1 Our future

Midoriya's in his early twenties when he finds the letter. His big debut as a hero has long since come and gone, and he's settling into professional life. He just recently switched to a new agency, and he's moving up the ranks, on to higher responsibilities.

The new job requires him to move into a different apartment. In the hassle of boxing up all his possessions and consolidating old stuff to trash or give away, he finds the letter, buried in a box of old notebooks he felt the need to flip through one last time. It's tucked into the cover of that nostalgic, waterlogged notebook that Kacchan burned in front of him in primary school. The fire is still brown and alive on its pages. Or rather, the letter falls out onto the floor as he thumbs through the illegible writing.

At first, he doesn't recognize it. The envelope is white, inconspicuous, and unsealed. As he sits on the floor, he picks up the envelope and turns it over, searching for an address. Nothing. No name. No label. He curiously slips out the paper and once he sees the dense scrawl of his childhood handwriting, he pales with realization.

It's a note. The note.

Dear Mom,

To whom it may concern

To whoever finds this:

Hi. My name's Midoriya Izuku. Though, you probably already know my name, especially if it's Mom who's reading this. I'm sorry, Mom. But if you're the police, you'll probably want to know. Unless Mom already told you?

Or, maybe this is Kacchan. I hope not. Please, please don't let Kacchan read this.

I'm not really sure what to say. Anything I could think of seems overdramatic. So, I guess I'm just letting you know, I've got a strap underneath my bed. It's the strap that bundles up my sleeping bag. Sometimes Mom and I used to go camping together. I didn't buy that for this, but if I do it, that's what I'm going to use. Mostly because I'm afraid if I buy a rope, Mom will know, somehow.

This feels better than a rope, anyway. Maybe because the sleeping bag carries good memories. I think that's why when old people die in their sleep, they often die at home. That's where it feels safe.

Sorry. You probably already know about the strap, so I don't know why I'm going on and on. I guess I just don't know how to write a letter like this. There's no manual. And believe me, I tried looking for one. I went to the library and I searched on the Internet. All it did was make me really sad. This will probably make Mom really sad, too.

Honestly, I always thought I'd grow up. Maybe become a journalist. I'm good at taking notes, good at noticing things. Mom and Kacchan told me that I should give up on becoming a hero, so I started trying to imagine a normal future. And it kind of worked. After a while, though, I looked around and realized that even ordinary tasks take talent. If I fail to become a hero, what then? Will I really be lucky enough to succeed as a normal person? Or am I worse than average? Am I worse than that?

Yesterday, I opened my notebook to write about All Might's latest battle. I looked at all my stupid doodles, and all the cramped text on the page, and I guess I realized, wow. This is a waste of time, isn't it?

This is the only thing I'll do that matters. And it'll never matter enough.

That's kind of how I feel about this letter, too. It's hard to die. Because even if I do, it won't matter. It'll matter to somebody—to my mom, or maybe my dad, if he hears about it. But it won't really matter. If I leave the world, I'm not taking away from it. But if I stay, I'm not adding anything meaningful, either.

I'm not sure what to do. If you're reading this, I guess that means I decided to go. Or maybe you're me, and I let you live.

Either way, I'm sorry.

Midoriya Izuku

P.S. If he asks, tell Kacchan it's not his fault.Or if your reading this, I'm sorry. I know you may feel guilt, but this didn't happen because of you, kachan.

He was in middle school when he first opened the letter. And now, scanning the content of the page, he feels just as young as he did back then. Kacchan had suggested he kill himself, but that was a tough task for a boy with dreams and a whole lot of fear for death. At the time, though, he thought perhaps Kacchan had a point. Not about the whole, actually killing himself thing, but about the idea. Honestly, Midoriya never considered that option until Kacchan brought it up.

He did his research, read blogs written by other depressed kids, and drafted his note. But he never considered going through with it. Not seriously. The "strap" was just big talk from a tiny boy, whose only power was a handful of cutting words. Nobody ever saw them, anyway.

Now, he doesn't know how to feel. A part of him feels fondness for his past self, and wishes he could show him what he would become. No matter how vividly he remembers being that child, though, he can't go back in time. Pre-pubescent Midoriya is unreachable. Maybe he always was, until All Might took him under his wing. And of course there was Kacchan, too.

Man. This is embarrassing. He's so glad Kacchan never saw this. Not that Kacchan would have cared, because that's who Kacchan was in his youth. He just didn't care. He is different now, still rough around the edges in all the same nooks and folds of his clenched fists, but kinder. More open. He's a hero, just like Aizawa-sensei and Midoriya and all of class 1-A believed he would be. And Midoriya's proud of him.

The person Kacchan is now … Midoriya wonders what he'd think. Would he even remember his careless comment?

He stuffs the paper back into the envelope and dangles it over the opening of the trash bag beside him. The moment seems to last forever, suspended in liquid amber. There's something so melancholy about tossing the letter that his younger self wrote, when he was at his lowest. It's the last piece of that weaker, shameful part of himself. Though the words could have hurt him, or taken him away from the world forever, they didn't. He's still here.

Maybe he owes himself a bit of selfishness, he thinks. And so he pulls the letter back to safety, stares at the pristine cover of the envelope for a moment, and folds the whole thing in half. He slips it into the pocket of his cargo pants.

He forgets about it until after he's moved in all his possessions. Ochako, Todoroki, and Iida are all too happy to help him get settled in. They drink at his flat, they reminisce, and they laugh together.

When he rediscovers the letter at the end of the night, he transfers it to a safer place. Above the desk in his bedroom is a squat bookshelf, stacked end to end with volumes on hero etiquette and practical applications of heroics in the field. Many are from high school, so when he crams the letter between two of the worn books, it's in good company.

There it stays, as inconspicuous and hidden as ever. This time, though, Midoriya doesn't forget.

Over the next few weeks, he retrieves it for the occasional read. And again, after the month is out and hero work starts to grow exhausting, he fetches the letter to reconnect with that lost older self. More often than he cares to admit. Though he can appreciate how far he's come, he still hates how the writing talks to him. He hates how it says "you," speaking to him through the gap of years with the voice of a boy who doesn't exist anymore.

But at the same time, the words reassure him. He finds a kernel of his present self in the vexed writings of his younger mind. That makes him feel like he's real. He's still Midoriya. And he's still here.

Months pass before Midoriya can get Kacchan to visit his new flat. It took almost a year for him to visit the old one, so Midoriya is ecstatic at the progress. And to his amazement, Kacchan doesn't even request an entourage, or a second guest. He shows up to Midoriya's house alone with a shoebox under his arm and a scowl cleaving his face.

"What's that?" Midoriya inquires, tilting his head as Kacchan slams the shoebox on the coffee table. Inside, something rattles. A lot.

"Round Face told me I had to bring a gift," Kacchan explains gruffly.

He opens the lid of the box to reveal six fist-sized potted plants, lined in two rows of three, all potted. Clods of stray dirt fill the empty spaces between the pots.

"Oh, wow!" Midoriya replies, impressed by the generosity. He bends down and squints, inspecting the shoots that are just barely breaching the soil. He gently pinches the stalk of one, which has just begun sprouting a leaf. "Are these herbs? Looks like they are."

Kacchan flops down on the couch with a grimace. "The stupid old hag keeps growing them, even though she doesn't have room. She tried to offload them onto me."

"So, now you're offloading them onto me," Midoriya points out, staring up at Kacchan with a tiny smile.

Eyes narrowing in a scathing glare, Kacchan bares his teeth and demands, "You got a problem with that?"

"No. I love plants." Midoriya beams at him. "Thank you, Kacchan."

Letting out a derisive snort, Kacchan leans against the backrest and crosses his arms. "Don't kill them, shitty Deku. They better survive for at least a week."

"I'll have to look up how to care for them. Which herbs are they?"

"Fuck if I know. Just water them," Kacchan huffs, helpful as ever. Well, all Midoriya can hope is that he can either find care directions by comparing the herbs to photos online, or he can just water them whenever the soil is dry.

As he reaches out to lift one of the potted plants, assessing the slender stalks and leaflets from a better light, he catches Kacchan out of the corner of his vision. His eyes are absently trained on Midoriya's arms and the mottled, jagged skin of his scars. By now, Kacchan has plenty of scars of his own. On one of his legs, and at the junction of one shoulder. There's one scar below his ribcage, too, that he got from a wound he received when their patrols happened to cross paths. Midoriya spent sleepless nights for over two weeks at the hospital, waiting up at Kacchan's bedside. Now, the scar is little more than a ragged patch of skin. But back then, the freshly-inflicted injury resembled All Might's fatal wound too closely for Midoriya's comfort.

"I'm thinking I might try to use my arms again soon," Midoriya remarks, keeping his eyes on the plants. "Now that I've got more control. Probably not for anything major, but an extra pair of limbs in a fight never hurt anyone, right?"

"All Might and Recovery Girl told you not to," Kacchan retorts, an edge to his voice. "And if you go out into the battlefield with an undeveloped weapon, you'll die a thousand times over."

Midoriya shrugs and straightens, one hand cradling the underside of the pot. "It'd be for small jobs. Anyway, I'm only thinking about it."

"Yeah, well stop thinking about it," Kacchan scoffs. He kicks his feet up on the table, nearly knocking over the shoebox in the process.

As he ferries the first pot into his room and places it on the windowsill, he can't help the affection that fills his chest. They still can't talk about much without getting into a fight. Ironically, though, they can talk for hours about fighting. Occasionally that becomes a chore, but Midoriya doesn't mind. It gets Kacchan in his flat. It gets him on the other end of the phone line. It gets him talking on the field and in front of the cameras.

He's just nice to talk to. The thoughtfulness of his gaze while he's parsing out a rebuttal, the thin lines underneath his eyes and around his mouth—Midoriya enjoys seeing Kacchan be himself: prodigious, and yet with miles further untread road to travel. If they keep this tenuous peace, Midoriya hopes, he will continue to have the opportunity to watch Kacchan grow. Maybe this year, when Midoriya calls him a "friend," Kacchan won't yell at him.

He carefully transfers all six herbs into his room, stationing them in each window like stout, green sentinels. When he returns to the living room, Kacchan's eyes are closed and his breathing is slow. The crease in his eyebrows has smoothed except for the smallest divot.

Midoriya's heart squeezes in his chest. He steals a couple seconds from Kacchan, gaze roaming his face and shoulders, and the steady rise of his chest. Nowadays, he steals a lot from Kacchan. Whatever Kacchan will let him have.

The surprises keep coming. The day after Kacchan's visit, the most catastrophic, large-scale robbery breaks out in the history of Midoriya's new agency. Thanks to his years of training, he navigates the dangers with relative ease. The only problem is the thirty-eight hostages that the thieves have captured and tortured. Most of the event is a blur. He remembers the screaming pain of fire, blades on his skin, hands at his neck as he stood between an attacker and a hostage. Just like every other catastrophe, he emerges on the other side. And with a few less bandages than normal to show for it.

He spends several days in a fugue state after that. More than once, he pulls out the note from primary school and rereads the words. A fresh wave of hurt hits him with an intensity he doesn't expect. The upshot, though, is that for a while, he forgets about the stress of the robbery and the desperate, pleading shouts of men and women, young and old, with guns and deadly quirks pressed against vulnerable places.

The bigger shock, however, is when Kacchan returns to his apartment the next week. This time, he has a slip of paper, which he thrusts at Midoriya expectantly. Unfolding the paper, Midoriya reads what appears to be a small list of grocer's herbs, in Kacchan's scratchy handwriting.

"These are … for the plants you gave me?" Midoriya asks, uncertain.

"No, it's my fucking grocery list," Kacchan retorts sarcastically, eyes rolling.

He isn't sure why Kacchan felt the need, but he can't deny that having the list is helpful. Until now, Midoriya has been guessing at the amount of water needed to sustain his plants, and they're gradually wilting. He thanks Kacchan and takes the paper back into his room, clipping it to his desk lamp.

When he returns to the living room, he expects Kacchan to stand and excuse himself. He used to do that whenever he visited the old flat. He'd make an appearance, placidly indulge Midoriya in fifteen minutes of small talk, and bounce.

This time, though, he doesn't. In fact, he has one arm slung over the back of the couch, holding the TV remote in his other hand. He's flicking through channels, pausing only on the news reports.

"What the fuck do you still use cable for? You don't even have the main five on here," Kacchan grumbles, scanning a news banner at the bottom of the screen. "The coverage has gotta be at least thirty minutes behind."

Midoriya rubs the back of his neck and laughs, "I get tired of the news. My phone pings me whenever there's villain activity, anyway. I still like to see them cover heroics, though."

"Still keep that shitty tactics journal?" Kacchan asks casually, not bothering to look away from the screen.

Midoriya freezes. He recovers quickly enough, chuckling, "Nah. Um, I mean, well, not exactly. I still keep notes, but they're mainly, uh, on my friends." When Kacchan levels a pointed look in his direction, he clarifies, "I like seeing how everyone has improved, and thinking how I can work better with them. Honestly, it's crazy, looking back at the notebook I had when we first entered U.A. You were already so strong then, and now—"

"Let me see," Kacchan interjects.

Mouth open, Midoriya stammers, "W-what?"

"Did I stutter?" Kacchan scowls, and though the red fire of his irises burns fierce as always, the lines around his lids are calm. "Go get the book. I wanna see."

"Now?" Midoriya squeaks, and when Kacchan leans forward as if to lunge for him, he stands and jogs into the bedroom to do as he's told. His head spins as he cracks open the closet door and digs through a plastic bin full of old books, childhood drawings, and previous assignments he was reticent to let go of. Lining the bottom, underneath thick shifts of other junk, are his notebooks.

Dragging them out, he rapidly skims the contents of each, sweat beading at his temple. This was … new. Kacchan being interested in his life. Especially a book from back then, in their younger years, when each of Midoriya's breaths seemed to inconvenience and enrage Kacchan. He's hopeful, maybe even a bit excited, but—

Fuck, who knew what he wrote about Kacchan in these notebooks? His hobby of observing his friends and heroes already creeps Kacchan out. And Kacchan is in all these books. Every single one. With more than just tactical notes scribbled beside his name.

Panic unfurls in Midoriya's chest, growing stronger with each flick of a new page. There is no way he can check all of these. The pages are too cluttered, and the name "Kacchan" appears too many times to count. His hands begin to sweat.

"How long does it fucking take to grab a book, shitty Deku?" Kacchan growls from the living room.

Oh man. Heart racing, Midoriya chooses the book that is the oldest, but still somewhat coherent, from when he was around twelve years old. At least at that time, he had no ability to articulate why his gaze always followed Kacchan so intensely, or to notice all the sweet pangs that came with Kacchan's attention (for better or for worse). Kacchan shouts for him again and he hurries into the living room.

He bends his head in embarrassment, holding the slim volume out to Kacchan with both hands. "Sorry," he offers lamely, his cheeks burning.

Snatching the notebook with one hand, Kacchan leans forward on his knees and opens the cover. Midoriya perches on the coffee table, knees pressed together, and he holds his breath. Kacchan's eyes scrape rapidly over the cluttered blocks of hastily-scribbled, childish musings, and though Midoriya knows he can't possibly be taking in the information, those garnet-red eyes seem to consume all they touch.

He's looking for his name. And when his gaze halts suddenly, Midoriya knows he's found it. His progress slows and he lingers on one page, trailing over each sentence. The silence in the room is an anvil dangling overhead. Fists curled on his knees, Midoriya waits for the landmines he knows are buried in his childhood writings.

It doesn't take long for Kacchan to find one. His nose wrinkles and he jabs one finger at a particular line. Midoriya cautiously peeks at the page and finds with another rush of shame that one block of text simply reads, "Kacchan's hair, extra fluff? Explosion??" Beside is a crudely-drawn picture of Bakugou with hyper-exaggerated, wild, puffed-out blonde hair.

"Oh. Man, I forgot about that. I thought you were trying to match your hair to your quirk," Midoriya explains with an uneasy grin. The truth is, of course, much more mundane and contains a level of fondness that Kacchan would never accept from him.

"Yeah, well, sorry to disappoint, but it just grows like that," Kacchan snaps, and he … is he sulking?

"I know that now!" Midoriya assures him. Pointing to the passage below that, he says, "Don't pay attention to that. This is better. You remember that rushing attack you used to do? This was the part I wrote about that. I used that information to fight you during that one training exercise during our first year. The one where you and Kirishima played the villains."

Kacchan makes a noise in his throat, giving the words a cursory glance. "Yeah, I remember. You thought you were hot shit."

"No I didn't," Midoriya groans in exasperation, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "I think you underestimate just how much of my life I spent desperately just trying to catch up with you. Believe me, I didn't think I was a savant. I knew where I got it from."

If this were a normal night, the conversation would devolve, like it always does when Kacchan accuses Midoriya of stealing his techniques. But this isn't a normal night, and Kacchan simply dismisses him with a curt, "Wish you could admit that more often."

"What are you saying? I tell you all the time, Kacchan," Midoriya huffs, his stiff smile melting into one that feels more genuine. "You were always my model."

If Kacchan hears this, he ignores it, and goes right back to snooping through Midoriya's book. If he was braver, Midoriya would ask, 'why now?' Anticipation clenches in his stomach, for … something. An apology, maybe, or a hint of sorrow on Kacchan's face. Maybe a comment that shows he's impressed. Of course, though, this is Kacchan, and Kacchan doesn't hand out compliments. He merely reads Midoriya's notebook with a calm, indifferent expression on his face.

At least, the words are holding his interest without invoking anger. That has to be a step in the right direction.

They spend the next ten to fifteen minutes examining the book from cover to cover. Thankfully, there are no further humiliating musings about Kacchan's hair, or face, or any other appealing part of his person. Just cold, hard battle tactics. He does get on a bit of a tangent about 12-year-old Kacchan's physical build and all the advantages of prioritizing the development of certain areas, and Kacchan scrunches up his nose again, but otherwise doesn't flinch. They talk fighting skills, and abilities, and Midoriya listens to Kacchan make vague allusions to a new secret move he's workshopping. Despite his abject disgust at the prospect of sharing the news with Midoriya, his pride gets away with him.

As he talks, Midoriya basks in the glow of his passion, and the stern warmth of his profile. He could get used to this. Kacchan making nice. The times he's mean are so fucking miserable, and they always cycle back. The moments he humors Midoriya, though—they're a cozy campfire in the dry sleet of winter. He's still angry, and still a jerk, but he feels like how he used to be when they were kids.

Then the handful of minutes is over, and Kacchan is getting up to leave. He closes the book and drops it carelessly on the table, saying something about tomorrow's patrol starting early, and that he only came by to drop off the list.

"Since you'd just kill the old bag's plants otherwise," Kacchan adds for good measure, and Midoriya can only shrug in agreement.

The visit makes no sense to Midoriya until a couple days later, when he and Kirishima take down a villain together on the same patrol. They make time to grab a drink, and as they huddle in a cramped booth with their beers, Kirishima asks about the book.

"Kacchan told you?" Midoriya shrieks, horrified.

"Offhand, yeah. Said that you apparently kept track of everybody's progress." Kirishima leans forward eagerly, his jagged-toothed smile gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights. "Did you write about me? I wanna see, dude!"

Midoriya blinks in surprise. "You … do? Why?"

"I wanna see how I've improved! That last big villain encounter you had, with the massive robbery—that shook us all up, you know? Funny. Bakugou and I were actually scheduled for patrol at that time. At the last minute, we got tied up in a meeting with the director of the agency." Sitting back again, Kirishima folds his arms, his expression growing rueful. "By the time we learned how bad the situation was, we were too late. Got there and you, Iida, and Todoroki had already cleaned up. That's rough, you know? Knowing that you could've been there, and you weren't, for a reason that didn't even matter that much."

"That wasn't your fault, though. Agencies employ a surplus of heroes for a reason," Midoriya points out, mouth twisting in sympathy.

Kirishima closes his eyes and shrugs his shoulders. "Sure. But the feeling is still there." The twilit smile returns to his face as he continues, "Anyway, I think your book made Bakugou feel better. He won't fully get his pride back until the next major attack, but he was bragging about how far he came from when you two were kids. I wanna see how I stack up against past me, too!"

The fluttering in Midoriya's stomach makes it hard to think. There's no point in hoping. He knows that. There's no reason to let his feelings get twisted up into a pretzel like this, when he knows that Bakugou sees him as little more than an obligation. All Might told them they needed to get along during their time at U.A., and so Kacchan got along. Just because a stupid book Midoriya wrote years ago might have maybe lifted Kacchan's spirits doesn't mean they are growing closer.

"You'll show me, right?" Kirishima inquires, breaking Midoriya out of his trance. When he glances up, Kirishima is tilting his head curiously, radiant and friendly as usual.

For a moment, he regrets that all he could ever manage with Kirishima was a fleeting one-night stand. At least he's nice, and interested in Midoriya's life, and full of reassurances.

Nodding, Midoriya promises, "Yeah. I'll show you sometime."

Another month passes. Almost every week, Midoriya extends timid invitations to Kacchan. Usually to join a laidback hangout with their fellow U.A. alumni. But occasionally he offers Kacchan the opportunity to come, drink coffee, and discuss the news together. Alone.

The response is predictable, so when Kacchan ghosts his replies and leaves him on read, Midoriya never musters more than the occasional disappointment. To his delight, however, around once every three weeks, Kacchan agrees to stop by. The first time, he stays his usual fifteen minutes. The second, for thirty. The gaps between visits grow shorter, and he hangs out for longer, even if half the time they sit there and silently watch television. One night, Kacchan spends over an hour sitting beside Midoriya on the couch, nose buried in his phone, and it's the closest to a real, honest to God friendly hangout they've ever had.

Midoriya becomes accustomed to setting aside one evening per week. While he waits for Kacchan's arrival, he makes a pot of black coffee. He buys a bottle of that expensive hazelnut flavoring from the grocery store because hazelnut is Kacchan's favorite, but he would rather dump the coffee out than add in a flavored creamer. And the great Bakugou Katsuki would never settle for bargain brand flavoring, either. No, sir.

Kacchan must be getting used to him, too, because he no longer isolates himself to the couch. He wanders the apartment. He rifles through Midoriya's medicine cabinet for painkillers after rough nights on patrol. He raids Midoriya's fridge when he's hungry, taking whatever he pleases without asking.

One night, after sustaining a more serious injury on the job, he lets Midoriya change his bandages. They pretend that never happened. There are nights, though, when Midoriya can't sleep for the memory of Kacchan's rugged, scarred skin against his fingers. The image of Kacchan's fist relaxing and unclenching in his hands loops behind his eyelids.

They are still far from friends. But Midoriya takes what he can get. And for the first time, Kacchan seems willing to give.

✎✎✎

"You know, if you labeled your work reports half as religiously as you do your hero manga, maybe we could find your shit once in a while," Kacchan gripes, upending a haphazard stack of binders near Midoriya's desk.

The longer Midoriya works at his agency, the messier his desk becomes. Papers, receipts for work expenses, copies of incident reports, and magazine interviews all cluster into one monolithic ecosystem that feeds on the desk from all sides.

"Sorry, Kacchan, if I knew you would need one—" Midoriya ventures, only to jump when another stack of binders crashes on top of Kacchan.

The malice in his eyes approaches a degree Midoriya hasn't seen from him in over half a year. "If I didn't need this report, I'd kick your fucking ass through the goddamn window."

"Please don't," Midoriya sighs.

Technically, he wants to point out, he shouldn't be helping Kacchan at all. The paper Kacchan is looking for concerns an incident involving a villain who Kacchan's agency is investigating. He wants to do a bit of reconnaissance himself because, as he puts it, the "higher-ups are underestimating the danger of the situation." And Midoriya believes him. Kacchan's intuition is sharper than a razor's edge.

They team up to reorganize Midoriya's filing system in the vain hope that they will find what Kacchan's searching for. An hour into this daunting task and Kacchan sits up, stretching his back with a series of loud cracks.

"I need coffee," he grunts, in that entitled way that reminds Midoriya he is, at heart, mainly just a coffee mule to his childhood friend.

"We're out. I forgot to buy more today. There's a convenience store just down the street, though," Midoriya hastens to suggest.

"Do they sell that brand?" Kacchan yawns. When Midoriya nods, he ushers, "Then go get some, shitty Deku. That's the least you can do."

Secretly rolling his eyes, Midoriya stands. His knees pop as he straightens. He says, "Al-right. Well, best of luck while I'm gone. Please, please try not to, you know, move too much stuff around while I'm gone? Please? I've got everything set up in a way that works for me. Sometimes."

The brief, unimpressed look Kacchan shoots over his shoulder tells Midoriya that this crumb of civility is still too much to hope for. Oh, well. Kacchan's nothing if not organized. He's sure that if Kacchan does change his station, the organization will remain moderately intuitive.

He slips on his shoes and announces his departure, heading out into the muggy night air. The convenience store is a ten minute walk away, and he makes the trek at a casual stroll, eyelids drooping with the heat. Coffee definitely sounds like a good idea.

The walk there and back takes no more than twenty-five minutes. He returns to his flat, coffee tin in hand, and calls out, "Hey Kacchan, they didn't have the flavoring you like. I think I have leftover vanilla if you want."

He receives no answer. Peeking in the doorway to his bedroom, Midoriya says again, "Kacchan?" He listens for movement, but nothing stirs. Could Kacchan be in the bathroom? If he was, though, Midoriya would hear the fan.

He pads into his bedroom and finds no sign of his guest. In the middle of the floor is an eclectic assortment of video game jewel cases, blankets, beaten-up dumbbells, and other items he normally keeps under his bed. In fact, when he kneels down to check underneath the wooden frame, he sees that the underside of his bed is entirely cleared out.

"Kacchan …?" Midoriya shouts, louder this time, voice tinged with worry. He jumps to his feet and heads back out toward the living room. "Kacchan, why did you—"

As he casts his eyes across the apartment again, he jumps in terror. Hunched on the couch is Kacchan, completely silent. His pupils are pinpricks of dark fire, snagging Midoriya's gaze with the force of a black hole.

Midoriya clutches a hand to his chest and breathes out shakily. "You scared me! Why didn't you answer?"

His question is met with more unnerving silence. Kacchan lifts a thin object from the coffee table, not breaking eye contact for a second. As Midoriya takes a closer look, he realizes that it's a piece of paper. A white envelope.

He stops breathing. His vision narrows to a point and the familiar chill of fear creeps into his fingertips.

"Where's the strap?" Kacchan asks. The tight control in his tone is already a hair's breadth from snapping.

"You," Midoriya rasps. He swallows, throat hoarse. "You read—"

"Where's. The strap," Kacchan repeats. A vein pulses in his neck.

Midoriya stutters, "Th-there's no strap."

Kacchan rises from his seat, pupils blown wide with a breed of anger Midoriya can't recognize. "You think I won't tear up your whole goddamn flat? Try me. Lie to me one more fucking time, and I'll—"

Midoriya scrambles to set the coffee down on the table and holds up both hands in a gesture of peace. He pleads in a hushed voice, "I'm not lying. There's no strap. I know how this looks, but—I wrote that in primary school. That was years ago. There's no strap."

"In—" Kacchan's eyes round in bewilderment. His mouth falls open as he echoes, "In primary school?"

A shadow falls over Kacchan's face before Midoriya can blurt out an excuse. Their gazes lock and the recognition is immediate. Kacchan remembers.

"Please don't be mad," Midoriya whispers. Kacchan grips the envelope in his fist, crushing the paper, and covers his mouth with his other hand. Lurching around the coffee table to clutch at Kacchan's arm, Midoriya begs, "Please don't be mad, Kacchan. Please."

"Don't touch me," Kacchan spits, dislodging him with a violent shake. His chest heaves, breathing picking up speed, until he almost sounds like he's hyperventilating. When Midoriya tries to approach him again, he steps back, hand raised in a threat. "I can't believe this shit. Is this why you always acted sorry for yourself back at U.A.? You thought this shit," he shook the envelope at Midoriya, "made it all okay?"

A surge of white rage hits Midoriya so hard the room spins. He wheezes, "You—you read that, and you think I felt sorry for myself? I wouldn't have written that letter if it weren't for what you said!"

"There. The truth fucking comes out," Kacchan snarls, crushing the note and flinging it onto the floor. He is definitely hyperventilating now.

"No—I don't mean—"

Kacchan gets in his face and jabs a finger into his chest. A wave of hot breath washes over Midoriya's mouth as Kacchan seethes, "No. You shut the fuck up. You shut. Up."

"That's not how I meant it," Midoriya protests urgently, one hand grasping at the sleeve of Kacchan's shirt. "It was just a stupid thing I wrote as a kid. I thought, 'why not,' you know? And then I stuffed it in a box and forgot about it."

"Do you even understand how insane you sound right now?" Kacchan hisses, his voice quaking on that ugly word. And now pins and needles are stabbing at Midoriya's skin, crawling up his fingers and his ankles, and he can feel his mind detach from his body.

"Kacchan. You need to breathe."

Kacchan shakes off his hand again, severing their tenuous connection.

"Why," Kacchan begins, tongue darting out to wet his lips, "Why are you always like this? Writing a stupid letter so you have a reason to feel sorry for yourself—"

"I felt sorry for you!" Midoriya yells, and he knows it'll only make Kacchan angrier, but he can't help himself. "I didn't want you to think it was your fault—"

"I wouldn't have," Kacchan replies darkly.

Midoriya insists, "You would have."

"No, I wouldn't," Kacchan shouts back, making Midoriya's ears ring. Each breath whistles between his teeth. "You can't guilt me for shit I did back then."

The thin thread of Midoriya's patience strains, attached by only a few remaining fibers. He should have known this would happen when he unearthed the letter. The years left Kacchan no kinder than he was when they first met, and Midoriya knows this, he has known, but he had hoped that with time Kacchan would take a break from being so goddamn difficult—

Midoriya grits his teeth and lashes out, "At least if you felt guilty, then maybe—"

He stops himself before he says something he really regrets. Just in case, he covers his mouth with his hand, too, and puts a few feet of distance between them.

"Finish that sentence," Kacchan dares him, and Midoriya can hear the violence coiled tight in his throat.

He has to stay calm. Getting upset never helps. If he stoops to Kacchan's level, nothing will change.

When he faces Kacchan again, his whole body is shaking. "Maybe I wished you would care. Okay? I hoped you would, but if you did, then that letter would hurt you. So I just thought—"

He hesitates, eyes flickering between the envelope on the table and Kacchan's wild expression. Just waiting for him to make a mistake. Always waiting, like it never once occurred to him that they didn't have to be enemies in the fight for heroic glory. Like he had forgotten they were once friends. Or, maybe, he knows they could be close, and no matter how hard Midoriya tries, he can never make Kacchan want that.

His chest is heavy. And he's so, so tired.

Eyes growing moist, he grabs the crumpled envelope off the floor and carefully folds it up. As he slips the paper back into his pocket, he scoffs, "Whatever. I don't know why I try. Nothing I ever do matters with you. Just forget you even saw it, okay?"

He spins on his heel and stalks back toward the bedroom. This time, he'll hide it in a better place. Somewhere that Kacchan can't complain about, if he ever deigns to cross Midoriya's threshold again. The swell of hurt grips Midoriya's lungs like a set of talons, and he knows that if Kacchan does return, this misery will repeat. He will find hope again. Kacchan will make him believe. And then Midoriya will just be crushed again.

As he steps into his bedroom, he feels himself jerked back by the arm. He stares back at Kacchan who is holding him in a grip that makes his wrist bones creak. The expression on Kacchan's face, desperate and lined with unspoken pain, reminds Midoriya of their fight after Kamino. He remembers the tears streaking down Kacchan's face. The way that all Midoriya could do was throw himself at Kacchan, again and again, because his broken body was the only part of himself that Kacchan could accept.

Now, Kacchan is different. That's what Midoriya wants to believe.

"Let go," Midoriya demands, but the trembling of his words gives away the weakness of his resolve.

Kacchan pants, "No. We're talking about this."

"What if I say no?"

There is no response. They stare each other down, searching for gaps in their opponent's armor. The heat of Bakugou's hand anchors Midoriya, and though sweat drips onto his skin, lighter fluid ready to ignite at a moment's notice, Midoriya is not scared of him.

He tries again to extract his hand and this time, Kacchan's grip loosens. Midoriya slips right out of his fingers, and is furious with himself for how guilty he feels at the bitterness of Kacchan's scowl.

"Go ahead. Be mad. I'm not afraid of you," Midoriya tells him, and though he speaks with a hint of a challenge, he means it as a reassurance.

Another derisive snort issues from Kacchan's throat. He tips his chin up, muttering, "So, that's it. You're just gonna pretend that there's nothing wrong. You were keeping a suicide note around for over a decade, with my name on it, for no reason. Sitting on your desk for no reason."

"Don't—" Midoriya bites his lip, "—call it that."

"That's what it is," Kacchan retorts, the last syllable breaking in his throat. The thin lines of his face bend with fleeting emotions that Midoriya has hoped Kacchan might feel for him, on better days and in happier situations.

He insists, "It's not. It made me feel better. No one ever asked me if I wanted to be alive, okay? The stupid letter made me feel like I had a choice. So, I chose to live, and that made me feel better."

"Yeah? Well, you're fucking terrible at living."

All Midoriya can do is open and close his mouth helplessly. Why? Why did Kacchan have to say that?

They're right back to where they were at the start. Just one sentence, and they're back to the same shit, the same argument, and this god-awful hurt. Which stings even more now, because Kacchan has struck at the seam of one wound in his chest that never fully healed.

"I always thought it was weird how you kept going on rescue missions you couldn't handle," Kacchan presses on mindlessly. "You got your arms fucked up in U.A., and if All Might hadn't begged you to be careful, you would've destroyed your legs too. Being a hero means you make the choice whether to live or die every day. Don't act like you just decided one day, because it's not over. You think I don't know you, Deku?"

"You don't know me," Midoriya laughs, and the sound is thick with unshed tears.

A muscle flexed in Kacchan's jaw. Whatever he saw in Midoriya's face brought back a second wind of determination. His eyes glowed like banked coals. "Get rid of the letter. Right now."

"What?" Midoriya asks numbly.

A fist grips the front of his shirt. "Did I stutter?"

He shields himself with his hand, groaning in exasperation, "It's just a letter!"

"Then what do you need it for?"

His heart drops into his stomach. There, in Kacchan's steady gaze, he sees it. The steadfast boy from their childhood. The kid who always came back for him when he got lost.

"No. I won't."

"Then I will," Kacchan promises. He holds out his hand—strong, inviting. Calloused from explosions and hard work. "Give me the letter."

Midoriya can't breathe. "No."

Kacchan's eyebrows furrow. The anguish Midoriya sees there is for him, though it is mixed with a melancholy hatred. Midoriya's heart breaks.

"Midoriya. Put it in my hands."

A tear boils down Midoriya's cheek. He can't fucking breathe.

He wanted to keep this one thing for himself. Kacchan has taken everything from him. He's stolen time, and ruined happy memories, and no matter what he does, he always gets what he wants. In this moment, he hates Kacchan down to the deepest, darkest recess of his heart.

Drawing the envelope from his pocket with shaking fingers, Midoriya hands it over. He watches as Kacchan crumples the paper again, compacting it until his palms engulf it in a perfect seal. Inside, there is a flash of light and a thunderous bang that rattles the coffee tin on the table and sends vibrations through Midoriya's feet. When Kacchan's hands separate, there is nothing left but ash and a scrap or two of burnt white paper. A lit ember fizzles out between Kacchan's fingers. The remnants slip from his palms and collect in a miniscule pile on the floor.

There is a hollow space in Midoriya's heart where the letter used to be. He slumps forward until his forehead lands on Kacchan's shoulder. More tears pool in the ducts of his eyes, dampening the cloth of Kacchan's t-shirt, and he waits to be pushed away. The push never comes.

"Are you happy now?" Midoriya laughs hysterically. He opens his mouth to continue arguing and chokes on a sob. Once he starts, he can't stop. When this is over, Kacchan will hate him.

That's what he's scared of most in the world.

As he unravels against Kacchan's shoulder, he feels a hand squeeze his shoulder. No sound fills the space between them save for Midoriya's choked gasps. He weeps, cheeks raw, until he doesn't care what Kacchan thinks anymore. Distantly, he feels Kacchan's arm crawl upward to clutch at his head, fingers clenching in his curls.

His scalp stings. No words of comfort fall from Kacchan's mouth. No words come at all. But he's still here. And Midoriya knows he has to take what he can get.