Midoriya Izuku opened his eyes, and woke up in a world where his dreams were realized.

Sleeping soundly right next to him—in the same bed—was one Bakugou Katsuki.

"HUH?" Midoriya screamed out loud.

Or had every intention to, but his mouth just opened in a silent 'O' shape, his jaw dropping. He stayed motionless for several seconds; blinking furiously to wipe the sleep away from his senses. After a while, he suddenly and vigorously shook his head from left to right with his green eyes tightly shut. Breathing in deeply, he stopped moving again and slowly opened one eye, then the other.

Bakugou Katsuki was still there.

Right next to him. Sleeping.

Looking so peaceful—angelic, even—Midoriya noted in shock.

The poster boy of Satan's spawn was sleeping soundly, and non-threateningly beside him, looking like he wouldn't hurt a fly, couldn't hurt a fly. This sleeping boy with pale, sunburst hair, and cherub lips would cry, if—in the unlikely event—a fly somehow bumped into him and went off-balance, and—because it had been drinking earlier from an opened beer can and was essentially flying under the influence—couldn't stop its fly body from knocking against a wall, injuring him (he is a father of two hundred, recently divorced) terribly, leaving him paralyzed forever.

This sleeping Bakugou would cry, most definitely.

He would mourn the death of that fly (even though it didn't die, just paralyzed. It's still sad.).

Brain, brain! Brain, listen. Please. Just—what are you even—? L-let me think for a second, okay?

Midoriya wanted to make sure he wasn't dreaming—the whole thing feels so real—but he was also afraid of waking up. What if it was just a dream? If this was just a dream, then his mind is playing a cruel, desperate game with his—its—their—emotions.

Damn you, brain.

Try as he might, Izuku's mind cannot compute what –in the actual mother-lovin' heck– was happening right now, how it was happening, or if it was actually happening. He also couldn't joggle his sleepy brain to remember the last thing he did.

And so he did what any average person would do at the given situation—he froze. Like a statue. With saucer eyes, and saucer mouth. He froze in the exact position his body woke up in; lying on his right, facing the sleeping teen, hands clasped together as if begging some higher power in the universe to grant him his most fervent desire—and lo and behold! —Bakugou Katsuki is dropped down from the heavens (or dredged up from hell, where he obviously lived) and delivered right at his side—dark, long lashes; pink, slightly open lips; loose, blank tank top that both showed and covered muscular but slender upper torso; sweet, sweet, vanilla smell emanating on him from everywhere—and all.

Midoriya started to panic. He could hear fast 'thump-thump-thump' sounds coming from his right ear glued against pillow he was laying on. It took him a moment to realize it was the echo of his pulse quickening, his blood desperately trying to flow to his brain; but instead of clearing his thought process, it only made his heart palpitate.

Oh, no.

Am I dying? Is this it? Did I already die?

I did, didn't I?

I died.

I'm in heaven right now.

But wait, why is Kacchan here? Did he die, too? No. No, Izuku mused. That wasn't possible. There was no way Bakugou was going to heaven. Midoriya would sue.

This blonde delinquent hoodlum with a knack for assault has an express ticket straight down one of the seven levels of Hell, for sure. Heck, he probably works there as a tormentor, insulting hapless and miserable sinners by telling them they're 'useless', 'ugly', 'quirkless'— Okay, okay! Let's stop before we actually decide to strangle this bastard.

Okay, Izuku. So you're not in heaven, and you're definitely not in hell because—well, I mean, look at this! Midoriya gestured imaginary hands at Bakugou's direction. This is a wish granted if I'd ever seen one.

Right in front of his eyes was the unconscious, non-violent, inert Kacchan.

The bully with all the gifts—perfect body musculature, perfectly above-average good looks, perfectly amazing quirk, perfect grades, perfectly elite social status, and everything else that made a perfect person perfect—Bakugou possessed (except for good morals and right conduct).

And as he mumbles to himself and ponders, the perfect Bakugou Katsuki was perfectly packaged, perfectly shipped, and perfectly left at his side for—uhm—uh…I-I guess I would start with punching? Choking? Kissing him on the leefs—Midoriya didn't exactly know.

Whatever the case, this situation was the culmination of Izuku's wildest dream.

Oh. But it's not a dream, Midoriya had to reiterate. That's what I thought at first, but I'm not asleep.

Wait, did I already pinch myself?

No, not yet.

Midoriya grabbed his left cheek with his index and thumb finger and squeezed. It hurt.

Ouch. Not a dream. His eyes widened when another idea lit up the blurry recesses of his mind.

Oh, god, did I finally snap and have a psychotic break!?

No.

No, no. No. My mind is working normally right now. I didn't go crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm thinking normally. Yes, yes we are. What?

Well…okay, maybe not 'normally' per se, but my mind is working how it usually works. I either mumble out loud or mumble mentally so, yes, I-I can assume with high probability that my brain didn't break. This is not a delusion. Because I'm mumbling and babbling and chatting with myself, like I always do. In my brain. Which is totally and completely normal. Yes, yes it is. Absolutely. I'm not crazy.

So, then—is this really real?

Like, for real, though? Like for real real?

But wait, wait! What if—is this, this is like an effect of someone's quirk or something?

I'm under the influence of someone's quirk? But what? And how? And why? I don't—and whose? Whose quirk is it?

It's not Kacchan's. Everyone knows what Kacchan's quirk is. I know what his quirk is—intimately. I keep a very close and personal connection with Kacchan's quirk. We talk all the time—well— 'they'—his fists—talk, and my face is their sounding board. It's an ideal relationship based on mutual trust and—okay.

Remember, Izuku, when I-we-you said that we-I-you were not in the middle of a psychotic break? Yeah?

Act like it.

Okay, so it's not Kacchan's doing. The guy would sooner eat his own fermented fecal matter than sleep on the same bed with me, Midoriya's mind laughed wryly.

And obviously, I didn't do it. There's no way, even if I wanted to. So badly. Unless…

Is-is-is this actually my quirk presenting itself after 16 years?

Nope.

No. Impossible. The latest someone's quirk manifested, ever, was at 5. And that child had some sort of congenital physical defect, if I remember correctly. She was born with—Izuku, hey! Jesus.

Okay, not the time. Okay, it's not me. Of course. And it isn't Kacchan.

So someone else.

A-a quirk that…uh—what? Makes fantasies come true? Huh. That's—is that—I've never heard of anyone with that kind of quirk. Ever. How would that even work?

And, if someone actually had a fantasy-come-true-ing quirk (which is undoubtedly very unlikely), uhm—like, why me? Did I somehow help an old cloaked figure from a bunch of good-for-nothing punks (probably Kacchan's friends) and I was given a reward which is—well, this juvenile delinquent?

I'm so confused right now.

But, yeah—why, though? I mean, what's the point? I'm—my mind works so it isn't a quirk user who wants to incapacitate me or anything (because why would anyone need to use their quirk to incapacitate me?).

And why would Kacchan be… here… wait, where am I?

Midoriya looked around, and the first thing he noticed was the very large open window—no, it was a door—Oh, my, is this what they call a 'French door'? Wow, it looks so nice-HOLY SHIT I'M IN KACCHAN'S BEDROOM!

A soft yelp came out of Midoriya's mouth as soon as he noticed Bakugou's signature orange backpack carelessly left on the floor, along with his crumpled white uniform shirt a few inches from it. A pair of black sneakers with orange trims and shoelaces was neatly put away in a narrow shelf beside the door. There were other pairs stacked on the shoe cabinet, but the bright color popped out against the dark shadows.

Shadows?

Izuku realized it was currently night time wherever reality, fantasy, or alternate dimension he was currently summoned in. The faint slivers of light streaming in from outside was bluish and illuminated the otherwise completely dark bedroom. There was a breeze, but the room wasn't cold, or Midoriya didn't feel cold, lying close to Bakugou's hotter-than-normal body. In fact, the combination of the night air and the warmth of the sleeping teen beside him enveloped Midoriya in a blanket of soothing ambiance. He could feel his body relaxing and being lulled back to sleep, or something else similar. He wasn't sure, but he heard himself gulp, and for some reason his throat was suddenly feeling tight.

He was exhausted.

And…slowly, but surely—Midoriya began to remember why. There was a sudden stinging in his chest, like a chain with little poisonous barbs coiling around it, and fresh set of tears welled at the corner of his eyes. He turned his face away from the sleeping teen and choked back his sobs.

Midoriya didn't feel like being on the same bed as Bakugou anymore.

"Believe that you'll be born with a quirk in your next life, and take a last chance dive off the roof, shitstain!"