his palms, and makes an effort to stomp on the ground with his boots in a poor imitation of last week’s villain that turned into Godzilla.

To his credit, Todoroki doesn’t even blink, turn around, or acknowledge Kacchan’s presence hot on his heels as he heads directly to Izuku’s desk.

“Uh,” Izuku says, his chopsticks and the piece of pork pinched between them frozen in place mid-air.

Izuku stares at his two friends invading his office space during lunch, acting like there was a private appointment between the two involving not notifying Izuku. Todoroki stops in front of the desk and picks up a random sheet of paper, scanning its content in his desire to ignore Kacchan—which would have worked for maybe a minute if it wasn’t a note from Edgeshot telling Izuku that there is a special program on TV tonight recounting All Might's Silver Age prowess. Kacchan is two seconds away from blowing up the entire office. Izuku puts down his chopsticks.

“Uh,” Izuku repeats, sensing that great danger will befall if he asks any questions.

“What the fuck are you eating?” Kacchan asks, his nose scrunching up in disgust.

“Tonkotsu ramen?”

“From fucking FamilyMart?”

“Yes?”

“It looks like shit. What, Edgeshot not paying you enough to go buy an actual meal?”

“Don’t tell me you never buy convenient store lunch when you’re in a rush, because that would be a lie. And convenient store food is good!”

“I agree with Midoriya,” Todoroki pipes up.

“Oh so now you talk to me?”

Izuku is pretty sure he isn’t supposed to witness whatever ongoing fight Todoroki and Kacchan have. He tries to make himself as small as possible behind his desk and his bowl of ramen, going as far as grabbing a file among his mountain of documents, pretending he immediately needs to take notice of the content within it. These documents are a bit too close to his lunch to his comfort—well, not exactly, they are too close to anything that might cause damage when someone other than Izuku is handling them. If he’s not careful, Todoroki could knock over Izuku’s ramen, resulting in documents drenched in soup and in Izuku losing his lunch.

Izuku stealthily brings his bowl closer to him with one hand, the other hand still gripping the file while his eyes scan the title and what is essentially a summary of small misfits that happened in the neighborhood for the past two weeks. Unfortunately, Shouto’s and Dynamight’s names come up in the report as backup.

“Midoriya, aren’t you going to finish eating?” Todoroki asks lightly.

“You’re going back to ignoring me?!”

“Ramen should be eaten when they’re really hot, I think your soup is already too cold. Do you want me to warm it up?”

“Deku, tell that dipshit his brain cells won’t survive another minute of this shitshow because he’s barely a functional human being on most days, so being petty reduces his chances of survival.”

“We should get lunch together next time we’re assigned to the same case.”

Izuku drops the file on his lap and casts a quick glance at the ceiling, gathering his energy to remain serene—though for half a second he wonders why he decided to inflict this pain on himself. He should have helped Uraraka and the others sort the Todoroki-Kacchan mess during their U.A. days. This is truly agony on so many different levels.

He looks first at Todoroki’s ever impassive face, then at Kacchan’s furious expression.

“Do you guys really think we’ll be able to work together on this file when you’re fighting like… this?” he asks. “I mean, I don’t know why you’re fighting, but shouldn’t you… make peace first?”

“No,” Todoroki immediately answers, brows furrowed like this is the stupidest idea Izuku’s ever had.

“Fucking hell,” Kacchan mutters.

Fucking hell indeed, Izuku thinks.

***

The mission is not a complete failure. They manage to investigate the case, find some clues, narrow down the list of suspects, and minimal damage to the streets and buildings was done in their mad chase to arrest one of the suspects. The three of them have always worked well together, after all.

Yes, Kacchan let off a huge explosion to direct Todoroki’s attention to a critical spot during a fight, because Todoroki wasn’t answering to him verbally. Yes, Todoroki almost turned an entire park into an ice rink simply to prove he didn’t need Kacchan’s help. Yes, Kacchan and Todoroki nearly caused their own deaths today without even informing Izuku of what their contracts said about the people to contact for emergencies, and how to handle their inheritance or sensitive information such as their injuries in case reporters arrive faster than medical staff on the field, or how they want their hero legacy to be carried on.

Izuku feels like he got robbed of a nice afternoon when he stood in as a communication device between them.

And because he’s too nice, and also kind of favorable to fulfilling his hero duty, he played along and tried to pretend that the silent treatment wasn’t one of the most annoying things in existence. Kacchan yelled louder than usual. Todoroki’s blank face was more impassive than usual.

They finish their tasks for the day, at the cost of Izuku’s decaying sanity.

***

Izuku isn’t one to meddle in his friends’ affairs. It’s rather the other way around; they turn to him when they have a problem and need someone to listen to them, or to bounce off ideas to find a solution. It’s sort of flattering and nice to be considered so dependable, especially since they’re all very capable and surrounded by even more competent friends ready to break a bone or two to help.

(Okay, he’s the only one who breaks his bones. But that hasn’t happened in years! Intentionally, at the very least.)

“I’m telling you it’s bullshit,” Kacchan grumbles as he paces in the office, well after dinnertime when they should have gone home already. Kacchan and he are known to be workaholics.

“Uh uh,” Izuku says, staring at Kacchan walking back and forth with blank eyes. He’s leaning against the wall, thinking about the documents that he will have to bring to Edgeshot tomorrow.

“One time! I ignore him one time because he’s being stupid, and then he decides it’s mature of him to ignore me for two fucking days?! When we have to work together?! Deku, that’s fucking bullshit!”

Kacchan stomps on the ground with his heavy boots (upgraded combat boots), stops in his tracks and runs a hand through his hair in frustration. He hasn’t calmed down since lunch, and if Izuku wasn’t already used to this kind of bout of insanity, he’d have been worried.

But it’s alright. It’s just Kacchan. Freaking out about Todoroki. Again.

“I understand, Kacchan.”

Kacchan swivels his head at him, and his eyes are wild with both anger and exasperation.

“Izuku.”

Izuku presses his lips together. Ah. First name.

“You’ve been fucking ignoring what I was saying too.”

“No, I was listening!” Izuku frantically denies, getting off the wall and bringing up his hands in defense. “You know how Todoroki-kun is! He can be… unreasonable, sometimes.”

“Unreasonable,” Kacchan spits out the word. “He’s a goddamn brat, that’s what he is. Asshole thinks he’s funny.”

Maybe it’s a courting ritual, Izuku thinks absentmindedly. Something they’ve had going on since their first year at UA, incomprehensible to everyone except them—a ritual that stretches on and on, with rules that neither of them seems willing to disclose. Izuku doesn’t pretend to understand what is going on between them, but he has no choice but to study their case if he wishes to remain a functional hero saving citizens and restoring order in society, who won’t be distracted by his best friends’ petty quarrel.

“Well,” he starts, hesitant. “Let him think. Give him some space. You know that Todoroki-kun will apologize when he stops sulking.”

For some reason, even though Kacchan’s eyes fill with sudden fondness at the mere notion of Todoroki coming back to him, he snorts and barks out a laughter that is way too reminiscent of his gloating-laughter, and not his happiness-laughter, as he mouths ‘apologize’.

Izuku has spent enough time pondering on their relationship for today.

Three days later, a magazine tabloid shows a picture of them eating dinner together, Kacchan flipping the camera off while Todoroki is munching on a piece of tofu.

***

It’s not like no one saw it coming.

Between fighting villains, ensuring that society doesn’t crumble under the weight of change, and finishing their studies, Kacchan and Todoroki started to hang out more often—in the form of sparring, challenging each other to ridiculous feats like eating an entire lemon or peeling the most potatoes without wasting edible parts, bickering over the best All Might move to subdue a villain who spits vinegar, and more sparring.

Izuku was puzzled and a bit worried about this new development which seemed to come out of left field. And he disagreed with their choice of All Might moves to end the fight.

“It’s easy to get along with Bakugou if you ignore his yelling and only listen to half of what he says,” Todoroki tells Izuku at the end of their second year, completely serious and sincere. “And he’s surprisingly thoughtful.”

“How so,” Iida asks in a very measured voice, confused.

“He gives me strawberry milk because he knows I like it. He’s encouraging me when we spar.”

“He trash talks you,” Uraraka points out, slightly amused.

Todoroki shrugs. “That’s his way of telling me how to be at my best. I don’t really mind.”

“Kacchan can be difficult to read, but he’s not a bad person,” Izuku offers with a small smile, still processing the fact that Todoroki and Kacchan seem to genuinely get along.

Todoroki nods, and his lips twitch a little bit, like he’s remembering something he’s keeping preciously close to his heart.

“Yeah, he is.”

***

Galas are always so, so crowded. Izuku will never get used to them.

“Midoriya, man! Looking good here!”

Kaminari pats him on the shoulder, his blinding smile making Izuku grin in turn.

“Thank you, Kaminari-kun! Your suit is amazing too!”

“I know, I couldn’t believe it myself! I look good, right? I’ve never looked that good in my life.”

Kaminari strikes a pose, thumb pointing towards himself. Black and white have always been his colors, and Izuku is happy to see that this year’s designer managed to make something original for Kaminari (who often complained about his outfits not being bold enough). Okay, maybe the shirt shouldn’t have that large of an opening on his left side, showing more skin than necessary, but at least the fedora hat with the giant feather is a nice addition to his look?

“Kirishima said that Bakugou was already here, but I can’t find him,” Kaminari says, gesturing at the spacious room.

“He didn’t tell me when he was planning on coming,” Izuku answers. “I just know that he wanted to avoid drawing attention to himself, like usual.”

“Bro, he should accept that he’s a popular man. I want to be as popular as he is!”

Izuku laughs and pats Kaminari’s arm. “Your rank has been steadily going up, keep up the good work and everyone will notice you!”

“Easy for you to say, mister I’m-in-the-Top-10.”

“Oh, there he is. Hello, Midoriya, Kaminari.”

Todoroki approaches them, clad in a white suit and red tie (simple and practical over fashion, he’s always said), a small smile on his face. Izuku waves at him, and when he looks behind Todoroki, he spots Kacchan casually making his way over, hands in his pants pockets. He’s donning a burgundy suit, with a grey tie. Izuku is pretty sure he’s seen this exact combination of suits in the past.

He chases the thought away and smiles at them. “Hi, Todoroki-kun, Kacchan! Did you just arrive?”

“No, I was with my father,” Todoroki sighs. “He decided to show up this year, so I’ve been stuck with him and some reporters for at least forty-five minutes.”

“Had to rescue him from the vultures,” Kacchan snorts. “The fuck you wearing, Dunce Face?”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you don’t have taste!” Kaminari cries, offended.

Izuku observes the way Todoroki turns slightly towards Kacchan, his smile growing. Izuku knows this look. He’s seen it so many times during their high school years and beyond, and he has the passing thought that anyone with eyes would be able to guess what it means. And Kacchan is far from being dense. But if it’s that obvious, why are they acting like nothing is going on?!

Kacchan is loudly arguing with Kaminari about appropriate gala clothes and what is considered good taste, when Todoroki suddenly grabs Kacchan’s shoulder and tugs him towards himself. Someone with a glass of champagne nearly bumped into Kacchan.

Kacchan barely acknowledges the touch and continues his rant, while Kaminari is blatantly staring. Izuku is also starting to think he’s hallucinating the way Todoroki is keeping Kacchan almost flush against him, as if this is a natural position the two of them are supposed to be in. Kacchan, who usually bristles at any physical touch.

“What are you staring at? Are you even listening to me, or did your useless brain already fucking shut down for the night?”

“Uh, nothing,” Kaminari stammers. “Just got distracted for a bit here.”

Kacchan narrows his eyes, glances around like he actually expects some kind of danger, then scoffs when he notices nothing out of place. Izuku stifles a laugh and makes eye contact with Todoroki. Todoroki blinks, shrugs, and brings Kacchan even closer.

“It’s comfortable,” he says.

“I’m… sure it is,” Izuku replies.

“I’m not your goddamn plushie, Icyhot,” Kacchan grunts, shifting in Todoroki’s hold to glare at him. “Didn’t you say you wanted to get a drink or something to feel alive again?”

“A waiter is probably going to pass by us with drinks at some point.”

“You could go get it yourself, lazy ass.”

“I’m fine here with everyone, and you.”

Kaminari chokes on what is probably air, and Izuku pats him on the back because he, too, would like someone to reassure him in this bizarre situation. Kacchan huffs and shoves Todoroki off him, but he’s not scowling or glaring half as hard as earlier. There is the hint of a smirk on his lips.

“Don’t complain when you start getting cranky because you haven’t gotten alcohol into your fucking system before Endeavor comes back looking for you.”

Todoroki makes a face at the mere idea. He also looks sort of disappointed that he can’t hold Kacchan in his arms anymore (Izuku thinks that’s what his pouting means). He looks at Izuku.

“Do you think it’s a bad idea to let Endeavor spend the entire night unsupervised?”

“Endeavor has gone to many galas before, he’s going to handle the reporters just fine,” Izuku reassures cheerfully. “But the reporters probably won’t stop asking questions about his retirement and your own career… And they won’t miss the opportunity of interviewing the two of you together.”

“If anything, I’d be more worried about you running around unsupervised, Half and Half,” Kacchan snorts.

“Something embarrassing always happens when I’m around the old man alone,” Todoroki mutters.

“Then just stick with us and stop being an overgrown baby. Can’t go wrong if I’m here to stop you from making a fucking spectacle out of yourself, even if that’d be hilarious.”

If Izuku thought that Kaminari’s smile was blinding (and he’s the one with the electricity quirk), it’s nothing compared to Todoroki’s look of pure adoration. His eyes are sparkling. Kacchan wrenches his gaze away, but Izuku doesn’t miss the way his mouth is quirking up.

Galas are crowded, there are eyes everywhere, but at that moment, it feels like Todoroki and Kacchan retreated into the privacy of their own world.

***

“Shouto is giving chase! His ice is sharper than ever, but the villain is too fast!”

“Dynamight is catching up to them, and he seems to be preparing an explosion! Oh! He’s yelling something at Shouto! Can we get closer?”

“I’m not sure, our mics got damaged during the fight. Here, I can hear something!”

“—fire! Your fucking Flashfreeze crap!”

“It’s Flashfreeze Heatwave! And you’re going to get caught in the attack, idiot!”

“Are you serious? I’ve seen your move countless times, I’m not gonna get blasted by your stupid explosion lookalike!”

“Are they arguing about the best course of action? They usually show better teamwork than this.”

“The villain is probably giving them trouble, they’re really fast and they move like a snake. It looks impossible to catch them.”

“Fine! Whatever! Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you, Bakugou!”

“Shouto is cooling the air with his right hand, and his left hand is ready to unleash his flames! Dynamight is going on ahead and scaling this building—oh, he’s waiting for the villain to change routes!”

“Shouto’s Flashfreeze Heatwave was much more contained than usual but it did the job! The blast of the explosion seems to have injured the villain, and they’re actually changing routes! Dynamight is setting off explosions to weaken them and forcing them into a specific area. He’s going to—Dynamight punched them?!”

“And Shouto encased them in ice! They got the villain!”

“Today was a strange combination of their skills, but they still worked well! Impressive!”

***

Izuku and Todoroki schedule dinner every two weeks to catch up. Sometimes Uraraka, Iida and Asui join them, but most of the time it’s only the two of them. Dinners are spent quietly while they talk about their job, discuss the recent hero news and ask about each other’s family. It’s a nice reprieve from the fast pace of hero duties.

Today, the door of the restaurant opens and Todoroki stomps over.

“Midoriya. Did you know about this? Was I the only one who wasn’t informed of it?”

Todoroki barely greets Izuku before collapsing onto his chair and shoving his phone in Izuku’s face, eyes wild and a bit panicked. Izuku is already imagining the worst and comes up with about a dozen solutions to whatever problem Todoroki is having but then he focuses on what the screen is displaying and—

“Is that Kacchan? On the cover of a fashion magazine?”

Kacchan, looking at the camera with his intense red eyes, conveying his murderous intent perfectly. They only see him from the waist up, his body slightly turned to the side and his head tilted back, exposing the curve of his neck and the smooth skin of his collarbones peeking out of his white designer shirt. Two of his fingers are touching his chin in a gesture that is possibly deemed seductive and certainly trending in all fashion magazines. His hair is also combed back to reveal his forehead.

Yeah. Izuku understands what is going on.

“Midoriya. What does this mean.”

Izuku glances at Todoroki, whose scrunched up face makes him look on the verge of either screaming or crawling into a hole and never see the light of day again. Izuku has to bite the inside of his cheeks to refrain from laughing.

“I didn’t know about it,” he replies placatingly. “Kacchan never would have told us he accepted a modeling gig. Best Jeanist most likely forced him to do it to promote the agency or something.”

Probably to promote Kacchan himself and show that he isn’t just jagged edges and a bomb waiting to explode, but Izuku fails to see how such a… vain job will help changing the image that Kacchan has cultivated over the years.

Todoroki retracts his hand and stares at the picture on his phone. He’s frowning a lot. Izuku doesn’t like it when Todoroki is frowning a lot because of Kacchan, since it leads to only two outcomes and neither of them is very pleasant to witness or experience first-hand.

“I thought he’d never do something like this,” Todoroki mutters, a bit more irritated than he probably intends. “That’s completely unexpected.”

“It is,” Izuku agrees amiably, waving a waiter over to make their order. “But he looks good, doesn’t he? Kacchan always gives his best, even when it’s a job he hates.”

The waiter takes a minute to process who he is serving, but Izuku simply smiles at him and that seems to be enough to get him out of his stupor. Izuku assumes Todoroki won’t be able to answer him if he asks what he wants to eat, so he orders their usual and the waiter leaves after bowing a bit stiffly.

So. Tonight is apparently going to be one of those fun nights where Izuku listens to Todoroki rambling about his massive crush on Kacchan, that he refuses to call as such.

“He…,” Todoroki starts, licking his lips. “Yes, he looks nice, I guess. It’s not a look we’re used to. Is that why I’m feeling kind of weird? Oh no. I think it’s one of those horny moments.”

Izuku keeps smiling and wishes he could bleach his ears.

***

Uraraka and Iida are unhelpful friends who enjoy sitting back and enjoy the disaster that is unfolding before their eyes because, and Izuku quotes, “he’s the one who knows them best and is emotionally equipped to deal with their incomprehensible mess”.

Izuku begs to differ. Exposure to Kacchan since he was a baby granted him the ability to read him better than most, yes, but whoever thought that Izuku was a well of advice was sorely mistaken. He has no idea what he’s doing most of the time! And he’s not “emotionally equipped” to listen to Todoroki listing all of Kacchan’s qualities, physical or otherwise, with stars in his eyes, like Kacchan is the incarnation of the perfect human being (Kacchan is amazing but Izuku doesn’t need that much information).

“Sero-kun,” Izuku calls out miserably from his desk, head resting on important paperwork. “Do you think Todoroki-kun and Kacchan will ever admit they love each other?”

Sero, as a colleague, friend and battle partner, is reliable. He’s always optimistic and has offered his support more times than Izuku can count, and he managed to become one of Todoroki’s closest friends.

Sero grins and squeezes Izuku’s shoulder.

“Midoriya, my dude. You and I have known Todoroki and Bakugou for years. They’ll never admit it.”

Izuku groans.

***

On an old footage of a joint mission, Todoroki is half-carrying, half-dragging Kacchan to safety. They were caught up in a villain attack and almost got crushed by flying cars. The quality of the video and of the sound aren’t as good as usual, due to the fact the media couldn’t get too close to the field without compromising the evacuation process. They zoomed in as best as they could and tried to capture the post-battle moment that never fails to offer insight on heroes’ dynamics and friendship.

“You’re good,” Todoroki mumbles, close to Kacchan’s ear. “Almost there.”

“I know,” Kacchan replies.

Todoroki has one of Kacchan’s arms around his shoulder, and he’s holding him by the waist for balance. It’s practical. It’s what people resort to to help an injured person get to the medical staff, but Kacchan has never been one to easily accept such blatant support, even after shedding the skin of the hot-headed and stubborn teenager he once was.

Izuku knows that only a select few are allowed to offer their aid without getting rejected—him, Kirishima, and Todoroki. Maybe Uraraka and Kaminari if Kacchan feels particularly exhausted.

It’s not exactly what catches Izuku’s eye, though. The image is a bit blurry and grainy, but Izuku focuses on the careful way Kacchan is keeping himself upright. Todoroki is carrying Kacchan, but Kacchan is walking almost pressed to Todoroki, feeding off his energy and the reassurance Todoroki always exudes near people who are in need of help. Kacchan’s hand is gripping Todoroki’s arm for purchase, latching onto it—like this is the last tangible thing that makes sense in his foggy mind.

“We’re going to patch you up and then you can yell at me for almost getting stabbed.”

“Don’t fucking remind me of that, I thought I was going to stab you myself for leaving yourself vulnerable to attacks.”

“Mh. But I did manage to distract the villain.”

“Congrats for doing your job, genius.”

Then, Todoroki leans his head towards Kacchan’s, like he’s resting on it, gently, somehow without applying any of his weight on Kacchan. And for a few seconds, Kacchan closes his eyes, letting himself be guided, trusting Todoroki not to drop him or to make him trip.

It’s an old footage of something that is both natural and intimate, something that shows that the both of them aren’t being secretive or purposefully difficult. It is just the way they are.

***

Todoroki didn’t actually say that he likes Kacchan. But he’s been acting like it since high school and he’s not totally oblivious to the fact that no one else can tease and touch Kacchan and still live the next day. Izuku hopes that this is enough to push him in the right direction to at least say the words, and then maybe drag Kacchan down with him to do the same, to put their friends out of their misery of watching them flirt with each other.

The magazine cover discovery was only a week ago and apparently it’s the first time Todoroki and Kacchan see each other since the incident. And of course, Izuku is present for it, because these two are his best friends, and Izuku is fated to witness the slow happenings of their relationship ever since he suggested that they would become a wonderful, good-looking and balanced duo of heroes if they ever decide to (occasionally!) team up.

“You should do more modeling jobs,” Todoroki tells Kacchan, dead serious and no fear in his eyes.

Kacchan slaps his entire hand on Todoroki’s face and shoves.

“Don’t fucking bring this up, I swear to fuck don’t even think about those stupid pictures again or I’ll blast your ass!” he yells, red-faced and very, very embarrassed.

Izuku knows Kacchan is embarrassed because he can’t look Todoroki in the eye (and he shoved his hand on Todoroki’s face to avoid being looked at).

“Pictures? As in multiple of them?”

Kacchan seems to realize his mistake as his eyes widen and mounting horror settles on his face.

“Fuck off! Shut up! This was the worst job I could have accepted and I knew you all would be annoying dipshits about it!”

“You did an excellent job, Kacchan,” Izuku adds with a grin.

“You shut up too, Deku!”

Izuku ducks his head to dodge the explosion aimed his way and keeps laughing. Todoroki uses the distraction to grab Kacchan’s hand in his own and simply keeps holding it, and the prolonged contact makes Kacchan jerk his head up to cast a withering glare at Todoroki.

“Midoriya’s right, that was a nice picture. That’s why I said you should do more modeling.”

Kacchan scowls. “Fat fucking chance, worst job ever means I’ll never do it again.”

“I think you could make a career out of modeling, actually.”

“Do you want to die so badly or what?”

“Your parents are designers, I’m sure you have plenty of opportunities to make good use of your handsome face and your looks.”

A pause. Kacchan is giving Todoroki a look. Izuku discreetly takes a few steps back, unwillingly to be caught up in whatever blast that’s bound to occur.

Todoroki’s left side catches on fire and Kacchan lets out a yell and wrenches his hand away, screaming insults at Todoroki all the while.

***

“I was being sincere,” Todoroki mumbles.

“That is exactly the crux of the problem, Todoroki-kun,” Izuku sighs. “For you and Kacchan both.”

***

It’s like watching a bad romcom. Izuku doesn’t watch romcoms but his mother sometimes switches to the right channel when she’s folding laundry while calling him, and she tells him about the ridiculous scenes that are happening on TV. Uraraka watches them when she’s bored and needs to laugh at something—and she also made the same remark about Todoroki and Kacchan.

“Get your fucking fingers off your own face!” Kacchan yells, slapping Todoroki’s hand away with a loud smack.

Todoroki purses his lips and reluctantly lowers his hand into his lap, glaring at Kacchan. Kacchan ignores him and resumes cleaning the cuts on Todoroki’s cheek, and Izuku is certain that the harsher wiping is meant to be a form of warning that will probably not be heeded by Todoroki.

“It’s itchy,” Todoroki complains.

Izuku snorts.

“Stop laughing, Deku,” Kacchan growls, giving him a dark look. “Make yourself useful or get the fuck out.”

“I’m keeping Todoroki-kun entertained while you take care of him,” Izuku replies with a smile.

“Then keep him entertained without opening your big mouth, dipshit.”

“How is Midoriya supposed to do that?”

“Shut the fuck up and stop moving, for fuck’s sake!”

Izuku takes a box of band-aids and hands it to Kacchan before he asks for it, and Kacchan snatches it right out of Izuku’s palm without looking. A few thin band-aids are expertly applied on Todoroki’s face for the smaller cuts, transforming his skin into a weird mosaic of colorful band-aids. It is a hero-themed box of band-aids.

The band-aids are most likely making Todoroki’s face itchier, because his hand keeps twitching like he wants to lift it up to scratch his cheek.

“Todoroki-kun, you should listen to Kacchan,” Izuku says. “Scratching your cuts isn’t going to make them better.”

“I’m not going to scratch them like a cat would,” Todoroki mutters.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Kacchan snorts.

Izuku is about to suggest he go buy round band-aids for the face to limit the itching areas when Kacchan decides to temporarily solve the problem by grabbing one of Todoroki’s hands in his own, and to simply hold it.

Well. It does make an efficient job of stopping the journey of Todoroki’s hand from his lap to his face.

Izuku is two seconds away from either crying or laughing so hard he passes out.

There’s only a brief noise of discontentment from Todoroki while Kacchan manages to peel off another band-aid with a single hand. Neither of them seems to really care they’re basically holding hands for no reason. There is a reason, but Izuku is pretty sure this is not what people usually do to prevent someone from touching their own face.

“Deku, pour some goddamn disinfectant on a gauze pad and give it to me,” Kacchan grunts.

“I can clean the remaining cuts if you want,” Izuku suggests, hiding his mirth as best as he can.

“You’re the one who lands in a hospital, not the one who cleans up shit.”

“Fair point, but wow, that was rude.”

“Sucks to be you.”

Todoroki huffs, which translates into a laugh in Todoroki-speech. Izuku shakes his head and does as he’s told, concealing his grin in the collar of his costume. He hands the pad to Kacchan and stares blatantly at their linked hands. Kacchan’s hand is enveloping Todoroki’s almost protectively, firmly keeping it stranded on Todoroki’s thigh.

Kacchan isn’t someone who initiates touch easily. Izuku can count the number of times it happened in the past years on one hand—and the people who are graced with this touch are even scarcer. It’s sort of endearing, if Izuku is honest with himself, despite the fact it seems that this is a gesture considered “convenient for the situation”, and totally not under another light. Over the past few months, Izuku discovered that this is simply something normal between them, and he stopped questioning it.

At some point, while Izuku is still staring, Todoroki moves his hand, palm up, to tread his fingers with Kacchan’s. Kacchan lets him.

Todoroki doesn’t complain about his itching face for the remainder of the treatment.

***

“I’m never working with that asshole again,” Kacchan growls, throwing a pack of noodles into his grocery basket with the violence of an AP Shot. “If all I do is keep an eye on him because he’s always doing reckless shit, he might as well hire a babysitter.”

“Aw come on, all the agencies know you and Todoroki work well together, that’s why you get assigned on the same missions,” Kirishima replies with a clap on Kacchan’s shoulder.

“Kirishima-kun is right!” Izuku says. “You and Todoroki-kun are always in sync, you guys had everything under control. I’d say you make the best team yet.”

Kacchan shoves a bottle of soy sauce into Izuku’s face and Izuku yelps at the cold glass pressing into his cheek.

“Me and Icyhot don’t make the best team, dipshit, our quirks just happen to be compatible!”

“Which means you guys make a great team,” Kirishima says.

And Izuku totally agrees with Kirishima, because Kacchan and Todoroki have been working together since they were fifteen and every occurrence has been more amazing than the last. The media loves playing that up—their generation of heroes is full of people who are powerful on their own, but they all manage to effortlessly team up and succeed with minimal damage. And of course, Kacchan and Todoroki have caught more than one pair of eyes, given their flashy quirks and their frequent appearances on the same scenes.

It’s good publicity, even if their agencies don’t really need more publicity, but it strengthens bonds and puts emphasis on inter-agency teamwork.

For now, Kacchan has decided to ground Izuku’s face into dust and season it with soy sauce, because he refuses to see the truth for some reason.

“Whatever, I’m still not going to hold his hand the next time we have to work together,” Kacchan mutters.

Kacchan finally places the bottle into the basket, and Izuku stares at him. He’s really tempted to mention the previous hand holding act and the fact it can become a permanent fixture in their relationship. But Izuku values staying alive tonight to eat Kacchan’s cooking and spend time with their friends, so he simply shares a knowing look with Kirishima, and laughs quietly.

***

It all grinds to a halt on a normal day.

Normal day for heroes, that is. Izuku yet again stuck at his desk going through paperwork, and Todoroki and Kacchan screaming at each other on live television.

“I knew you’d get what I meant,” Todoroki is saying, arms crossed over his chest. “You always do!”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like what you’re telling me, asshole!” Kacchan replies, jabbing a finger at Todoroki. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

They’re standing in what is the remains of a collapsed warehouse, the reporters are too wary to approach them while cameras are filming every second of their exchange.

“I trust your judgment, you trust mine, that’s how we’ve always worked!” Todoroki scowls.

“Yeah no shit, I don’t trust that easily, but I expect the people I do trust to have some common sense!”

Todoroki rolls his eyes. “You said you’re used to picking up the slack. And you did.”

Kacchan grabs a fistful of Todoroki’s collar. Someone in the background is shouting, caught between stopping the fight and letting it happen because, again, they’re on live television.

“You’ve got some nerve,” Kacchan continues. “You gotta step up your game. I aim for the best, and I don’t settle for half-assed victories. Or partners, for that matter. So stop being an idiot and doing stupid shit just because you know I’m here!”

Izuku’s eyes are glued on the screen. This can’t be happening. This is a dream, right? He’s dreaming up this entire conversation, right?

Todoroki’s eyes lose their hard edges and his mouth opens and closes several times. Kacchan relaxes his grip on Todoroki’s collar, but a sudden look of mild panic settles on his face.

“I know you have my back,” Todoroki says quietly. “And I have yours. I’m stronger when I’m with you.”

“You’re so fucking embarrassing.”

“But I know you like me.”

“And I know you like me!”

Todoroki blinks. “Wait, you know?”

“Of course I know, you bastard! What, you thought you were being subtle?!”

“No, it’s just… I thought you would tell me you knew. Since you know I knew about you liking me. So if I know that you know, and you know that I know, then we both know our feelings are mutual.”

“Shut the fuck up, Todoroki. Stop running your mouth.”

Izuku is mortified for them. He’s not the one being filmed and having his confession broadcast to the entirety of Japan, but his ears are ringing and his face is on fire. Kacchan and Todoroki are in so much trouble for creating such a public mess.

Kacchan releases Todoroki’s collar, and Todoroki immediately goes to grab his wrist. They keep staring at each other like this is the best moment of their life, and it probably is, but please. Not on live television.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Todoroki asks.

“Would it have mattered?” Kacchan grumbles. “I was fine with the way things fucking were, and you were fine with it too, apparently. So your question is stupid.”

Todoroki pauses, a concentrating look on his face. Why do they look like this isn’t the biggest development of the century?

“I guess,” Todoroki says. “Does anything change between us?”

“Absolutely nothing.” Kacchan’s smirk is manic. “I’ll still kick your ass while you try to surpass me and fail.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less from you, Bakugou. That’s why I like you.”

Kacchan rolls his eyes. “Don’t think you’re off the hook, though.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first three times.”

Kacchan flicks Todoroki on the forehead.

On the TV screen, Izuku sees a new headline appear at the bottom.

Dynamight and Shouto: From Amazing Duo to Power Couple

Izuku lets his head hit his desk, closes his eyes, and groans loudly. This is not how he imagined his friends admitting their feelings.

There is a note on the locker’s door that he elects to ignore, because nobody is here to monitor where he goes when he’s on the job. Well, Burnin’ is the one who schedules his tasks and missions but—there is virtually no one courageous enough to go up against him and to give him orders that weren’t relayed messages from Burnin’ herself.

So Shouto ignores the note nicely asking him to fucking stay put in his desk chair, adjusts his utility belt and heads out. His legs are stiff and his shoulders are starting to ache from all the tension that’s been accumulating during the week that he has, spitefully, ignored as well. He will probably snap in half if he gets any more tense, although he thinks that his itch to scrub off his restlessness will kill him first.

Midoriya has sent him a few texts telling him to be careful and to think before he does anything. Were it only two years ago, Midoriya would have never felt bold enough to sound so dry over text (or even in person, actually), and Shouto honestly doesn’t know whether he likes this new development. Midoriya always finds a way to weave himself into his friends’ problems to reassure them, anyway. Shouto deems it unnecessary, especially with the current matter at hand, but he supposes that it’s in his nature to fuss over friends and their easy-to-fix issues.

“I’m off,” he announces to the secretary at the reception desk.

“Oh, have a good patrol,” she says with a small smile.

Shouto nods, rubbing his fingers in a vain attempt to get rid of excess stress, and walks through the agency’s doors.

His patrol area is simple. He doesn’t always use the same route, to keep monotony at bay, but months of exploring the same streets with their high buildings and trees lining the sidewalks will put him into a sort of routine. Observe the narrow alleys, be on the lookout for thieves, help the elderly and the children cross the road, say hi to the stray cat sitting on the fence, climb to the roof of a shop for vantage point, and continue watching over people who are peacefully walking from one place to another.

It’s mindless work. Patrolling alone isn’t the best activity to put a stop to intrusive thoughts, but at least he doesn’t have to deal with anyone chatting his ear off. And he usually has to catch a villain or a robber while he’s out. It makes a good and easy distraction, to work off tension.

Shouto isn’t really angry. He just feels like being petty—but he will never admit it out loud, because that would prove Katsuki right and Katsuki is insufferable when he thinks he won a fight on the basis that Shouto is simply wrong or stubborn, meaning that it invalidates whatever arguments he presented. Which in turn makes Shouto even more irritated, and act pettier in retaliation. Like Utsushimi says, that’s karma, bitch.

Karma also seems to be on his side today, since he’s offered a very nice opportunity to blast something into oblivion (or rather, to blast ice at whoever is unlucky enough to cross his path, because blasting something is more of Katsuki’s style, and right now Shouto doesn’t want to do anything Katsuki would do). There are screams reaching his ears and he sees the panicked movement of the crowd parting ways to avoid being on the villain’s road to destruction, giving Shouto a clear sight of what is happening. There’s nothing particularly threatening—just the usual villain trying to wreak havoc by unleashing a visually impressive quirk, but not harmful enough to cause worry.

“Please get to safety and follow the instructions of the heroes already on site,” Shouto tells the first relatively calm passerby he sees.

The man blinks at him, probably trying to gauge whether Shouto is suited to the task (which is a bit vexing, he’s been a pro hero for years now), before nodding and grabbing the attention of anyone within shouting range.

Satisfied, Shouto focuses back on the villain. The area has been cleared pretty quickly.

Good. His shoulders desperately need to get rid of that heaviness, and flinging ice right and left will definitely help in that department. And if he sounds like Katsuki in his own damn head, he can’t say he’s surprised.

***

So, perhaps Shouto didn’t need to go that hard to arrest one average villain, but at least the damage done to the streets and the buildings are easily repairable by melting the ice. The holes in the pavement are another story, though.

“Efficient work as always, Shouto!” the reporter says brightly.

“Thanks,” Shouto replies, brushing off the last trails of frost on his hair. “Is everyone safe?”

“Of course, the other pro heroes managed to keep the crowd calm and at a safe distance thanks to your efforts in subduing the villain! This is another success that will make you climb the ranks.”

Shouto shrugs. “It’s my job. I’m glad no one was hurt.”

He wants to go back to patrol and then grab something to eat for dinner. It’s been a while he hasn’t had chicken nuggets.

“It seems that today a lot of heroes are working hard,” the reporter continues, oblivious to Shouto’s growing impatience. “I was told Red Riot caught two robbers this morning, and Dynamight stopped an explosion earlier this afternoon! That last one is quite ironic, isn’t it?”

Shouto’s eye twitches. Yes, because the thing that is most likely to explode is not the bomb, but Katsuki. And of course Katsuki managed to prevent an explosion, what else did they expect?

“We’re taking our duties very seriously,” Shouto says. Before the reporter says anything else, he adds, “Which is why I have to go back to my patrol. Have a good day.”

Shouto inclines his head and turns around, fleeing the scene and the flash of the cameras.

***

Patrol is mostly boring for the remainder of the evening, though Shouto took a picture of a cute napping cat and tried to angle his phone right to capture the beauty of the sunset. Katsuki always gets on his case when he comes back to show him pictures because the pictures are “fucking ridiculous, we can’t see anything and you always zoom in too much”. Shouto will show him that he knows perfectly well how to take pictures.

Patrol finished, Shouto heads towards a 7-Eleven to make dinner purchases that will probably make his friends frown with disappointment at his life choices. Everybody needs at some point in the week to have their fix of chicken nuggets, hashbrowns and cheese croquettes. And a strawberry sandwich. Uraraka is the only one who would agree with Shouto’s decisions, even if Katsuki would shoot her a look of betrayal. Just thinking about it makes Shouto snort.

Shouto grabs his strawberry sandwich and a carton of green tea, then makes a beeline for the cashier. He sees in the glass window display at the counter that the food he’s dying to eat is still available, much to his delight and to the customers’ general safety since he’d have done anything to get his hands on all his crispy food. Especially the cheese croquettes. People are looking at him funny, but Shouto is too busy counting the number of people left in line before it’s his turn.

He takes a box of chicken nuggets, two hashbrowns and three cheese croquettes.

“Do you need anything else?” the cashier asks, smiling.

Shouto glances one last time at the glass window. There is curry bread. They aren’t his favorite among the selection.

“I’ll take two pieces of curry bread,” he says.

The cashier rings everything up, hands Shouto his dinner bag and bids him a good evening.

Shouto sits on the bench outside of the konbini to eat. Katsuki would tell him that he looks like some delinquent teenager loitering around, but Shouto still doesn’t have a clear picture of what a teenager loitering around a konbini looks like. He imagines they’d be sitting down in a group and talking loudly, obstructing the entrance and eating junk food. Shouto supposes he’s ticking two of these boxes.

He waves at people who say hi to him, munching on his hashbrown and taking sips of his tea. It’s been a pretty normal day, if he doesn’t think about the frustration that’s been eating at him all day. But the itch has also slowly receded as the day progressed, only leaving him exhausted. Well. Exhausted enough he bought curry bread he’s not going to eat.

He finishes the last of piece of his dinner, slurps in one go the rest of his tea, and heads back to the agency to clean up. Burnin’ gives him an annoyed look when she catches him inside the building.

“At least you didn’t blow anything up today,” she says with a laugh, so she’s probably not as mad as she looks.

“That was only at the beginning of the week,” Shouto retorts with a frown. “I don’t make it a habit of blowing things up.”

“You do when you’re in a bad mood. Don’t lie, I worked with your father for years and he was the same. And you’ve been working here long enough for me to notice that.”

Shouto tries not to sulk, but he most likely fails given Burnin’ bursts out laughing. She claps him on the back.

“Go home, kid, and sort this shit out before society collapses under the bad mood of two of its top heroes.”

Shouto goes home.

He doesn’t announce himself but he lines up his shoes next to Katsuki’s in the genkan. He’s surprised that Katsuki is already home, given how much of a workaholic he is when he’s angry, but there is a high probability he got sent home too.

Shouto deposits the 7-Eleven bag on the dinner table. Katsuki is sitting on the couch, scrolling through his phone and looking bored. Hm.

“You’re here early,” Shouto remarks.

“Fucking assholes thought I needed rest, of all fucking things,” Katsuki growls.

“Some rest isn’t so bad.”

“Talk for yourself, you half-assing bastard.”

Katsuki turns around and fixes Shouto with a glare. He doesn’t look angry-angry, though, just his usual brand of disgruntled. Hmm.

“I bought you curry bread.”

Shouto lifts the bag for emphasis. Katsuki stares.

“Did you fucking buy 7-Eleven shit for dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t you eat that yesterday?”

“Yes, but I bought something else. The day before that too.”

“Did you even eat some form of fucking vegetables this week?”

“...There is lettuce in sandwiches.”

“Fucking hell, Shouto.”

Katsuki closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, and when he looks back at Shouto he looks properly murderous.

“You’re a grown ass man,” he says.

Shouto shrugs. “That means I can make my own choices.” He then shakes the bag he’s still holding. “Are you going to eat the curry bread or not? If you don’t want it I’ll eat it.”

“Hands off my curry bread, idiot.”

Shouto believes that the curry bread is technically his, because he bought it, but he also bought it for Katsuki, so in a way it’s also Katsuki’s.

Katsuki snatches the bag and takes out the curry bread. They’ve gone cold, since it’s been at least one hour since Shouto bought them. He extends his left hand.

“I can warm them up if you want.”

Katsuki eyes him skeptically. He’s searching for something on his face, scrutinizing and analyzing. Shouto is tired, but he also doesn’t feel as restless as he was this morning, or at the beginning of the week, for that matter. There is something oddly calming in seeing Katsuki deflating just the slightest bit, after they’ve practically been ignoring each other for days on end.

Whatever is showing on his face must please Katsuki, because he huffs and shoves the curry bread on Shouto’s hand.

“No way I’m eating that cold.”

The corner of Shouto’s lips curls upwards at that. Katsuki rolls his eyes.

They have surprisingly never triggered the fire alarm, even when they activate their quirks in bouts of anger and frustration at each other. Shouto is reheating food for Katsuki when they have a functioning microwave of high quality, because this feels like the normal thing to do in this situation.

They sit on the couch, Katsuki eating his curry bread while Shouto switches on the TV to put on the show they were watching together the week before. Katsuki is sitting on Shouto’s left side, pressing their shoulders close and knees almost touching. He doesn't say anything.

“Kacchan, the scars—”

Kacchan stops scrubbing his hair and turns towards Izuku to raise an eyebrow, looking irritated at being interrupted. There’s water dripping in his eyes but that doesn’t seem to be an obstacle in his endeavor to glare at Izuku.

“What?” he barks.

“The, uh… The scars from the stabbing,” Izuku mumbles, eyes looking up and down Kacchan’s torso.

Kacchan has a scar on his shoulder, an angry mark that is almost star-shaped. It’s not as visible as Izuku thought it would be, but the red color of the scar makes a stark contrast against the lighter color of his skin. The stomach wound left a bigger scar, three fingers wide and stretching to two inches long. It looks painful.

Kacchan makes a noise low in his throat and goes back to washing his hair, in controlled and measured gestures.

“They’re just scars,” he grunts. “Everyone has them. You have a huge ass scar going from your shoulder to your elbow, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“You know it’s not the same,” Izuku says tightly.

“If you’re going to start another one of your pathetic spiels about your issues, you can fuck right off.”

Izuku groans, frustrated. “But Kacchan—”

“No, shut up, I’ve dealt with enough emotional bullshit in a week for the remainder of my fucking life.”

Izuku wants to retort that Kacchan will probably be forced to talk about his feelings sooner than later because of his involvement with Shigaraki and the League of Villains, but Kacchan grabs a showerhead and sprays water directly into Izuku’s face. Izuku sputters and puts up his hands to shield his face, coughing out water and feeling betrayed.

"Kacchan!" he complains.

"I'm gonna do it again if you don't drop the topic," Kacchan threatens with a smirk. "It's not a big deal. Leave the scars alone."

Izuku resists the urge to sigh and to shake Kacchan by the shoulders, opting to stare moodily at him instead. Kacchan finishes showering, and in lieu of heading towards the bath to soak for a bit with the others, he leaves the bathroom altogether. Izuku feels like this reaction  is going to be a regular occurrence.

***

Kacchan isn't wrong, when he says that at the end of the day, it's not a big deal. As heroes, they will gain scars and other marks because of all the battles they'll fight—coming out of a job unscathed is possible, of course, but they aren't always lucky.

Izuku simply wishes that he wasn't the cause of the scars. He might be acting selfish, once again, by spinning this incident into an issue he wants to talk thoroughly about with Kacchan, but he's trying to understand. Izuku is trying to understand where their new friendship starts and from which point it picks up from their old relationship, before he makes a mistake again and they're left in a state of confusion and irritation.

Resolving an issue with Kacchan never makes the problems go away. If anything, Izuku has the impression that they're multiplying the more he uncovers them. But he also thinks that it's a good thing, because this means Kacchan isn't rejecting him like he used to, and he's now more willing to let Izuku in.

It doesn't change the fact this is extremely frustrating, of course. Izuku wants nothing more than to have a normal conversation with Kacchan that doesn't result in one of them yelling or receiving some kind of injury.

"Kacchan," Izuku's voice is firm and steady, fully awake at five am.

"What the fuck are you up so early for?!" Kacchan shouts, waving his chopsticks at him.

"Couldn't sleep very well, had too much things to think about like training regimens for my quirk and what we should do next before All for One makes his next move, but I also can't drop yesterday's topic because I feel we really, really need to establish a few rules—"

"Are you seriously going to forbid me from fighting however I want?"

"No, that's not what I was going to say! You know why I'm upset, stop being so difficult!"

Kacchan snorts. Izuku believes that Kacchan is purposefully making his life hell just because he can, which is actually not very hard to believe since this is the kind of dynamic they’ve had for the last decade. Is Izuku being too stubborn again? No, Kacchan is perceptive enough, he’s just being—Kacchan.

Five am isn’t Izuku’s usual waking time, but the last few weeks made him alert at all hours of the day and more willing to sacrifice a bit of sleep. His mind may still be surrounded by some residual fog, but he can do with that. Discussions with Kacchan are always a priority.

“Just…don’t take a hit like that for me again. I know you’re strong, but it’s a miracle you can still fight like nothing happened.”

“I’m not a weak extra who’s gonna bite the dust because of a few stab wounds,” Kacchan replies with a roll of his eyes.

“Because of a few stab wounds,” Izuku repeats incredulously.

“Yes, nerd, people survive stab wounds.”

“People usually don’t fight for an extended period of time while suffering from stab wounds that weren’t properly treated.”

“For fuck’s sake, I’m fine! You’re fine! Everyone is alive and kicking, and it’s not like I’m fucking gonna launch myself into the first sharp weapon I see next time!”

Kacchan throws his hands in the air in exasperation, almost inflicting a stab wound himself on Izuku with his careless manipulation of the chopsticks still in his hands. Izuku takes a step back as a precaution and sighs.

“I’m simply asking you to be more careful,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to see you hurt again. I was scared you wouldn’t make it.”

It’s irrational and maybe unfair to Kacchan—Izuku knows perfectly well that Kacchan is almost invincible, because he’s amazing, but what if these injuries were too much to handle? What if Todoroki hadn’t brought first aid supplies? Izuku doesn’t want to think about the what-ifs and the less than ideal outcomes, but their battle against All for One is fast approaching and his stomach is rolling with dread.

When Izuku looks at Kacchan’s face, it hardens and the grimace it’s sporting is nothing short of furious. Kacchan slams the chopsticks down on the counter and marches towards Izuku, and grabs a fistful of his shirt in one powerful grip. Izuku swallows and doesn’t look away from Kacchan’s blazing eyes.

“Listen here, Izuku,” Kacchan growls. “I don’t plan on dying anytime soon. Nobody is going to fucking die, for that matter. I know you’re an idiot but that crap is more stupid than usual, so do me a favor and drill this into your head: I know what the fuck I’m doing and we’re going to win, because that’s what we do. We fucking win.”

Kacchan shakes Izuku as if it will convey the message better.

“Understood? So stop worrying about bullshit that’s never going to happen.”

Kacchan is asking him to have faith in him and in their friends, Izuku thinks absentmindedly. This particular thought has never left Izuku, ever since he got back—of course he trusts them. He’s not alone, and never has been.

Izuku smiles. “Yes, we’re going to win. That doesn’t mean I can’t worry.”

“You being worried is your natural state, I’m just saying you shouldn’t be worrying about people fucking dying since no one is striving for that specific goal. And if you feel guilty about scars of all fucking things, then you’re even more of a dumbass.”

“Easier said than done…”

Kacchan makes a noise that is half-growl, half-wordless scream, and shakes Izuku even harder. Izuku lets out a yelp and lifts up his hands in surrender.

“Okay, okay, I understand! You’re right! No need to dwell on deeds already done and events that we couldn’t have predicted!”

“That’s not what I said but fucking go with that mindset, I guess! Better than the whimpering you did earlier!”

This draws a laugh out of Izuku, and the sound is startling enough that Kacchan releases his hold on his shirt. Izuku steps back and passes a hand over his collar to smooth out the wrinkles, while Kacchan crosses his arms over his chest, glaring. Izuku feels that they missed a turn somewhere in their friendship that pushes their conversations into overthinking territory and complicated explanations to get the point across.

Well. At least they are on the same wavelength now.

“If you’re done, can you fuck off so I can eat my breakfast in peace?” Kacchan grumbles.

“Uh, what if I want to eat breakfast too?” Izuku says, puzzled.

“Then make your own goddamn breakfast and shut up.”

Kacchan doesn’t wait for a reply and turns around, picking up his chopsticks and going back to cooking whatever meal he’s been preparing. Izuku can see rice cooking in the rice cooker, unwashed lettuce in the sink and a bowl filled with beaten eggs next to the stove. That looks like a full breakfast for several people—maybe not the whole class, but enough to satisfy at least six or seven people.

Cautiously, Izuku approaches Kacchan and observes him as he adds sugar and soy sauce into the beaten eggs, then a handful of green onions. Aunt Mitsuki always cooks her tamagoyaki this way.

“I told you to fuck off, shitty nerd,” Kacchan says without even looking up from the preparation.

“I can start on the miso soup,” Izuku offers.

Kacchan eyes him warily, still beating the eggs. He then scoffs.

“We only got instant miso soup packets, couldn’t get fresh ingredients. If you manage to fuck up instant miso soup you’re forever banned from the kitchen, and I will keep my word on that.”

Izuku grins and goes rummaging through the cabinets.

“It’s not like I never made instant miso soup in my life.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re good at making it.”

“How do you screw up instant miso soup?”

“Idiots always find a way to fuck up even the most basic steps.”

Izuku lets the insult slide and takes out the packets, carefully reading the instructions on the back to make sure Kacchan isn’t tempted to explode whatever is closer to his palms.

From behind Deku, visible above the green lump he calls hair, appear the unmistakable blue and grey eyes that suddenly come alive with panic. Fucking panic. What the fuck is he panicking for, when absolutely nothing happened in the last ten seconds?!

“Kacchan!” Todoroki’s voice fucking squeaks, like a tiny ass animal cowering in fear, as if that is an extremely normal sound coming from that bastard’s throat.

Deku’s voice decides to make itself known as well. Katsuki watches Deku’s lips move with mounting horror and irritation, eyebrow twitching and palms itching.

“Bakugou,” says Deku’s grating voice in the blandest intonation known to mankind.

Someone is going to get murdered today.

“What the fuck is going on and who do I need to kill?”

Katsuki’s hollering gets progressively drowned out by his hands letting off explosions when Deku’s face tries pouting.

***

Everyone thinks it’s fucking funny. Everyone thinks it’s a good time to laugh at their misery but that’s expected, because they’re all stupid assholes whose brains are rattling against their empty skulls.

“The quirk is totally harmless! And it only lasts twelve hours at most? Previous cases show that the effects never caused any injuries or switch in personality or anything like that, and the victims are totally fine after the quirk wears off. I actually don’t know if it’s accurate to say our souls exchanged bodies… Oh but the concept of souls supposes that we have a wealth of knowledge that isn’t necessarily adapted to the body we are currently inhabiting—”

“Shut the fuck up, holy shit. Shut the fuck up.”

Katsuki has had to sit down for this. He has his elbows propped up on his desk and he’s trying to fuse his hands with his face. The class is buzzing with chatter and curiosity since they’re nosy bastards, but right now Katsuki will gladly let them have their fun while he processes that shit.

Todoroki’s voice shouldn’t sound so chipper, letting out a stream of words that makes even less sense than usual. Katsuki is pretty sure that Todoroki has never said so many words so fast in his entire life, and heaven knows that Katsuki has listened to a lot of bullshit coming from him. A lot of bullshit that was said in a measured and toneless voice—not these frankly disturbing and ridiculous cutting board noises.

Katsuki takes a look at the disaster duo and glares. Deku (wearing Todoroki’s face, god damn it) brings up a hand and scratches his cheek.

“Sorry, it’s just really strange but also really fascinating.”

“I fucking bet,” Katsuki mutters.

Todoroki (doing a formidable job of making Deku’s face look like any sort of life energy was sapped from the body) tilts his head. The meaning of this gesture can range from “the situation is confusing so I’ll think about it to understand it without consulting anyone” to “I’m hungry” to “I’m about to say something incredibly stupid”.

“Midoriya, I think your body wants to hug Bakugou,” he says.

“You shut up too if you’re going to spout that kind of shit!” Katsuki yells.

“N-No? Why would I want to hug Kacchan? That’s probably just you, Todoroki-kun.”

And Deku, in turn, is doing a perfect job of using Todoroki’s face to show blatant emotions. In this case, being fucking flustered. Katsuki is the one who is going to explode from embarrassment if they keep this up.

“Hm,” Todoroki says, and that should have been enough of a warning.

Katsuki thought he was well-versed in actions spurred on by no sense of self-preservation, but apparently he still hasn’t discovered the limits of his boyfriend’s stupidity and is completely caught off-guard when Todoroki launches himself at Katsuki and wraps his arms around his shoulders.

Todoroki, but in Deku’s body, and Katsuki hasn’t hugged Deku since they were fucking five years old.

“That’s so not happening, you absolute buffoon!” Katsuki roars, squirming on his chair. “Gross! Get off!”

“Todoroki-kun I think you should release Kacchan before he blows something up! Probably your face! My face!” The fucking nerd has the audacity to pitch his voice so high in his frenzied state that he created a new frequency wavelength.

Todoroki doesn’t feel particularly threatened by the increasing volume of the screaming from all sides and keeps hugging Katsuki, as if he was in his own body and trying to weasel himself out of a situation by showing affection, of all things. Fuck.

“Todoroki, if you don’t get off in the next three seconds I’m going to beat your ass,” Katsuki growls.

“Hugging you in Midoriya’s body is very different.”

“I don’t fucking care, analyze whatever the fuck you want after you get Deku’s sweaty body far away from me!”

“My body isn’t sweaty!” Deku sounds indignant, now. “And you’re one to talk, Kacchan!”

Grunts that are more caveman than man leave Katsuki’s throat as he pushes Todoroki away, much less violently than they probably expected. Todoroki reluctantly drops his arms and straightens up, a small frown creasing his brow. Katsuki attempts to cover the shivers that run through him by crossing his arms and adopting his murderous face.

“It’s probably the muscles,” Todoroki concludes. “Midoriya’s body is… beefy? Yeah, that’s the word. It makes hugging warmer.”

“Oh my god,” Deku groans, hiding his face behind his hands.

And, well. Katsuki would have done anything to see Todoroki perform that same action, all embarrassed and reduced to a stuttering mess. Preferably the cause being Katsuki, after kissing him just right and trailing kisses along his wrists, because he knows that Todoroki likes small, thoughtful gestures and feeling Katsuki’s lips on his skin.

Reality doesn’t come anywhere close to that vision and Katsuki is forced to remember that currently, Todoroki tried to suffocate him by inflicting Deku’s body on him.

“Do you even hear what’s coming out of your mouth?” he asks dryly.

Todoroki shrugs. “I’m analyzing.”

“You’re the fucking worst.”

Todoroki shrugs again. Deku looks on the verge of passing out.

Katsuki didn’t wake up this morning to deal with this fucking spectacular shitshow.

***

“Kacchan, can you—”

Katsuki snaps his pencil in half and whirls around.

“Don’t fucking call me that when you’re in Icyhot’s body!” he growls, glaring daggers at Deku.

Deku grimaces. “Sorry, do you want me to call you Bakugou? Ew. Nope. I’m not going to do that.”

Katsuki has to agree with that sentiment, because what the fuck.

“Don’t call me that either!”

“Then what should I call you?”

“Don’t say my name at all, dipshit!”

“Rude, Kacchan.”

“I’m gonna choke the life out of you, Izuku.”

Deku blinks once, and beams. His grin is so wide that it makes Todoroki’s face twist into a bizarre expression that somehow doesn’t look too out of place. It’s fine. Everything is alright. Katsuki will just have to suffer through this for a while longer in silence and then life will resume its normal course.

“I just wanted to borrow your pencil, but since you broke it, I’ll ask someone else,” Deku chuckles.

“And whose fault is that?” Katsuki snaps.

Deku taps on Sero’s shoulder to ask for a pencil. Katsuki watches the exchange with annoyance, seeing how amused Sero is. Sero is the one who is most familiar with Todoroki’s facial expressions after Katsuki, since they have their regular manga reading sessions, and god knows how enthusiastic Todoroki can get when he starts his manga rants. Actually, nobody except Katsuki should be allowed to see that side of Todoroki.

Katsuki catches Todoroki’s eye, and squints. Todoroki directs Deku’s green eyes on him, remains stoic for a few seconds, then brings up a hand to his lips and blows a kiss in Katsuki’s way. Someone chokes on their fucking saliva.

Katsuki stands up abruptly from his seat and bellows, red-faced.

“Can you two stop acting like fucking dumbasses for just a day?! You’re getting on my nerves on purpose!”

“Sit down, Bakugou,” Aizawa’s tired voice says.

***

Todoroki, for the rest of their classes, bores holes into his neck. Coupled with Deku’s ability to stare like he’s scrutinizing an object for scientific and academic reasons, that makes one hell of an uncomfortable weight pressing itself down on Katsuki’s neck.

So during break, Katsuki marches over Todoroki’s desk, ignores his silent questioning gaze, and flicks him on the forehead.

“Ow,” Todoroki says.

“Stop staring at me like that. It’s fucking annoying.”

Todoroki narrows his eyes. On Deku’s face, it looks almost intimidating, if Deku hasn’t been cursed with baby face until the day he dies.

“Being in someone else’s body really is inconvenient,” Todoroki sighs.

Katsuki rolls his eyes. “No shit.”

“I can’t kiss you.”

Something flutters in Katsuki’s chest at those words, but the voice is completely wrong and he resists the urge to scowl. All those contradictory feelings are giving him a headache.

“Later,” Katsuki mumbles. “The quirk’s supposed to wear off in the evening if you guys are lucky bastards.”

Todoroki hums, his expression smoothed out and his lips curving upwards in that soft smile he reserves for Katsuki. Even in Deku’s body, he manages to pull it off. And Katsuki recognizes it because he’s whipped for that motherfucker and he can’t wait to kiss him either.

***

“I can’t use One for All,” Todoroki announces during training, flexing his fists, a concentrating look on his face. Deku’s face. Whatever.

“Oh. What about Blackwhip?”

“Nothing either. Maybe that’s because One for All reacts to the person who inherited it, not to the body.”

“That does make sense! So my theory about our souls possessing knowledge and a set of skills is true!”

Katsuki scrunches up his nose and tries his hardest not to bark at Deku to stop doing things with Todoroki’s face, because it’s not his call to play with those features—and to contort them into disgustingly cute expressions, like absolute wonder and excitement. God, Katsuki wants to murder him.

“I think I can feel ice and fire running through the body, but I don’t want to make a mess by unleashing a quirk I can’t control,” Deku sighs. “Your quirk’s really powerful after all, Todoroki-kun.”

“I’m sure you’d have been fine. My body would have remembered how the quirk works.”

“No one is going to break anyone’s body, don’t try reckless crap,” Katsuki grunts at them.

“It could have been fun, though…”

Todoroki frowns a little, lips slightly jutting out, like he truly wanted to experiment with quirk training with a power that’s most likely going to shatter his bones within the first two seconds of its activation. Katsuki unfortunately loves this idiot.

They train in hand-to-hand combat instead, and Katsuki takes great pleasure in kicking their asses to hell and back, because one feels too short and the other has too long a reach to properly put up a decent fight. Serves them right for making him live through such a nightmare.

***

The incident ends in a rather anticlimactic way. One moment they’re trying to see whether soba still tastes the same as they perceive it (yes, Icyhot, soba tastes fucking normal to a normal person with normal taste buds), and the next they’re being pulled into their own body in what is a flash of light. Todoroki and Deku both blink.

“Shitshow’s over?” Katsuki asks, smirking.

Deku (with the right face) smiles brightly at him. Katsuki will take to the grave the fact that his heart swells with relief when he sees the familiar sunny expression on that nerd’s face.

Katsuki dismisses the feeling before he’s caught having positive emotions about Deku in public, and turns his head towards Todoroki. And what more does it say about Katsuki that his stomach fucking rolls with warmth and affection as he observes a tiny twitch of the lips and a little glint in the eyes betraying the joy that Todoroki is currently feeling. Unbelievable.

Todoroki then pats himself down, starting from his biceps and going down to his forearms to finally rest his hands on his waist. And he nods to himself. He’s done weirder things, Katsuki thinks, but that’s still weird as fuck.

“Checking if you’re still in one piece?”

“I don’t feel any different,” Deku offers.

“Yeah, same,” Todoroki replies, and locks eyes with Katsuki.

His pretty eyes are so unfair. His pretty eyes that look blank despite harboring tiny specks of emotions coloring them alive—it took Katsuki months to decipher all of Todoroki’s micro-expressions, and seeing them again after a day of strange things is tickling every one of Katsuki’s nerve wired to respond to Todoroki with a fond look of his own.

However, Todoroki is also a little shit.

Deku, across the dinner table, opened his mouth to say something about soba or whatever stupid topic crossing his mind, when Todoroki literally lunges at Katsuki and tackles him into a hug much fiercer than what he did during the day. Katsuki is too surprised by the gesture, tipping his chair to the side and he ends up tumbling on the floor with a loud curse, dragging Todoroki down with him. They collapse in a heap of limbs but Todoroki’s arms are still firmly wrapped around Katsuki, and he gives no sign of letting go any time soon.

“Can you stop hurling yourself into me like that?!” Katsuki yells.

Maybe there’s something seriously wrong with Katsuki if he hasn’t managed to predict and dodge Todoroki’s attacks twice in the same day.

Todoroki’s body is warm, pressed flush against Katsuki’s, and even though Katsuki is kind of disgruntled right now, this is a reassuring weight. He lifts his arms to snake them around Todoroki’s shoulders and squeeze. There’s a low noise of appreciation reverberating between them.

“I like hugging you in my own body better,” Todoroki tells him against his ear.

“Your lanky ass is good for holding people, at least,” Katsuki snorts.

The commotion they created probably attracted everyone’s attention, but Katsuki doesn’t give a damn about them. He grabs Todoroki’s face into his hands, angles it right, and crashes their lips together. Todoroki responds immediately and moves in sync with him, almost desperately, like he’s going to miss his chance if he doesn’t give his all in this single kiss. Katsuki can feel Todoroki’s smile, and he knows he’s smiling too—it’s intoxicating, a breath of fresh air and comforting familiarity mixed into one perfect moment.

When they pull apart, there’s an incredibly stupid look on Todoroki’s face, but Katsuki knows that he shouldn’t point it out because the probability he’s also sporting a dumb expression is too high to his liking.

“Didn’t know you missed me that much,” Katsuki snickers.

“Speak for yourself,” Todoroki retorts, still smiling. “Though I think we should move this elsewhere before we traumatize our friends even more.”

There is squawking in the background, the sound of someone refraining from laughing too hard, and Deku’s loud groan. Ha.

“They’re just weak,” Katsuki says.

“But before that, I want to finish eating my soba.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes and shoves Todoroki off him. Todoroki rolls onto the floor like a worm before sitting up.

“Go eat your fucking soba with your weird taste buds, then.”

“If everyone has taste buds like Midoriya’s, then they’re missing out on soba.”

“Yeah, right. You have flawless logic.”

“I know.”

Kacchan is gathering stray papers, water bottles and other containers to sort out their garbage, muttering all the while and shooting daggers at anyone looking his way. He does shout at Kaminari at some point, then threatens Tokoyami to rip off his feathers if he leaves around obscure objects in the common room again, and it seems his yelling is enough to make the two boys believe that things are back to normal.

“Damn, don’t get mad like that!” Kaminari groans.

“I’ll show you mad, Pikachu,” Kacchan snaps back, but his voice is slightly off.

Izuku knows Kacchan is different because he can actually tell what he’s thinking, now. He hasn’t been able to for a long time.

Kacchan isn’t mad—not as mad as he used to be, in any case—and he doesn’t seem to mind cleaning up, contrary to what his impatient words and aggressive gestures might suggest. He carefully separates the garbage, scans the room one last time, then nods to himself, satisfied. Izuku can tell all this in one glance and it has been so, so long that he fully got a grasp on what Kacchan is feeling that it’s leaving him dizzy.

Kacchan catches him staring and narrows his eyes.

“You’ve got something to say?”

Izuku startles and frantically waves his hands, looking somewhere above Kacchan’s head, anywhere that isn’t his fierce red eyes.

“N-No, nothing!” he replies. “Thanks for cleaning up.”

Kacchan rolls his eyes. “If you’re gonna run your mouth to say dumb shit then you’d better go to fucking bed and pass out.”

Everything feels weird. Izuku has learned to listen to words dripping with venom, disdain or anger, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself when he senses none of it.

Kacchan isn’t nice, of course. But he doesn’t speak to Izuku the way he used to.

And because of that, Izuku simply smiles, then laughs when Kacchan scoffs and turns around to hide whatever expression he’s making. Izuku isn’t sure he’s completely honest with himself, though, when his laugh sounds too shaky to his own ears.

***

It’s not that Izuku misses the screaming and the insults, because Kacchan definitely still yells at him, but it’s disturbing to watch him revert to a distorted version of his childhood friend, the one who claimed he’d become the best hero and help Izuku along the way (because duh, Deku is weaker), the one who shared with him his snacks and poorly drawn designs of hero costumes.

It’s not the attitude that changed. It’s the intention.

“You already ate your breakfast, dipshit! You think I cooked for an entire army or what?”

“But it’s so good! Why are gyoza so good first thing in the morning?”

“That’s because I made them, obviously! Now fuck off!”

“Oh wait, Midoriya hasn’t eaten yet, right? You’re keeping those gyoza for him!”

“Shut the fuck up, Soy Face!”

Izuku remains frozen at the entrance of the kitchen, suddenly very aware of his growling stomach and the imminent teasing of his classmates. Ashido is the first to notice him, a grin splitting her face in two even before she fully faces him. She waves with unnecessary enthusiasm, drawing Kacchan’s and Sero’s attention, and calls him over.

“Midoriya, just in time! A few minutes later and there would be no breakfast left for you.”

“Who said I’d have let you eat everything?” Kacchan growls.

“So you did put a plate aside for Midoriya!” Sero crows.

Explosions resound in the kitchen and both Ashido and Sero laugh, exchanging amused smiles before darting away and escaping the kitchen, fleeing Kacchan’s murderous aura. Ashido winks at Izuku while Sero briefly squeezes his shoulder, like they’re giving him some kind of encouragement or greeting a friend marching to his death, and it leaves Izuku puzzled and mildly worried. Their antics have always been a source of anxiety for anyone involved, due to the fact nobody is able to anticipate the disasters they cause.

Izuku files their strange behaviors away in his mind, and shifts on his feet as he looks at Kacchan. There are still sparks in Kacchan’s palms when he directs his glare at Izuku, who meets his gaze nervously.

“Hey, Kacchan.”

“Shut up and eat.”

Kacchan gestures towards a plate on the counter, filled with some gyoza and a side of vegetables. He doesn’t wait for Izuku’s reply, turning his back on him, occupying his now explosion-free hands with something that looks like a recipe book. Izuku is pretty sure he’s turning the pages for the sole purpose of avoiding looking at him, or engaging in any form of conversation.

That’s fine. Izuku doesn’t know what to say either.

Their days are filled with training, patrolling and planning; eating quickly has become part of their routine. He doesn’t bother taking the plate to sit in the common room, and simply stands at the counter to pick up a gyoza with the chopsticks that were already placed next to the plate. He barely remembers the last time he ate anything Kacchan cooked or baked—what he remembers is the two of them watching his mother push a tray full of cookies into the oven, excited at the idea of bringing their treats to class and boast about the fact Midoriya Inko’s cookies were the softest and the tastiest and the best. Kacchan once claimed he’d bake something even more delicious than mom’s cookies.

Izuku wonders if Kacchan managed to do it. He hasn’t caught him in the kitchen enough times to tell whether the appetizing smells wafting from it match the taste of what he prepared. Knowing Kacchan, though, he most likely mastered every dish he set his eyes on a long time ago.

The gyoza is no exception, and so are the vegetables. Izuku swallows a bite then two, then three with no pause, and doesn’t know if the choked off noises tumbling out of his mouth are the result of his eating too fast or of the uncomfortable churning in his stomach. The stuffing isn’t pork but chicken, there are mushrooms and cabbage and garlic, and it sends Izuku a handful of years back.

“It’s really good,” he says quietly.

“Of course it is, how many times do I have to tell you fuckers that I’m the best?”

“Yeah, you’re amazing.”

Kacchan swivels his head at him, his eyes a blazing red caught between disbelief and fury, like he’s using all his willpower not to set off a series of explosions in Izuku’s face. Maybe Izuku should say more often how cool Kacchan is, if he’s going to react so poorly every time he’s expressing his honest opinion.

Izuku frowns. He’s pretty sure Kacchan knows he thinks he’s amazing. He glances back at him.

“I’m being sincere,” he says.

“I know you are, that’s why it’s unsettling as hell.”

“I mentioned it before, though.”

“Yes, I remember, holy shit.”

Kacchan grits his teeth, the shadow of words forming on his lips but they’re never uttered. He opens and closes his fists several times in a motion reminiscent of his explosions, the muscles of his arms tight, then looks away. He chucks the recipe book somewhere on a shelf with alarming precision, managing not to knock anything over.

Suddenly, Izuku is struck with a disconcerting idea. Is… Is Kacchan not mad, but embarrassed? Kacchan doesn’t get embarrassed, ever. The slight tint of red on his cheeks proves otherwise though, because Izuku knows what rage looks like on Kacchan’s face, all sharp and raw—and this is not it.

Taking a deep breath, Izuku asks, “Kacchan, you’re being weird. I told you you didn’t have to force yourself.”

The reaction is immediate.

“I’m not forcing myself, shitty nerd!” Kacchan yells, twisting around to face him again. “Fuck, I’m not the one acting like someone’s been replaced by some cheap clone! Get your shit together.”

Izuku’s chest constricts at those words, and something rears its ugly head, to be let loose and free to show how unfair all of this is. Kacchan isn’t the one who is having his world turned upside down overnight. He’s not the one who has to witness strange acts of kindness towards him disguised as annoyance, or the one who has to pretend that this is the natural evolution of a relationship that has taken years to take the tiniest steps towards something barely called friendship.

Nothing changed, except it did, somehow, and Izuku is left gathering the pieces of a puzzle he has to rearrange again for it to make sense.

“You have to understand that I need to wrap my head around the fact you’re just being… you,” Izuku says around the thick lump in his throat. “That you’re a lot more friendly even if the others don’t really see it—”

“Stop fucking talking—”

“I mean! I know you’ll deny being nice because of course you’re not really nice, not by regular standards, even if you are in some way—it’s just that I didn’t expect things to change so drastically between us after you… after an apology that I haven’t even responded to.”

Horror settles on Izuku’s face as thousands of thoughts fill his mind. He has no idea what he should do. It’s terrifying.

Kacchan snaps his mouth shut. He looks even more incensed than before and maybe this was a bad idea to bring up this particular topic, even if it was shadowing every single one of their actions and words. His glare does nothing to abate Izuku’s uneasiness and his belief that this is one big hallucination.

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say,” Izuku barrels on, dropping his gaze to the floor. “I never imagined that we’d one day have this kind of conversation, because everything sort of felt like we were back to being friends—to being as close as we could be, without making things worse. I’m really happy that you told me how you’ve felt all these years… but…”

Kacchan and him, at night, standing on Ground Beta, Kacchan desperately trying to hold back his tears, both of them overwhelmed with different kinds of guilt—they’ve had their conversation. They’ve had a heart-to-heart, once, a release of pent-up anger and frustration marking the start of their repairing friendship. It feels so long ago.

Izuku knows it’s not the same as last time. Last time was a battle placing them on each side of a scale, maintaining an equilibrium that was beneficial to both of them; it was a necessary step for them to go further and to become stronger. It was an understanding.

This time, Izuku feels like every word uttered in this conversation holds the world’s entire weight. His own reality might crash and burn if he says the wrong thing.

“...But it’s so sudden that I still feel like I dreamed all of this up,” Izuku finishes lamely, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.

A voice suspiciously sounding like Kacchan himself is telling him he’s being stupid. The answer to his problem, to the apology, is simple and doesn’t warrant overthinking it to such an extent. People find his mumbling strange or annoying, but it’s even worse in his head where his thoughts keep buzzing and bouncing against each other, like a bad game of guessing.

“De—Izuku.”

Kacchan’s voice is quiet. As quiet as he was when he apologized. Unlike how he acts usually, but somehow still himself all the same.

“I’m fucking bad at this, and you’re bad at this,” he continues, though it sounds like it pains him to say this. “I already said everything I wanted back there. I’m not gonna repeat myself. I wasn’t even expecting you to say shit because I knew you’d be thinking about it like it’s a goddamn problem you have to solve.”

Izuku, for the first time since he woke up today, manages to put a name on the feeling that’s been pulling him down into that spiraling mess of anxiety.

He’s scared of finding out what it will all mean to him, and to Kacchan.

“I’m not asking for your forgiveness,” Kacchan sighs, slightly bitter and angry. “I said what I wanted to because I’m fucking selfish like that, and if you have anything to say back to me then I’ll listen. But I’m not asking for it, so chill the fuck out. Shitty nerd,” he tacks on at the end.

Kacchan called him a ‘shitty nerd’ twice in the same conversation, not even trying to get creative with his usual variations of this insult. Like a token taking root in the past, insisting on its existence that is forever, and it makes Izuku want to cry when he realizes why.

The insults will never be dropped, that much is certain. Kacchan’s ways of calling out to him simply expanded. A derisive laughter bubbles in Izuku’s throat—who the hell gets so happy to still be called names?

Kacchan growls. “If you’re making fun of me—”

“No, never,” Izuku cuts him off, directing his gaze towards Kacchan. Kacchan remains as stiff and uncomfortable as he was earlier. “I’d never make fun of you. It’s just… I guess I really will have to get used to being called by my name, now.”

His lips wobble only a little when they quirk up. He’s gripping the edge of the counter so hard that his knuckles are hurting and he’s probably not fooling Kacchan with his pathetic attempt at a smile. He needs to learn how to smile even when he feels he can’t anymore; even Todoroki mentioned it, when the whole class came looking for him.

And Kacchan told him it was alright to share burdens.

“Your hero name is still the fucking same, last I checked,” Kacchan retorts.

“Yeah, of course. I’ll always be Deku, in one way or another.”

“And it’s still a boring ass hero name.”

“Okay, Kacchan.”

Kacchan’s eye twitches, the beginning of a snarl marring his face, but he huffs and settles on crossing his arms over his chest. He’s thinking deeply about something. Izuku has always been able to tell when Kacchan retreated into his mind to weigh all the available options presented to him to give the best answer. There isn’t a single thing that Izuku hasn’t admired about his childhood friend, despite his terrible personality and tendency to resort to violence to solve his problems. Despite everything he made him go through, to Izuku’s eyes, Kacchan shines.

“Do you really want to keep talking about this dumb shit?”

“I don’t know,” Izuku admits.

He finds that it’s surprisingly easy to say it. He doesn’t know what he wants. He has a broad idea of what he thinks he wants—upcoming days of relative peace, filled with casual chatter and the feeling of being supported through and through, laughter in people’s eyes. He’s wishing for the best future, of course, and wants everyone to come out of this battle alive and well. But this is what most people want, to survive as a society and not as a crumbling castle whose foundations are unsalvageable.

The years that are awaiting them look grim. Painful and difficult. They will always stick together, Izuku hopes.

“I don’t think we will ever stop having this conversation,” Izuku says under his breath. “Not—not after everything that happened between us.”

Izuku relaxes his grip on the counter to curl his hands into loose fists, slowly rubbing his phalanges with his thumbs. Kacchan’s gaze is burning a hole in his neck.

“I need to think.”

“You’re always thinking,” Kacchan accuses.

“Well, I need to think more.”

Kacchan remains silent, once again, leveling Izuku with a stare that might have made him shrink on himself once upon a time. Then, as if sapped of his energy, exhausted, he lets out a long sigh and shoulders past Izuku to leave the kitchen.

“Get your shit together,” he repeats.

Izuku keeps his eyes rooted on the gyoza, filled with his favorite stuffing.

***

He spends the day in a daze. His classmates all express how glad and grateful they are that he’s back with them, even though they’re being a little bit too overbearing. Izuku can’t blame them for that, but his head is still full of cotton and the thoughts about Kacchan keep playing on repeat, like a curse or a prayer or whatever it is that makes someone lose their mind.

He still hasn’t thanked Uraraka for what she did, and he still hasn’t checked up on Todoroki after what happened with Dabi. He has yet to see how Aizawa is doing. Everything is going both too fast and too slow to his liking, pulling him in one direction and then curving in another without letting him process what he has been doing for the past hour.

“Head out of the clouds, dipshit!”

Izuku snaps back to attention just in time to avoid a frankly alarming fast strip of tape rushing past him, centimeters away from his face. His heartbeat climbs up in his throat and he blinks, stunned.

"Crap, sorry Midoriya!" Sero calls out, waving his hands above his head. "I didn't think it would go that far and that fast!"

Sero has been training to control the speed and the precision of his tape. Next to him, Kirishima is lifting a hand in apology, even though he isn't the one who almost poked Izuku’s eye out, and Kaminari is grinning. Kacchan, for his part, is scowling and glaring at Izuku.

That, at least, feels familiar.

"Ah, I was the one who was distracted, don't worry about it Sero-kun!" Izuku shouts back.

"If you're not feeling well, you should go rest more," comes a monotone voice behind Izuku.

Izuku whirls around and looks up at Todoroki's blank face. Though it isn't as blank as it usually is, pinched with a slight frown conveying his worry. Izuku is well acquainted with this expression, after being on the receiving end of it for the past twenty-four hours. He smiles and shakes his head.

"It's okay, I just have a lot of thinking to do."

Todoroki cants his head to the side, eyes searching. Izuku knows that despite how unaffected Todoroki seems to be, his mind is racing with a million thoughts—and in this case, it might be best to put an end to whatever he’s thinking about Izuku before it delves into something too far-fetched.

“Are you okay?” Izuku asks quickly. “How are you holding up?”

Todoroki simply blinks at his question and shrugs.

“Fine. I’ve also had time to think things over. Still not sure if what I’m thinking is sane or not considering the situation we are in, but this is what feels right to me.”

“Huh.”

Izuku honestly didn’t expect to receive such a sincere and spontaneous answer. It feels kind of strange to hear Todoroki pour out his heart so freely when Izuku himself is struggling to get his own into order. How the tables have turned.

“That’s great,” Izuku says, reaching out and patting Todoroki’s arm. “But things are still difficult, so if I can help, don’t hesitate to come to me. Even if you just want to… vent or watch something or drink tea.”

Todoroki’s lips quirk upwards, an amused light dancing in his eyes. “Thanks, Midoriya. I just have a lot of free time on my hands to think about the events of the past few weeks.” His gaze then shifts, looking at a point behind Izuku, and asks, “Is everything alright between you and Bakugou? He keeps looking this way.”

So much for trying to direct the conversation into safe territory.

“...Yes, it’s complicated but it’s alright,” Izuku replies, glancing back at Kacchan too. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You’ve been saying that a lot. Just now, and to Sero, and to the whole class yesterday.”

“Because you really don’t need to worry, I’ll figure things out.”

Todoroki looks like he doesn’t believe him. Izuku wouldn’t believe himself either.

“You know I’m not good with words,” Todoroki starts, voice low and almost hesitant. “But I’m glad you and Bakugou are talking. It sounded like you both were in pain, before. When we confronted you.”

Todoroki marks a pause, probably searching for his words, while Izuku stares at him, speechless. Izuku almost forgot that Kacchan’s apology was public, and that everyone witnessed it. He suddenly feels the need to lie down.

“Is… Is that so?”

“Bakugou really wanted to tell you all of these things, I think. I’m not the best at judging how anyone is feeling, but I can tell that’s something you needed. Both of you. So I hope you will feel better soon.”

Then, as if catching on that this is not a topic that Izuku is equipped to deal with right now, Todoroki’s face twists into a small grimace and he inclines his head, before making a hasty exit and heading towards Iida.

(Izuku is almost tempted to hysterically laugh at the fact Todoroki recognized an awkward situation and removed himself from the scene before it gets worse. God, what happened in those few weeks he was gone?)

***

Throughout the day, Izuku is given snacks and listens to kind words passing as a pep talk.

His classmates spar with him and tell him how cool his quirks are, even if they casually mention they’re terrified at the idea of going up against him during their next quirk training lesson.

He’s ushered into a room with Iida and Yaoyorozu to discuss plans about maintaining a healthy routine for everyone.

Uraraka smiles at him and offers more training to help him master his float quirk.

“Oh Midoriya, good to have you train with us! The black thing was so sick!”

“Hey, you alright in here Midoriya? Looked like you were lost in thought.”

“Midoriya-kun, let us know if you need anything! It’s a shame you can’t walk around campus freely for now.”

“How do you feel today?”

“Here is a snack for you, Midoriya-san.”

Izuku squeezes his eyes shut, and lets out a long exhale.

***

“That’s what fucking Dek—Izuku did last time and he tripped to his death, but be my guest to try that again.”

“That’s useful training for when we are restrained and can’t move freely.”

“So that excuses the stupid idea of tying your feet with a fucking rope and jump around like a dumb rabbit?”

"Like I said, it's good training."

"Go the fuck away, Icyhot."

Todoroki shrugs and proceeds to ignore Kacchan, sitting down on the hard ground of the gym and tying, with meticulous care, a short rope around his ankles. They’ve all spent hours doing various tasks and training all afternoon, and are most likely tired by this point. Izuku has a bad feeling about this.

"Uh…"

Both gazes zero in on him, while he’s standing at the entrance of the gym, and if Todoroki simply nods in acknowledgment, Kacchan narrows his eyes and looks kind of… intense. Izuku doesn't have a better word for it. Kacchan always looks intense but this is definitely on the far end of the intensity spectrum.

"What?" Kacchan barks.

"I think that Kacchan is right, Todoroki-kun," Izuku says.

"Of course I'm right."

"It's good training," Todoroki repeats on the same toneless inflection.

"Maybe, but I don't want you to get unnecessarily hurt."

Todoroki frowns. Izuku sometimes forgets he's as stubborn as Kacchan or himself.

“Why are you here, nerd? Thought you’d be stuck outside with the other extras,” Kacchan asks, shoving his hands into his pants pockets and looking detached from what is happening around him.

Perhaps Izuku is truly the one who is making things weird, if Kacchan is able to keep talking to him like yesterday and the day before didn’t shift Izuku’s world two inches to the left. Having someone else present during their conversations makes it easier to pretend that nothing changed, and somehow the easy banter between Kacchan and Todoroki soothes Izuku’s nerves.

“I… appreciate their concern, but it got a bit overwhelming,” Izuku admits, biting the inside of his cheek.

Kacchan snorts. “Figures. So your solution was to go hang out with dumbass over there who will likely need medical assistance in five seconds?”

“Your lack of faith wounds me, Bakugou,” Todoroki interrupts.

“Good. I don’t care.”

“I didn’t know you two were in the gym,” Izuku mutters.

Todoroki glances at him, frown still in place and eyes assessing.

“Do you want to try walking around with your feet bound?” Todoroki calmly asks.

“He just told you it was a bad idea, fucking idiot—”

“You’ll never know unless you try—”

“You’re so fucking stupid, why am I wasting my time talking sense into your brain that’s clearly empty—”

Kacchan makes a move towards the rope while Todoroki backs away as fast as his bound feet allow him to, and it quickly devolves into arms slapping at each other and kicks that look half-hearted, given how weak they are. Insults are muttered and at least one bad word leaving Todoroki’s mouth makes Kacchan want to wring his neck.

It reminds Izuku of petty fights breaking out in the classroom over a stupid topic, or a food war starting in the cafeteria because someone stole the last tempura in the plate. It’s harmless and sort of normal, and Todoroki and Kacchan have started to get into weird spats seemingly for the sake of it, since their remedial classes. Well, to be more accurate, Kacchan blows up and Todoroki defends himself with varying degrees of energy.

Izuku watches all of this unfold before his eyes, and he can’t help it. He bursts out laughing, unbridled joy bubbling in his throat and coming out in a full-blown laugh that makes him bend over like he’s not in control of his body anymore. His voice carries over the entire gym, and he’s dimly aware of the fact Kacchan and Todoroki stopped their scuffle in favor of staring at him with wide eyes.

“S-Sorry! It’s just… You guys never change,” Izuku explains through peals of laughter. “It’s nice to see.”

“Did you seriously think we’d become new people?” Kacchan grunts. “You were gone for a couple of weeks, not for years, Izuku.”

The syllables of Izuku’s name sound so clear and confident, when pronounced by Kacchan. It sounds completely different from the other times Izuku has heard him say it in the past few days, almost like there is now a triumphant ring to it. Like something was conquered and uttering the name was the prize.

If in the morning he only felt confusion and dread, scared of what is going to happen in the immediate future, Izuku feels much more relieved and warm now. He did make things more complicated for himself than they really were.

“No,” Izuku answers, wiping at his eyes. “Yeah, I wasn’t thinking. Well, I was thinking, but my logic went a bit astray.”

Kacchan scoffs, but doesn’t add anything else. He keeps his eyes locked on Izuku, and if Izuku looks carefully, if he pays attention to the details that matter, he notices that Kacchan is less hunched over himself and doesn’t display his usual sneer meant to scare away the weaklings (his words, not Izuku’s). And if Izuku wants to feel even bolder, he’d consider the slight twitch of Kacchan’s lips a smile.

Izuku doesn’t comment on it. He watches, analyzes and catalogs all these small adjustments that seem inconsequential but also grander than they are, all these glaring changes that should have turned his world upside down but in the end didn’t make any ripples.

Todoroki’s eyes go from Izuku to Kacchan, and back again. The corner of his lips quirk upwards.

***

At dinner, everyone chatters about the day’s events and how impatient they are to hear from the pro heroes. Waiting for news while being kept in the dark is probably the most infuriating thing in existence; Izuku understands how his classmates felt and how desperate they were to do something, to occupy their mind and not to stay idle.

Everyone is keeping a strict schedule to stay healthy and to plan group activities better. Going to bed early is a challenge for some of them, but for the most part, Izuku sees that exhaustion is what prompts them to turn in for the night. They’re all working hard—nobody wants to be left behind.

When Kacchan gets up to go back to his room, Izuku jumps on his feet and crosses the common room in three leaps and grabs his wrist. Kacchan casts him a nasty glare.

“Let’s go outside,” Izuku says before Kacchan gets the chance to shout. “We didn’t finish this morning’s conversation, so…”

Kacchan’s face loses its sharpness the slightest bit, then he raises an eyebrow. “You said we’ll never finish that conversation.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t mean we can’t resume it once in a while.”

“I dunno how much progress we can make when all you’ve done is think for a single fucking day.”

Izuku smiles sheepishly. “Sometimes that’s all I need to do.”

“Ain’t that a fucking first.”

“Come on, Kacchan. You’re being difficult on purpose.”

Izuku tugs at the wrist, and he expects Kacchan to wrench it away or to yell at him for treating him like a child. Instead, Kacchan curls his own fingers around Izuku’s wrist, and gently pushes it away. His fingers are warm and solid and strong against Izuku’s skin.

“When have I ever made life easy for you?” Kacchan smirks. “Let’s fucking go, then, shitty Izuku.”

There he is, Izuku thinks, feeling his eyes fill with stars and wonder. There his Kacchan is, the one that’s not from the past but also not the one that he has been going to UA with all this time. It’s the Kacchan of the present, all rough edges and no soft apparent openings, put together from different points in time of their relationship that shape who he is, without pretenses and weak reasonings. Izuku understands and he’s immensely glad that he finally does.

They bypass some of their classmates who shoot them curious or worried glances, but Izuku simply waves at them with a smile, and follows Kacchan outside the dorms. They can’t go too far from the building, so Izuku elects a patch of grass as a good place to stand and to talk. It seems they’re not really good at sitting down and remaining still.

“This morning was weird and I don’t think my brain was fully awake,” Izuku says softly. “But it’s all good now. I got a clearer idea on everything.”

Kacchan is fixing him with a stare that is not quite a glare, but he looks mildly out of his comfort zone. He probably has nothing else to add to the conversation, but he’s still willing to listen, like he promised, and for that Izuku is extremely grateful.

“I was… afraid of things changing,” he continues. “Which is a bit silly since we’ve known each other our whole lives but… I didn’t know what to expect, I guess. Like you said, I was overthinking it.”

Kacchan snorts. “Of course you were.”

Izuku smiles. “Things did change before, when you found out about One for All. And it turned out alright, so this time isn’t any different.” Izuku pauses, searching for his words. He should be honest too. “I won’t lie to you, though. It was kind of a shock when you apologized.”

Something on Kacchan’s face twitches violently and Izuku doesn’t know if it’s anger or guilt, so he keeps talking to wipe that expression off Kacchan. He shakes his head.

“My own reaction scared me, and this was what took me so long to just… accept whatever development happened. Sorry, Kacchan.”

“I knew you were going to give me a goddamn apology when that’s completely unnecessary,” Kacchan mutters, scrunching up his nose. “Don’t fucking apologize, I’ll explode your face, you bastard.”

“You said you were selfish for saying all these things, so I’m selfish too for apologizing!”

“That’s not even remotely close to what I meant!”

“Yes, it is! Hey, you said you’d listen if I wanted to answer you, right?”

“You’re such an annoying piece of shit, De—Izu—D—Fuck you!”

Kacchan is glowering and setting off small explosions in his hands, teeth bared, but his aggressivity is rendered null by his reddening cheeks and ears. Izuku’s lips are stretching into a grin so wide his face is going to stay stuck like this for the rest of his life.

“It’s okay, Kacchan. Take your time.”

“Do you want me to kick your ass so bad or what? Shut up!”

Izuku laughs, unrestrained, ducking his head when Kacchan tries to grab his head and waltzing away.

“My hero name is still ‘Deku’, I don’t mind if you keep calling me that.”

“You don’t listen to people when they talk, huh?! Don’t tell me what to call you! Fucking Deku! Shitty Izuku!”

“See? That’s totally fine!”

“You’re really fucking with me—”

Kacchan makes a noise that hasn’t been recorded as human yet, and throws his arms up in the air, clearly exasperated. Exasperated, but not angry. The sharpness of his eyes always burns but at this moment, Izuku recognizes as well the gentle glint in them—Kacchan isn’t only jagged edges and unpolished gemstone meant to be refined. And the both of them are alright, for now, despite their unfinished conversation and the unspoken expectations of the path their friendship is going to take. It will be a topic for another day.

“Don’t think I’ll start going easy on you,” Kacchan remarks.

“I’d never entertain that idea. You always give your best.”

“Damn right I do.”

A lull. They stand together, staring at each other, like they’re cataloging every detail on a face displaying new resolve and understanding previously incomplete.

“I’m really glad we talked and cleared things up,” Izuku says.

Kacchan pulls a face, like he doesn’t want to answer. Then, “Yeah, whatever. That was long overdue. I’m going to bed.”

And Izuku doesn’t stop him, doesn’t point out the awkwardness, just waits for him to start heading back before falling into step beside him. They remain silent, but it’s not suffocating; it’s quiet, the tranquility enveloping them in a sense of safety they haven’t had the chance to bask in in a while.

Izuku is content. His mind isn’t racing with thousands of thoughts anymore, and his body still tingles with pleasant warmth that is synonymous to plain, simple happiness.

“I mean, when did you get this? We don’t exactly have the time or means to go get groceries.”

Katsuki shrugs. “Leftovers from what I had in my room at the dorms. The rest’s in the kitchen.”

Katsuki doesn’t acknowledge Todoroki’s growing expression of wonder at that answer.

Their bedrooms and the living quarters of the Troy fortress look identical to Height Alliance’s. All their classmates quickly settled in, unpacking their belongings in record time and then invading the building with their chatter, loud steps and general idiocy under a day. It felt normal.

Todoroki stares some more at the can, all surprise vanishing from his expression and replaced by something akin to amusement, judging by the small smile that slowly twists his features into a face that causes weird somersaults in Katsuki’s stomach. Not that Katsuki can really tell if it’s a genuine smile or not—he doesn’t have a fucking degree in the meanings of the different upturns of Todoroki’s lips.

“Thanks,” Todoroki says at last, opening the can and taking a sip, instead of gulping it down like any normal person.

“Whatever. You were sitting like a zombie on the couch, you’d have given a fucking heart attack to anyone walking in.”

Katsuki stomps towards the aforementioned couch and collapses into it, arms crossed, leaving a reasonable distance between him and Todoroki—enough not to feel pressed against each other, not enough to let someone squeeze in. The couches are bigger and more comfortable than those at the dorms, and Katsuki wonders briefly if UA intends to keep the fortress for other uses in the future. Heroes need a place to gather for emergencies, and all those civilians won’t be rehomed before a long while.

It’s still early morning, barely past sunrise. The others will trickle down in the common rooms soon. Todoroki turns his eyes towards Katsuki, like he’s analyzing something complex.

“But not you,” he says. “You’re above a heart attack.”

“I’m above everything,” Katsuki fires back instantly.

“Hm. I’m better than you in English.”

“Your pronunciation is shit, I can barely understand what you’re saying.”

“Not true, you held a conversation with me and other people just fine.”

“That’s because I had to make efforts to decipher your gibberish, asshole.”

Todoroki snorts and drinks more of his soda. Katsuki huffs, pointedly not letting his eyes linger on Todoroki’s face and staring at the pristine white wall instead.

They spend the next couple of minutes in total silence, interrupted only by Todoroki sipping his drink. They’ve had their number of silences as company during their remedial classes, stuck in the backseat of a teacher’s car or sitting together on the bus, separated by an empty seat. Todoroki doesn’t mind silence, or even distance; he took everything in stride, even when Katsuki yelled at him to stay away or to shut up or to go choke on a sandwich and die. Todoroki is weird and gets on Katsuki’s nerves but he’s a constant.

It’s comfortable. It’s been oddly comfortable between them for the past few weeks, which Katsuki is aware of though he doesn’t particularly want to think about it longer than necessary.

“I think…” Todoroki starts quietly, fingers clutching his can tightly. “I think you should know that I appreciated you checking up on me. The other day. You didn’t have to, and I appreciate it.”

Katsuki presses his lips together and shifts on the couch. Todoroki shouldn't be allowed to say random shit at such random times.

“Couldn’t have you going all mopey and get fucking killed.”

They don’t do this. Katsuki and Todoroki don’t make small talk on most days (Todoroki simply initiates a conversation with a stupid remark and Katsuki scowls at him), let alone share what their burdens and fears are. They don’t talk about feelings. Entertaining the idea is ridiculous and it makes Katsuki snort.

“It’s been a shitshow for weeks, now. Just gotta make sure we’re all on the same page, which is shredding to pieces all those fucking extras.”

“That’s what we’ve been doing for a while, though,” Todoroki points out, a breathy sigh passing through his lips, like a laugh. “My objective never changed. I have to stop the villains, and become a hero. There are just additional obstacles in our way. Some are… more difficult than others.”

When Katsuki glances at him, Todoroki meets his eyes, and shrugs. Katsuki never told him he knew almost every single detail about his family drama, and Todoroki never questioned why Katsuki seems to be particularly incensed whenever said drama was brought up. Maybe Todoroki suspects Deku slipped up and said some things to Katsuki—which sounds just as stupid, because why the hell would Deku and Katsuki talk about someone else’s problems when they’ve got a shit ton of issues themselves?

“You think you can do it?” Katsuki asks, tone rising like a challenge.

Todoroki doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drifts back to his can of soda, a look of concentration shaping his features, and Katsuki can see the gears turning in his head.

“It’s not a question of whether I can,” Todoroki whispers. “I have to do it. Nobody else can.”

He puts a finger on the side of the can, drawing formless patterns.

“My father agreed before to stop Touya-nii with me, but the plan is what it is. He can’t do it. I can. It’s that simple.”

There is still something deeply disturbing in the decision of wanting the Todoroki family to settle a decade's worth of problems in front of everyone and their mothers, during what is most likely going to be another large-scale battle with destruction and unknown numbers of casualties. Their dirty laundry has been aired already; how much of that family battle will be for the citizens’ benefit, and not theirs?

“It’s that simple,” Katsuki repeats, unconvinced but understanding what Todoroki means. “Well. I guess if it’s that simple, the simple answer is to win, right?”

Todoroki’s lips quirk up, and when his mismatched eyes lock onto Katsuki, Katsuki feels like a burning star is staring right through him. There is none of his past hesitation, or his angry glimmer that clouded his judgment. The light in this gaze is confident and bright. Katsuki feels his own lips curl into a smirk.

“Go and fucking win, then.”

“I intend to fucking win, yeah,” Todoroki replies.

He won’t back down. Neither of them will.

“You have to win too,” Todoroki adds, looking at him with a much more intense fire.

“Of course I’ll win,” Katsuki says. “That’s my fucking name.”

Todoroki nods, a smile on his face. He looks less like death, illuminated by rays of sunshine and quiet but unshakable resolve shining behind his eyes.

Nils has no idea how he should behave in a place that doesn’t quite exist. The sight of his sister almost made him break down here and there in the summoning hall, in a messy way that hasn’t happened since he was a child, but he swallowed the tears and smiled for Ninian. She deserves to live a happy life, free of the burden brought by knowledge of the future.

Multiple versions of the same person can be summoned, and it sets him on edge. Walking around in the castle courtyard is enough to get a glimpse of at least three people sharing the same face, and yet coming from completely different timelines. Nils is at the receiving end of Lyn’s enthusiasm, from when she was traveling to Caelin, and then he catches a bow-wielding version of her looking at him with sadness so palpable he has to turn away.

“I’m so sorry, Nils,” Lyn says, squeezing his shoulder.

“I knew what was going to happen,” Nils replies through the thickness of his throat. “I did. And so did she. I tried to reason with her, but Ninian is… stubborn.”

Lyn smiles softly. Her eyes are so much more mature. “That’s true. From what I’ve seen since your departure, in our homeland, Ninian was happy. I don’t know what the future is made of, and I don’t know how much time she has left, but… she felt like she found a place in the world.”

Nils’s blood runs colder. He blinks away the mist in his eyes.

***

The air in Askr is pure. It’s different from Elibe’s, which was heavy and saturated with a mutated form of energy. There is something clean and pleasant when he takes a deep breath in,  but Askr’s air still doesn’t come anywhere close to his home’s beyond the Dragon’s Gate—full of earthly scents and fresh waters. The portal to the multiple worlds must be regulating the atmosphere so that heroes from anywhere in the universe can survive in this realm.

Here, nobody is at risk of dying from air poisoning. Every time Ninian so much as coughs or trips over her dress, Nils is one second away from pulling her aside and fretting over her like he would to a young child. But Ninian is healthy, stronger than ever with her powers within easy reach, and she is physically present to card her fingers through her brother’s hair in that gentle gesture of reassurance she favors, as if it was just another day of traveling the rough and hostile roads of Elibe.

“I don’t like the idea of you being on the battlefield and using your dragonstone,” Nils mutters.

“Don’t be silly, you know I can defend myself just fine,” Ninian laughs. “I’m safe here, and our friends can rely on me. Just like they can rely on you.”

“We’ve never fought alongside humans before. Humans are unpredictable... “

A flash of sadness passes over Ninian’s face, but the look she is giving him is full of confusion.

“Nils, you sound…so different. What happened…?”

Nils violently shakes his head. The pit in his stomach is growing wider and heavier. He wants to throw up.

“Nothing,” he says. “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing.”

“Nils…”

“I’m telling you, it’s fine. Just worried about… all these people we don’t know.”

Ever since they set foot in Elibe, ever since they pretended to be back in a world they thought they belonged to, they haven’t stopped lying—to people they met, to friends who extended their hands towards them, and to themselves. Plaster on a smile, prepare some empty words, and Nils is capable of fooling anyone into believing he’s perfectly fine. Except Ninian; Ninian doesn’t look convinced, and she always knows when something is troubling him.

As if summoned by fate’s yet again twisted sense of humor, somebody approaches them. 

“Are you two alright…?”

Nils actually heard footsteps long before this person was close enough to call out to them. He should have paid more attention to this intrusion.

Clad in white, regal in his posture and infinitely warm in his gestures, Eliwood stands before them, his face pinched in worry. He looks barely older, probably plucked from a timeline close to the end of his journey. He’s clutching a lance in his right hand—a blue lance reminiscent of blizzards and cold days, emanating a strange comforting light that makes Nils’s heart calmer.

But Nils is anything but calm at that moment.

“We’re fine,” Nils snaps.

Ninian whips her head at him in shock, but Nils’s eyes are focused on Eliwood, and Eliwood only.

Eliwood stops dead in his tracks and seems to shrink on himself, despite standing as still as possible.

“Ah… I should have given you a warning,” Eliwood says with a feeble smile. “I will leave you two to catch up on anything you might have… missed.”

Eliwood makes a hasty exit. His cape barely brushes the soil and his lance is handled with care, despite its size and the fact this is not his preferred weapon. Nils watches him go away and disappear until he’s just a white dot on the horizon, like he’s waiting for him to turn around and come back to taunt him some more.

Nils knows that Eliwood doesn’t have a single malicious bone in his body. If anything, he’s just as generous and kind-hearted as his father, helping both Nils and Ninian countless times during their journey. But the briefest and simplest flash of Ninian’s corpse lying in Eliwood’s arms, face twisted in misery and regret, is enough to clasp and crush Nils’s heart until only dust and rage remain.

A hand lands on his shoulder. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with this—can’t he simply enjoy the presence of his sister in a world that’s not killing them?

“What was that, Nils?” Ninian demands. She actually demands.

“Do you remember my warning?” Nils asks, lifting his gaze to meet his sister’s. “That you shouldn’t fall in love with Lord Eliwood?”

Lips pursed, Ninian frowns. Of course she remembers.

“Something bad happened,” Nils continues. “A mistake. You… you decided not to blame Lord Eliwood for it. Even if he should have…”

Even if he should have tried harder to obtain Ninian’s forgiveness, Nils’s brain supplies for him. Even if he should have known better than to attack mindlessly, he thinks. Legendary weapons like the Durandal were sealed for a reason; if they weren’t dangerous, they wouldn’t be so coveted and guarded.

Ninian shakes her head, uncomprehending.

“I can’t imagine you being this angry towards Lord Eliwood,” she says. “Your heart is good, Nils.”

“I thought I forgave him, too,” Nils murmurs. “But being summoned in Askr and remembering what happened is too much.”

Ninian looks so devastated, so disoriented by what sounds like the worst news her own brother has ever told her. Nils can’t bear watching her crumble like this. His fingers tremble when he wraps them around his sister’s.

“I’m sorry Ninian. I’m just as confused as you are, I didn’t think it would be this hard. Give me some time to mull over this, okay?”

It’s a struggle to look at Ninian’s face and see how healthy she is, instead of the lifeless expression that’s been etched in Nils’s memory ever since the incident happened. She came back to them, she came back to Eliwood, revived by a hero who did it only to save the world from destruction—but even so, Nils has never forgotten how helpless he felt.

Ninian gives him the tiniest nod, and she squeezes his hand between her own.

“I can’t pretend to know the pain you suffered, but please, don’t go through this alone,” Ninian begs.

Nils swallows. “I’ll try.”

***

Nils doesn’t hate Eliwood. That is an indisputable fact; if he truly hated him, he wouldn’t have fought alongside him near the end of the campaign, and he wouldn’t have used his powers to help the army progress from one battle to the next. Not hating Eliwood doesn’t mean that Nils cannot still harbor some kind of resentment towards him.

Perhaps he’s being unfair. None of them asked to be at the center of this tragedy. Eliwood already expressed his regret, and Nils suspects that he still blames himself for what happened.

Anger is not an emotion that Nils likes.

He’s exploring the Aether Resort, a beautiful place where heroes gather to relax and to rest. People grow their own food and flowers, use the kitchens to cook some special dishes and go to the hot springs. Nils heard about a concert hall, and this is where he’s heading to, following the signposts as well as the group of joyous dancers talking animatedly between them. Singing and playing the flute will help calm him down.

He spots in the crowd red hair even more flamboyant than Eliwood’s. The boy’s aura is surprisingly tame, considering how luminous it feels and who his parents are. It’s a strange sensation that fills Nils with nervousness and curiosity in equal parts, pulling him towards this boy who clearly looks out of place here.

“Hello,” Nils greets him, tapping him lightly on the shoulder.

The boy doesn’t quite start but he whirls around so fast that Nils almost regrets coming over to him, but the initial shock in these blue eyes quickly leaves place to absolute delight.

“Oh, you must be my uncle!” the boy exclaims. “My mother’s brother? I’m so glad to meet you.”

For a few seconds, Nils simply stares. For a moment, at a loss for words, he stares at this face still marked by youthful innocence looking at him with such eagerness and happiness. Then, he bursts out laughing.

“You’re such an earnest boy!”

Nils didn’t know what to expect, so he’s pleasantly surprised. This boy looks exactly like Eliwood, but his aura is a perfect mix of his mother’s serene calm and his father’s passionate conviction. This is someone destined for great achievements.

The boy ducks his head and wrings his hands together, fiddling with his gloves.

“I’m sorry, I’m just excited to finally meet my mother’s family,” he says shyly. “I was there when you were summoned. Ah, I haven’t introduced myself, my name is Roy.”

A fitting name, for the son of two strong people. Nils smiles at Roy.

“Nice to meet you too, Roy. I’m Nils. I hope we can become good friends while we’re here in Askr.”

Roy nods, a grin splitting his face in two. Nils immediately takes a liking to him; this boy inspires trust and his presence alone seems to put people at ease. It reminds Nils of Elbert, then Eliwood, when he first met them.

His mood slightly dampens at the memory of Elbert, but Nils chases the thoughts away.

“Do you enjoy singing and dancing, Roy?” Nils asks, gesturing to the concert hall in front of them.

Roy shakes his head. “I was taught the basics of dancing, but I’m not very good at it. And I don’t sing either. But I enjoy watching and listening to performances.”

He fiddles further with his gloves, pulling on the edges of the fingerless part of them. He doesn’t look Nils in the eye, and Nils can sense the drastic change of mood in the air.

“I was hoping to see Mother dance, actually,” Roy admits. “Everyone says that her dances were the best.”

“Why don’t you ask her to dance with you?” Nils asks gently. “She won’t refuse.”

Nils watches the way Roy’s mouth curls into a wry smile.

“I know, but I’m kind of embarrassed,” Roy laughs. “I have two left feet, really.”

Nils can picture it—this grown Roy standing next to Ninian, trying to imitate the steps his mother is teaching him, the both of them smiling and basking in the joy of simply sharing such a beautiful moment together. Judging by the wistful tone of Roy’s voice and the way he speaks so reverently of his mother, Ninian didn’t live long enough to see her son grow up.

It’s so, so unfair. Something twists in Nils’s stomach, vicious and sharp. Was staying in Elibe truly the right choice for Ninian? Was it truly worth it to spend only a handful of years with the one she loved? There is so much she hasn’t had to experience. It breaks Nils’s heart that they were all separated too soon.

But they’re here, in Askr. He’s here with them, not on the other side of the Dragon’s Gate, and even if this life is ephemeral, even if it’s one huge lie, they’re living it.

“I can help you, if you want,” Nils says. “I’m not as good as your mother at dancing, but I can encourage you while you practice.”

Roy stops playing with his hands and nods vigorously. His blue gaze is full of enthusiasm and hope, reminding Nils of swaying waves that softly stroke sand and pebbles on the shore.

“Thank you, Uncle Nils,” Roy replies warmly.

Uncle Nils.

Nils can get used to it.

“It’s my pleasure, Roy.” Nils smiles, and his heart is alleviated the slightest bit.

***

This Lyn doesn’t know anything about the end of the campaign, and she keeps trying to push him behind her so she can protect him. Nils smiles at her back, even if he’s more than capable of fending for himself—this brings back memories of their early days as Lyndis’s Legion, when they were a simple ragtag group of people who met by sheer coincidence.

“Don’t worry Nils, I’ve got this,” Lyn says.

She wields the Sol Katti as if she’s always had it with her; Nils doesn’t pretend to understand how the rules of this realm work, but Lyn’s confidence as she slashes her enemies makes it obvious she’s had time to grow comfortable with the blade. Nils brings his flute to his lip and plays a song of hope and victory, inviting and revitalizing. His companions give him a thumbs-up and keep fighting, until the enemy is decimated and the threat of invasion is annihilated.

Kana grins brightly at her father, who pats her on the head with an equally joyful smile. Corrin doesn’t carry his dragonstone, apparently favoring a bow he’s been practicing with under Prince Takumi’s supervision. It must be nice to have such an extended family and to be able to spend time with all of them.

“Did you see how I blasted this guy?” Kana asks excitedly. “He didn’t have a chance against me!”

“You’re the strongest little dragon girl I know, Kana,” Corrin answers.

Kana wraps her arms around Corrin’s waist and stays there, content to be hugging her father for an indefinite period of time. Corrin chuckles and gives a small shrug when he catches Lyn and Nils staring at him.

“I’m glad I can spend time with Kana here too,” he says. “In our world, it was… kind of difficult to see our children while the war was going on. But there are no such constraints here.”

“Looks like Askr is the perfect place to reunite loved ones,” Nils remarks.

“Prince Alfonse said that the summoner’s powers rely a lot on the bonds that were forged,” Lyn replies. “Summoning friends or family members of a hero who’s already been fighting for Askr is easier than summoning someone who has no ties to anyone here.”

Corrin nods. “It may take time to summon, but everyone will eventually be reunited.”

Lyn turns to Nils and gives him a sympathetic smile. “Ninian was summoned very early in Askr, and for some reason Kiran never managed to pull you out of Elibe until recently. But Eliwood and Hector were summoned rather quickly—well, the Eliwood and Hector from my time, anyway.”

The Eliwood that spoke to Nils clearly came from the future. Nils supposes that it is easier to summon people closer to the timeline of the heroes already present than to risk altering the course of fate. It stings a little bit that he wasn’t there earlier, but maybe his return to the other side of the Dragon’s Gate delayed his arrival in Askr. Then again, he has no idea how long Askr has been fighting Embla and other threats.

“It’s so complicated,” Nils mutters.

“Imagine my surprise when I learned that Eliwood’s son and Hector’s daughter were here!” Lyn laughs. “None of them told me if I had any children, but I think I prefer it that way.”

Nils coughs. “I kind of… sensed someone with your aura the other day. It could have been your partner or your child.”

The look of absolute alarm on Lyn’s face makes it hard not to grin.

“No, don’t tell me anything!” Lyn exclaims adamantly. “I don’t want to know!”

Lyn crosses her arms in front of her face and takes two steps back for good measure. Nils bursts out laughing and assures her he won’t reveal anything, while Kana and Corrin watch them with amusement. Nils glances back at them, and he senses his cheer fade away a little bit. Is this what he missed? Long days of watching a family bond and laugh happily?

Nils has no idea what he’s angry at anymore.

***

It’s been a week since his encounter with Eliwood. Nils has met many heroes in the meantime, people who are struggling to make the right choice and manaketes who are afraid to wake up one day without their friends at their side. He dodges confrontation with Eliwood at mealtimes and tries not to shrink on himself under Lyn’s and Hector’s curious stares. Eliwood doesn’t come seeking him out; Nils has a hard time deciding whether it’s worse than having him hover.

One day, he sits in the gardens and pretends he didn’t see Eliwood taking a walk a bit farther away. He watches him strike up a conversation with Princess Eir, then meet up with Roy, who was patiently waiting near a plot of land. Their resemblance is striking and Nils wouldn’t be surprised if more than one person confused the two, especially when they have their backs turned. Nils can’t make out what they are saying to each other, but judging by their careful gestures and fingers pointing at bushes, they must be talking about plants. Such an ordinary activity to do.

Watching them like this, Nils wonders. There is nothing wrong with this picture—it warms his heart to see Eliwood and Roy spending time together.

He truly doesn’t like anger.

***

Nils sees his sister once in a while, talks with her and learns about Askr, but he knows that Ninian is still upset. She’s upset because of his behavior towards Eliwood, no doubt; but Nils recognizes that look of fear in her eyes, the one that haunted her during those days where they couldn’t trust anyone but themselves. She is scared of what Nils has become.

And once Nils realized that, once he realized that he is about to lose his sister all over again, he pulls her aside after their mission and hugs her tightly.

“Don’t be sad anymore, Ninian,” he whispers into her hair. “Don’t be sad and angry.”

Her heart beat against his, and he’s holding her in his arms. There is nothing to be afraid of.

Ninian returns the embrace and sighs, like she’s letting go of all the tension she’s accumulated in her body over the days.

“I’m simply lost,” she says. “I gathered you don’t like my relationship with Lord Eliwood…”

“In the future, he’s going to hurt you,” Nils finally blurts out. “I couldn’t save you. Staying with him will kill you, and I can’t… I couldn’t accept this without trying to prevent it. I know it’s selfish, and unfair to you and to him but…”

He was so, so consumed by rage and grief, when he saw Ninian’s body in Eliwood’s arms—this is the only moment he clearly remembers from those days. 

“I don’t want you to suffer,” he adds quietly.

“Nils, I already know what fate awaits me if I decide to stay in Elibe,” Ninian tells him softly. “And the Ninian of your world most likely knew, too. I’m touched you care so deeply about me… but she made an informed choice. And I can’t leave Lord Eliwood’s side, not when I can still stay with him. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t know what he’s going to do,” Nils insists.

“No, I don’t. But your Ninian was happy, was she not?”

In response to her question, Nils squeezes his eyes shut and tightens his arms around her.

***

Roy doesn’t have two left feet like he claims he does, but that’s a near thing.

People often go to the concert hall to enjoy a moment of reprieve and cheer on their comrades as they sing and dance, so Nils supposed Roy wouldn’t want people to look at him while he practiced. He certainly doesn’t like it when someone watches him play a tune he hasn’t mastered yet.

“I’ve had lessons when I was younger, but I can’t say I was the best,” Roy says sheepishly. 

He puts his right foot in front of his left, tries to bend his knees to take momentum for a spin, but he stumbles and almost falls forward. He catches himself and plants his feet in the ground. He remains still for a few seconds longer.

“Maybe I should simply invite Mother over for tea,” he mutters.

Nils smiles. Despite what Roy told him about being awkward and nervous around Ninian, other heroes have reported that Roy and Ninian did speak to each other multiple times, without either of them combusting. Nils also thought that interacting with Roy would be much harder, considering their family circumstances, but the kid is easy to talk to and Nils himself seems to have gained Roy’s trust effortlessly. 

“You know that she won’t refuse,” Nils assures him. “And you improved your dancing. You’re not as stiff as before.”

Roy sighs. “Thank you, Uncle Nils. I know my parents used to dance a lot before…” Roy trails off, eyes quickly glancing in Nils’s direction before looking back at the ground. “...before being summoned here.”

Nils doesn’t pretend he hasn’t noticed Roy’s change of words. The kid’s shoulders are tense and he is biting his lower lip, in a way that is reminiscent of children hoping they’re not in trouble after destroying some part of their home. However, to his surprise, Roy lifts his gaze and plows on.

“I… know that you and Father had a disagreement. Mother also seemed a bit down the last time I saw her. I wasn’t privy to the details, but I hope that you will find a solution together. I think none of you are taking this fight well.”

He truly is an earnest kid. He has his father’s eyes and conviction.

Nils finds himself fiddling with his flute, thumbing the cool wood and twirling it between his fingers.

“It’s complicated. I disagreed with your mother about a choice she made,” Nils says. “She thinks it’s the right choice, while I think there are other, less painful options. Better options for her, at least.”

It might not be a good or reasonable idea to discuss this matter with Roy, who probably doesn’t know his parents’ full history. It is also not Roy’s responsibility to shoulder this burden. Nils waves a hand in dismissal.

“Don’t worry about it, we’ll figure something out.” When I sort out my feelings about this whole thing.

“It’s probably not the same thing but… some people have their own point of view on events that happened around them, or on things that others think pointless,” Roy says. “No matter how hard we try to change their mind, they stay true to their convictions because they ardently believe in them.”

Roy’s face becomes pensive, almost like he is having a few realizations himself.

“I met soldiers who wouldn’t join us because they were loyal to their home country, even though they knew they wouldn’t win. They wanted to follow their heart until the end. I myself have to rely on my own convictions to continue fighting in the war, because if I don’t follow my own path there is no point in me leading the army. Anyone else could do it.”

Then, Roy rubs the back of his neck, smiling ruefully.

“Sorry, I rambled a bit there. What I mean is everyone has their own path, and they firmly believe in it. It reminded me of that.”

It all boils down to this, doesn’t it? Believing in making the right choices to move forward. Following one direction means never knowing where another one would have led them. Nils knows what future awaits them, since he’s lived it; Ninian wants to believe she will get the ending she hopes for, or at the very least part of the ending she knows will satisfy her. He wonders, briefly, if his Ninian regretted her choice on her deathbed.

He dispels the thought immediately. He won’t go into that territory.

“Has anyone told you that you have a way with words?” Nils asks, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Roy ducks his head. “Y-Yeah. Lilina tells me I’m showing off, though.”

“I think it’s great. You… have your father’s charm and his earnest eyes.”

Nils recognizes this as much—Lord Elbert was the same. It runs in the family.

Even though he is still embarrassed, Roy grins.

“I’m glad we had this conversation, I think I know what I have to do now,” Nils continues.

“Whatever the disagreement was, I’m sure Father and Mother will understand.”

Nils doesn’t need to be told twice; Eliwood and Ninian are the most forgiving people in the world.

***

The very next day, Kiran calls Nils over to send him on a mission to collect materials for crafting weapons, and didn’t think it necessary to warn him who was part of the team.

“It seems that Kiran has not thought through the composition of our group,” King Dimitri says, his chin pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

“Maybe they wanted to list down the other versions of us?” Lady Eirika suggests as she readjusts her helmet. “Lord Eliwood and I both wielded a sword and rode a horse, at the end of our respective campaigns.”

“No, Kiran wouldn’t have made such a mistake,” Eliwood replies, shaking his head. “I’m sure they made this team for a reason. Something about lances being the best weapon to collect materials at this time of the year?”

Nils sighs. He wasn’t prepared to confront Eliwood so soon.

Tactics have never been his domain of expertise, but he believes in his teammates. Three people wielding lances and a dragonstone user doubling as a supporting mage should be strong enough to accomplish today’s missions with minimal damage.

Dimitri naturally steps up to take charge, Eirika and Eliwood happily letting him lead. Nils stays close behind them, even though craning his neck isn’t the most ideal position to observe the two horse-riding knights. Reading the group’s aura is easy enough; he’s already acquainted with Eliwood’s, Eirika radiates the same kindness with an even brighter sparkle, and Dimitri’s muddled light isn’t inconveniencing at all. They can work well together.

They actually don’t have many opportunities to draw their weapons. Enemy forces are rare on this side of Askr’s plains; their lances are mostly used as pitchforks to pierce stones or lift rocks to find all the materials Kiran needed. Using legendary weapons such as the Moon Gradivus or the Binding Reginleif for such menial tasks sounds kind of absurd. Nils even transformed once or twice to do the heavy-lifting himself.

Dimitri, Eirika and Eliwood seem to be on good terms. Their conversations revolve around just ruling, keeping an eye on their family and telling silly stories about their friends. It feels nice to be around them—being from different worlds is more of an opportunity to learn than an obstacle to communication.

They decide to take a break, settling under a tree and letting the horses eat to their heart’s content. Dimitri and Eirika went looking for a stream to refill everyone’s canteens, while Nils and Eliwood stayed behind. 

Nils’s eyes are drawn to Eliwood’s lance. Last time he saw it, he was too angry to properly examine it.

“This lance was blessed by Ninis, right?”

Eliwood glances at him warily. Something akin to guilt curls in Nils’s stomach.

“Yes. Ninian said it was a gift,” Eliwood answers.

That explains nothing.

“How would you get it?” Nils pushes, frowning. “Ninis is the spirit of Ice. She watches over the tallest mountains of Ilia, and it is said our powers as ice dragons descend from her.”

Eliwood smiles, seeming to recall a memory.

“Kiran gave it to me when I was summoned,” he says. “They told me that Ninian… helped forge it by instilling some of her powers into it.”

Did Ninian know that Eliwood would eventually come? Or did she simply ask Kiran for a favor and have this weapon crafted, to be prepared for his arrival?

Nils bites his lips. He’s being unnecessarily stubborn about not accepting something that is not his place to fight with in the first place.

“My sister… truly loves you, Lord Eliwood,” Nils whispers, clutching his flute. “Nothing I’ve said in the past during the war ever changed that. She loves you more than anything else in the world.”

Eliwood stays quiet, staring at Nils with that understanding and kind gaze of his that he’s directed at them so many times before, when their secret was still jealously kept.

“I’m so fortunate to have her in my life,” Eliwood says, like a prayer. “I can’t imagine what my life would have been like if I didn’t have her unwavering support by my side. I don’t think she knows how much she means to me.”

Ninian’s love transcends realms and realities. She cares so much for this man, and Eliwood in turn treats her like she is the most precious treasure life has given him. Nils knows all this—he’s witnessed their love blossoming during the war, like a persistent light that refuses to be snuffed out. The bond uniting them looks like it has been forged by destiny itself.

Nils has always known this. Looking at the way Eliwood’s face brightens just by speaking about Ninian, there is no doubt he deeply wishes he could spend his forever with her. The years have made him less shy about showing his love.

"Lord Eliwood, I’m… I’m sorry," Nils says, averting his eyes. "I’ve said things I shouldn’t have."

Eliwood shakes his head. "No, you were in your right to be angry. I’ve done something unforgivable."

"But still! I had already moved forward, when we went against Nergal. It’s true I was angry at you for what happened, but I decided not to blame you. I couldn’t blame you when you were as devastated as I was."

Nils hears Eliwood shifting, probably gazing up at the sky or simply respecting Nils’s choice of not looking at him. He speaks with a quiet voice, almost as if talking any louder would shatter the peace between them.

"Nils, at the time I was simply relieved you didn’t hate me and that you were still willing to fight alongside us," Eliwood admits. "I assumed you wanted to take revenge on Nergal. We didn’t have the chance to talk, and I was the last person who would have had the right to speak to you. I apologize for what I did and for making you feel left out."

Nils glances up. Eliwood’s eyes are trained on his, a profound sadness reflected in them. Nils wasn’t the only one who pondered on all these questions and regrets. He opens his mouth and tries to speak, but his throat closes up and no words pass through his lips. Eliwood patiently waits, never pushing. His heart of gold is what drew both Ninian and Nils to him, after all.

"… Near the end of the war, I was simply thinking about ending it once and for all," Nils says, swallowing. "I wasn’t very receptive to what my friends were doing for me. I guess that now I’m seeing things clearly, all my anger came back... It just felt unfair and cruel."

He shakes his head, sighing deeply. Those few weeks between Ninian’s death and Nergal’s defeat are a blur of images and odd sensations—he cannot remember and fully picture how he had lived those days, but he doesn’t need to to know how terribly alone he had felt.

"But I don’t want to stay angry forever, especially since I can’t expect Ninian to make choices that will make her miserable. She… she’s choosing to live a life of happiness."

"I know how dear your sister is to you," Eliwood continues softly. "Askr is a wonderful place where we can all be together for a while longer. If you allow it, I’d like us—all of us, as a family, to take this opportunity and enjoy our time here. Would you accept this?"

The feeling of dread and uneasiness that has accompanied Nils since he was summoned gradually disappears. Eliwood’s words are making him want to look away again to hide how close to tears he is.

"Yeah, I’d love that," Nils replies with a wobbly smile. "We missed our chance in the past. Let’s not repeat the same mistake.”

Whether Nils is doing this for his own sake or for Ninian’s, it doesn’t matter. There is no point in remaining resentful at this moment, where everything looks radiant and hopeful. Nils doesn’t want to miss this.

***

The music fills the air like an enchantment, spreading a joyous melody that puts at ease anyone it touches. The notes are waltzing, gently swaying in their little dance and creating a rhythm that is now considered a part of himself. Nils plays the flute with his entire being and won’t stop until the emotions he’s feeling around him are soothed.

On the stage of the concert hall, someone steps forward. Nils’s eyes go impossibly fond as he watches Ninian take the first step of her usual dance accompanying his flute—the spectacle to his orchestra. She lifts her stole, extends her arms with grace, and moves like she is only but a feather touching ground. The flute accompanies every one of the dance steps, and the dance steps enhance each note. It is a performance they have done countless times, in front of a bonfire or in a corner of the camp away from the crowd; it is a performance meant to appease minds and to revitalize people to help them go through yet another day of fighting.

Ninis’s powers are coursing through their bodies, granting them the ability to always help those in need. Nils plays, Ninian dances, and they send out their prayers for a better world.

***

“You were happy,” Nils announces quietly. “When I went through the Dragon’s Gate. You were sad to see me leave, but you were so happy to stay by Lord Eliwood’s side, and to keep living in Elibe.”

Nils is pulling at a loose thread on the couch he’s sitting on. The common room is buzzing with soft chatter, while the crackling of the fire pulls them into a feeling of safety. Ninian turns her gaze from the arm wrestling happening a bit farther away to look at Nils. Her smile is bright and unrestrained.

“I know I will be,” she says. “Being in Askr is already making me so content. I’m ready to face anything that will happen in the future, if it means living this happiness for myself.”

Nils will never be able to convince her otherwise—he can only trust her and wish for her well-being. He’s met her son and her loving husband, as she will come to know them.

“I will pray that you live a fulfilling life,” Nils tells her. “That’s the least I can do.”

Ninian takes both his hands into hers. She’s warm. Her time in Askr allowed her to grow stronger and to become a full-fledged member of the army, without having to hide who she truly is. Nils looks at his sister, and for the first time since he’s been summoned, his smile isn’t tainted by any traces of worry or restlessness.