AN/ I am a sentimental asshole so this happened.
Somewhere out there, there is a lush, green meadow in the corner of a lush, green land that exists outside of the constraints of time. The meadow is surrounded on all sides by tall, ancient trees. Trees so old that, if one were to trace the roots to their source, tangled and spread deep into the earth, they would discover that really, it is one tree. The wide, weathered trunks sticking out of the ground acting merely overgrown branches reaching for the sun.
It is night and the moon shines bright, hints of neon green cast off of it and into the field, illuminating the moisture sticking to the blades of grass, dancing in the eyes of the young boy who lays on the ground near the treeline. The boy is small for his age, and thin, the bones of his ribcage achingly visible, his knees knock awkwardly as he walks. Despite this, his appearance is pleasing, if not a bit plain, dark curls fall over the olive skin of his forehead as mahogany eyes, flecked with green, peer listlessly into the sky.
Here, with the cool air blowing gently across his cheeks, and the soft cushion of thick lawn beneath him, he can almost pretend that he's meant to be here. Pretend that he had slipped out as the sun had begun to set, to relax in this quiet place. He would go home soon to find his mother in the living room, waiting for his return with a smile. The image of his mother, unshed tears in her eyes and love in her heart, is enough to remind him that, no, he had not chosen this place.
The absence of time is disorienting, there is only night and day which seem to have minds of their own, shortening and lengthening at will so that some days seem to last forever and some end in hardly the blink of an eye.
...
When the boy had first found himself here, it had felt like some benevolent soul had offered him a reprieve from the bitter taunting and discouragement from his peers and adults alike. Even his kind, gentle mother hadn't been able to find it in herself to tell her only son that he was capable, that, despite his (nearly) compromised immune system, he could grow up to be a hero, just like his Dad. Saving people, always with the biggest, brightest smile radiating from his lips and shining in his eyes. His father had been a hero and he was determined to be just like him.
His dreaming wasn't enough to stop the diagnosis that had come at the age of four, the boy was dying, slowly sure, but still much faster than most. There were treatments available, treatments he would succumb to for the rest of his life, treatments that left him just a little bit weaker, a little bit smaller, a little bit slower. Still, the news hadn't tarnished the boy's bright smile, even as his mother apologized over and over while sobs wracked her small frame.
When he had gotten home, he had rewatched the news footage from one of the fires his father had been working, a good one, one where everyone made it out alive and his father's strength and determination seemed to make him glow through the blackened soot that covered his yellow suit. Tears had shone in the boy's eyes as he had watched this hero, his hero, pull person after person out of the burning building, his breath had hitched as he watched part of the building collapse in the top corner of the screen, his father still inside, making sure he'd rescued every last person. Then, suddenly, he was there, bursting through the charred door-frame, arms around a young girl who clutched a singed ball of fur to her chest, that damn smile plastered on his face even when the cat escaped the girl's hold and attacked him. The boy had laughed away his anxiety as someone came into view to pull the cat off of him and the girl on-screen began to apologize profusely. "No need," his father said kindly, his voice hoarse from the smoke, "he was just scared, he doesn't know it's alright now, I'm here." He patted her gently on the head and smiled fondly before carrying her over to the waiting ambulance. His father was like that, genuine and altruistic to a fault.
If the boy tries hard enough he can almost see his father's face, much like his own, though older, sturdier, as he smiles down at the boy, love and pride present in his father's eyes as he reminds him, always reminds him, that bad things happen all the time, but everyone deserved to smile and, as long as he was capable, he would help as many people as he could.
Of course, the boy doesn't really remember, can't, he had barely been two at the time. His father had died heroically before the boy had been old enough to commit his face to memory. Still, the words had always rung clearly in the boy's mind and he had spoken truth to his heart as he tried his best to be good and kind and helpful, just like his dad had always been.
So, the boy had smiled wide as he stood before his second-grade classmates, exclaiming once again, unfalteringly, all of the reasons why he was going to grow up to be a hero. He was kind and gracious, never allowing that smile to falter as his classmates had taunted him, laughing at the idea, like they always had, even his teacher hadn't managed more than a sad grimace as she watched the boy stand proud and tall. There was no hope, they had said, that he would have the strength to fulfill his dreams if he even managed to live that long.
...
The truth catches up to you eventually, the boy thinks as he lays there, alone in the silent meadow, never even the sound of a bird landing on a branch or the rustling of leaves in the foliage. There are no creatures, there is no one, nothing with a pulse to keep him company.
It doesn't take him long to realize, or maybe it does, but it doesn't really matter, that he has stopped experiencing the physical reminders of being alive. He never tires, though there has been a slight haze clouding his mind since he had arrived, and he no longer feels the dull ache of hunger or thirst. He is dying, or maybe already dead, but there is something about the way the sun shines just a little too bright and white, the way the breeze blows so consistently and always from the same direction, that reminds him of fluorescent lights casting shadows against white walls and sterile sheets, the low hum of an apathetic air conditioner.
The familiarity of it all makes him feel just a little bit alive. He isn't sure if he is supposed to know, really be aware of his predicament, and perhaps it would be better to let himself forget and wander into the fields, blissfully unaware in this eerily beautiful place. He has always been a smart boy though, and he is too damn tired to hide from the truth anymore.
...
Without time and activity, the boy is left with nothing but his existence. He wanders through the tree, runs his hand along the multitude of trunks that seem to stretch for miles, glowing in the light of the day. Sometimes he sits and sometimes he walks, but always he thinks. Thinks about how unfair it is that this will be the end, how bitterly it hurts that they had all been right, that he would never be a hero. Disappointment leaches from his pores as he thinks of how desperately he had wanted, how desperately he had tried, always with a smile on his face, wider than the sun; always with the truth in his heart, that, no matter what, he would be a hero. Here though, with no one to save, the boy lets the voices in and their laughter sounds like I-told-you- so's.
I know, I know, the boy thinks, you were right, I never should've tried; but there are no tears, there are never any tears. The dryness aches and shame fills his bones and sets his skin on fire.
Time heals all wounds, however, and, even without it, the boy begins to feel something like acceptance, resignation at least. There is nothing he can do in this place if he wants it to end, and he isn't the type of boy to have those thoughts anyway. Besides, when his mid grows dark, pulling at the corners of his bright smile and threatening to siphon the joy from it, a kind, proud voice speaks up from somewhere in the shadows.
"It's alright now, I'm here!" Then something like warmth fills the boy, if only for a moment, just enough to keep him on his feet.
...
The erratic days go by, and the voices, once again, begin to fade into the background, still there, but quieter now, more easily ignored when the boy is feeling well. There still isn't anything to do, but the boy grows restless to move his body, so he runs, slowly at first, then picking up pace as he dashes, lightning quick, across the fields and through the branches. Though it doesn't quell the dull ache in his limbs, it clears his mind in a new way and he savors the exhilaration in his chest as he moves so quickly his feet hardly touch the earth.
Soon, it's hard to say here, he grows tired of running, bored really, he can run and run forever without breaking a sweat or setting his lungs on fire, the ease of it all reduces the thrill. He moves on, practicing kicks and punches, with a whisper of power that once belonged to him and would again, coursing through his veins. Surely, his mind clears, and, though there is sadness laced into his skin, hinted in his eyes, there is peace, too.
Still, most days, and nights, he can't help but wish he had something there to distract him, anything at all to keep him out of the darkness.
Sometimes, when he lets his mind wander a little too long and things begin to feel a little too sad, he admits that what he really wants is someone there to keep him company, a soul like his own to bring life to the quiet, even if only for a little while.
Everything is always the same here, the leaves of the tree never fall and the grass never grows. The only change is day to night and even that has become more predictable. Everything is always the same until it isn't.
...
Somehow, even in the face of utter defeat, the boy grows stronger, little by little and day by day. Perhaps the change is not physical, but his mind is set and there is a determination in his eyes. His years spent standing proud, in spite of those who had laughed the loudest and pushed the hardest, had only strengthened the conviction in his dreams that ran so deep it had buried itself in his very essence. He would be a hero.
Something very small changes about the boy when a thought appears as a brief spark in his mind's eye. He is staring into the endless greenery, pondering the stillness of this place, the quiet familiarity. Somehow he knows, has always known, that somewhere he is still breathing; there, but not present. The thought startles him awake, ignites the hint of a feeling in him that he had almost forgotten exists. When the thought comes, he shoots up from his seat. There is curiosity and a little hesitance as he snatches it, holds it tight, rolls it over and over on his tongue, dissects it and mumbles at all of its possibilities.
The thought is this: If his mind is still here and his body is still alive, then it is logical to assume there is a chance, however slim, that he could leave this place.
The feeling is this: For the first time since he had gotten there, hope.
...
The moon always shines a little green in the night sky, but the boy can no longer remember it being any other way and, besides, there is something oddly welcoming about its regularity. He likes to spend time watching the moon and waiting now, always waiting. The boy resigns himself to patience and allows joy to creep into his laugh as he remembers his mother and tells himself stories of heroes past. The weight of the sameness lifts a little and he allows himself to settle into the beauty around him. Someone who doesn't know the boy might think him complacent, but, in truth, he has always been annoyingly patient.
This night, unlike any other night, something happens. It is subtle at first, a rise in temperature, just a little, on the left side of his face, warming sweetly like a kiss from the sun. The boy is lost in thought, his lips calculating and analyzing subconsciously, and doesn't notice, at first. Doesn't notice the wind picking up slightly, doesn't notice as he lifts his hand up to his cheek and cups it there, savors the feeling of warmth even as it rises and becomes a little uncomfortable. The heat is scorching now and white, hot pain drags him from his thoughts, reminds him where he is. This is something new. The spark ignites then, hope fills his heart and leaves a buzzing in his ears, he revels in the feeling, and even this awful, sickening, real pain can't shake the smile from his lips, big and blinding. He is still here, there is still a chance.
Suddenly, the heat turns to cold and the rapid temperature change leaves his cheek feeling raw and itchy. The boy's nails scratch at it softly, curious. The simultaneous feelings of burning and freezing brands his soul with hope.
The boy holds his face as it grows numb and heavy, pins and needles pricking at his skin, overstretched by the smile he has yet to shed. His mind ponders the feeling, and his lips worry over the possibilities, what it could mean that his skin had burned though nothing else had changed.
Something else then, and the boy can't believe his luck as the temperature drops and his teeth being to chatter. Incapable of containing his excitement, the boy leaps to his feet, raising his hands in the quickly freezing air. He whips his head around, searching for something in the scenery that surrounds him, unsure what it is he seeks, but vigilant nonetheless.
His lips chap as he begins to shiver, turning blue as they stretch over his teeth. He manages to keep smiling, manages to keep the sliver of fear and the hint of doubt that whisper to him from the dark corners of his mind at bay. The boy begins to walk then, follows the cold that grips him as he marches forward, always forward. The boy thinks as he walks, ponders the cold, ponders the expanse of this land, wonders if it stretches on forever or circles back around, a loop that begins and ends with the tree. His teeth chatter and he wraps his arms tightly around himself, yet still he walks.
The boy's body stops before his mind has a chance to recognize the gleam sparkling off the ground in the distance, the way the tinted green moonlight is bouncing off of something. There, he sees it, ice.
...
The moon glows in front of him and illuminates the ice as it spreads rapidly around him, a thick sheet that buries the immortal fields of grass. He laughs at the grass, giddy that it is dead. Though he bears it no ill will, he can't contain his glee at the newness of it all, refreshing in this place where no time exists to mark its growth.
There is a new, and somehow old, feeling in his chest, too. A tug, it had been gentle at first, just enough to get him moving in the right direction. The feeling is growing though, picking up its pace until it is frantic, and fills the boy with desperation as it propels him forward towards answers he doesn't know the questions to.
The pulling ends as quickly as it had begun and the shock of it brings him to a halt. The boy is surprised to feel the shadow of sorrow at the absence of the pull, but it dissipates the moment the boy looks up, or down, rather, over the edge of the cliff that he has somehow managed to walk right up to and not stumble down. His toes hover over empty air.
At the bottom of a cliff, in a valley full of ice, is a person, huddled tightly into themself, a face hidden behind knobby knees. They are too far away to be seen really, only the steam rising from their shoulders visible in the freezing night air.
The boy's body is moving before he has a chance to think, to analyze and calculate and find the best solution. There is no time to think as his feet rush forward and throw him into the valley at a speed that is almost comical. The feeling in his chest is nearly unbearable now, a pulling, ripping, bursting sensation that he is powerless to ignore. He can't help it, he has always been a hero, after all.
...
If the boy felt like he had gained a grasp on the way time worked or didn't work, in this place, he lost it the moment he began to pummel down that cliff with a heart that ached as it beat out of rhythm against his ribs. It feels like days or years go by as he runs, and faces he knows but doesn't know cloud his vision. He is moving fast, so fast that, if the person were to look up at the boy who barrelled towards them, they would see the way the moon reflects off the ice and onto the boy's pale legs, lighting them as though if there were green sparks of electricity coursing through them.
As quickly as he had begun, he stops. He is steps away from the person, close enough to see the apple red hair that pokes out from beneath crossed arms, the tiny movements as the person folds deeper into themself. The boy aches to reach forward and offer the warmth and comfort of a touch, but he holds back, cautious of the despair that sits at his feet. He wonders if the person knows he is there and mumbles under his breath a little before he can stop himself.
The boy's answer comes when the body inches further from him on the ice, turns so that all the boy can see is the heat rising off of the figure's back. Time stretches and shrinks simultaneously and the boy considers what to say, whether to speak at all. He has always been chatty though, and the words leave his mouth easily, without thought.
"Hello!" Bright and strong, just like his father would've done, "my name's Izuku! You look like you could use a friend." The boy's brow furrows in confusion at the name that had come so easily, not the name that had been given to him thirteen or so years ago, but his all the same. Warmth spreads from the long-dulled tug in his chest, and the surprise of it clears his confusion away as he watches the person in front of him turn carefully, then the shadow of a chin tilts up and, finally, the living, breathing, human in front of him meets his gaze.
It is another boy, the same age give or take a year or so, whose true red hair is just long enough to hang in his eyes; deep, blue ocean eyes stare into shining, rich brown, and both sets are full of wonder and relief.
...
It is uncommon, though not unheard of, for two souls that had long ago been connected by fate to find one another and remember the line that tethers them together. Lifetimes folding in on themselves, over and over, paths that never fail to cross, faces that never fail to remind them that they are loved and will be always.
The memories are always fleeting, there long enough to remind the souls that their paths are bound to one another, to spark the light that leads them into a new life together.
Once upon a time, a lucky few had heard the whispers that had sought ears which yearned to listen, whispers that spoke of the magic of memory and knowledge. The few had shared the whispers with those who wished to believe, and the truth, dulled to nothing more than a fairy tale, lived in a gentle breeze on a warm day, signs of a connection recorded like a poem in a long forgotten book.
The boy who had called himself Izuku has always been a believer and he had heard the whispers long ago, somewhere warm and soft, the sounds like gentle caresses in the ears of a child. Like an old, loved song the whispers would come to him sometimes, and he never thought to question the familiar comfort they draped him with. Only mumbled to himself and wondered, curiously, what the unavoidable pull would feel like, what the whisper of faces, familiar and comforting, would look like as old memories, ancient as the tree, resurfaced; the whisper of lives lived, the familiarity of two souls, utterly unique and entirely identical. Though, he would always stop before he caught himself hoping, so silly to dream of having a match in a world where a boy who dares to dream bigger than himself was born with a disease that rotted him from the inside.
...
Now Izuku doesn't know what to think as he stares at the boy, the beautiful, beautiful boy with eyes older than the body they belong to. Izuku sees the boy in front of him and he also sees the faces that peer at him from the darkness between them, eyes full of adoration and respect, all belonging to the boy, but none of them his. Fate has always served them a cruel hand, he knows that now, he remembers, so Izuku gnaws his lower lip and mutters to himself, drawing conclusions based on facts he didn't know he knew. He wonders if their souls had simply lost patience, rushing to find each other in this unchanging, quiet place. There is always the truth though, and Izuku knows now that this life is almost over, cut short as he had always been told it would be.
A thought, a spark, smaller than the rest, and Izuku doesn't know what to do with it.
Maybe the boy had come to save him, he always does.
Izuku can feel fond eyes watching him and a memory supplies him with the vision of a smile tugging gently at lips meant to turn down, "I'm glad you still do that." The voices sound when the other boy speaks and Izuku is awed by the variety of pitch, tone, and emotion that rings in the air, a chorus supporting the voice that belongs to this life. Izuku hears sadness in it, but there is warmth there, too.
Izuku closes his eyes and basks in the softening echoes of the symphony written just for him, waits until they've quieted, relishing the magic of fate. Then, his eyes are open and he blushes a little at the time he is wasting, "I'm sorry, Shouto!" He squeaks, again the name comes to him unprompted, but he no longer needs to stop and wonder why, "I was surprised."
The other boy laughs at that, but not unkindly, "I know, it's always surprising." Izuku steps forward then, coming to sit criss-cross in front of Shouto so that their knees barely brush against one another. The first touch between two bound souls can be intoxicating, it's always best to take it slow.
Silently, they study each other, honest in the presence of each other's truth. They know the memories won't last long, images that are only ever clear for a brief measure of time, long enough to remind them, then gone, just as surprisingly as they had arrived. Izuku and Shouto don't mind, though, they have both always enjoyed relearning one another once the faces and sounds have faded away. They know it will strengthen the bond between them to relearn how to be whole together, to lift each other up so that they could reach their dreams. As they always had, as they always would.
Though time is not on their side, they are patient, savoring every quiet moment in this very still place. Blue eyes roam over olive cheeks and freckles that are somehow always there, while wide, mahogany ones maps the fresh, red wound that covers the left side of Shouto's face.
There has always been despair in their lives and some scars never fade. Shouto carries this scar in every lifetime, an imprint on his soul that has been around since before he chose life, pain inflicted by someone whose love for him is skewed by the angry power of another. Again and again, the world shows him cruelty, rage, and pain. Again and again, Izuku finds him and reminds him that he is not alone, has never been.
Izuku brings his hand to his cheek and remembers the heat there, the hope it had brought him in this life. He always feels the pain, though he doesn't always remember it. Dry tears clog his throat, as he thinks of Shouto, burning over and over, lifetime after lifetime, broken and used before Izuku could get to him, could tell him that he was good and kind, that he deserved to smile.
The memories seem to last forever, and maybe that is the gift of this place, away from the constraints of time they can simply enjoy the knowledge of each other. So Izuku and Shouto sit there together, close but not quite close enough, remembering together, smiling and frowning and reveling in the truth of themselves.
They have all the time in the world and they have no time at all. The realization hits Izuku hard and knocks him forward and his face falls into Shouto who wraps his arms around Izuku's shoulders and pulls him close. He smelled like he always had, like he always would. Home.
...
The thick layer of ice covers the land so that it sparkles like crystal, but it is melting and time, troublesome time, is almost up.
"I'm dying," Izuku says, a statement of fact though his voice wavers.
"I was wondering," Shouto responds thoughtfully, fighting to conceal the quake of his vocal chords.
"What if you don't remember me?" Izuku asks, then worries at his lip with his teeth. "I'll just be some boy you had a dream about once. I don't want to leave you by yourself, that's the whole point of this," he gestures between them weakly, "despite all odds we always find each other, we always save each other. Shouto!" Izuku says and there is panic rising in his voice, "I can't save you." He cries then, tears imagined so hard they have become real.
Shouto breathes softly and steam fills the air as he opens his mouth to speak with a voice drenched in sadness and regret. "I'm sorry, Izuku," he is crying too, now, and salty tears fill his throat, "I'm sorry I can't save you. That you will have to keep waiting for me, but I promise, I will remember. I'll find you, not even certain death can keep us apart." His laugh is bitter, but the joke sets butterflies free from Izuku's chest and he is laughing now, gusts of air rush out from his lungs and fill his whole body so that Shouto can't help but laugh as well. Joy seizes them then, a reminder that they only have this moment together.
Izuku's laughter stops as Shouto's breath returns to normal, quiet exhales and inhales that are barely there. Izuku leans away, so that he can look into Shouto's eyes, study the scar that is soon to form. Izuku's face fills with determination then, his brows lowering and pulling together "Promise me, Shouto." Deep, brown eyes speak the language of their souls, "Promise you will remember, when you wake up from this place, promise you will go out and stand up for yourself and the things you deserve. You deserve the whole world, Shouto, all the love and happiness in it, even if I can't be there to share it with you this time around." Tears, blue as the ocean, spill out of eyes of an even deeper blue and Shouto nods. There are words too heavy to speak sitting patient on his tongue, but Izuku knows, he always knows.
Izuku's tears dry up before he is done crying and his body is beginning to feel lighter somehow, a tingling sensation that starts in his fingertips and grows to a phantom itch as it travels up his arms. Shouto knows, can feel Izuku's hand on his cheek loosen, the pressure less solid. Neither one mentions the sensation, neither one is ready to admit that this is the end, until the next beginning.
They know each other so well in this place, maybe better than they ever have, and words seem unnecessary, excess, so they continue to sit in silence together, holding onto one another, seeking solace in the mere presence of the other.
Izuku can feel himself fading more quickly now, part of him thinks he should be scared, this is it, after all, he really is going to die, but the comfort of Shouto, Shouto who has always been and will always be, is enough to calm his worries. "You did save me, Shouto," Izuku's voice has grown quieter now, as though he is speaking to Shouto from another room. "You found me, here and now, I'm just some scrawny kid with impossible dreams, but you defied all odds and found me and reminded me that there are all kinds of ways to be a hero." Izuku's voice is impossibly quiet now, his body barely a whisper as Shouto grasps for him, hanging onto the slivers of a shadow, "So, go, make me a hero, Shouto, let me save at least one person in this lifetime. Be happy, Shouto."
Shouto could feel the wind through Izuku's body, not the full force of it, but gusts blowing through mesh fabric, the holes of which grew and grew and threatened to swallow Izuku whole. The fullness in Shouto's heart sinks so that it sits in the pit of his stomach and threatens to tear him apart. Luckily, there is Izuku, placing the tease of fingertips on his cheek. Izuku, guiding his face to his own. Izuku, pressing their lips together, strong somehow, as the rest of him has nearly faded away.
It is how it has always been, both old and new, a little awkward at first, as they learn these new lips, then, a pattern, exciting in its originality, comforting in its familiarity. They stay like that for as long as they can, kissing sweetly across laps in the middle of a lush, green field at the bottom of a valley, in a place where nothing ever changed until it did.
"Remember, Shouto," Izuku says with a voice devoid of volume, as he caresses Shouto's cheek with the ghost of a thumb "you deserve it."
...
Somewhere nearby, and also so, so far, a red-haired boy with bandages covering most of his face wakes up to the sound of a heart monitor flatlining on the other side of the room. Then, the sound of a woman, sobs, the sounds muffled behind hands too small to bear their weight. Her tears sound like a whisper through the curtain, a reminder. Something the boy has to remember.
The doctors rush in and offer words of comfort to the woman and through the curtain the boy can see shadows of a body being covered, a gurney being wheeled away. The boy feels the phantom of a tug somewhere deep in his chest and, for a moment, there is deep, awful anguish. The feeling fades, but a word sits on the tip of his tongue, a name maybe, almost there, but just out of reach.
A man with anger in his eyes sits in a chair across from the boy's bed, staring at him warily, there is disappointment etched plainly into his features. The boy winces slightly, then steadies himself and meets the man's gaze.
A promise, a phrase, a name.
Something important, meant to never be forgotten.
The boy stares at the man with a challenge in his eyes and strength pools from someplace deep inside him. An old, loved place. There is a face from a dream, mahogany eyes and bursts of green plead with him in a language only they know, a language he can't remember.
Then, "I don't deserve this." The boy breaks the silence and gestures at his face. There is anger in his eyes, and sadness, and probably a little fear, but above all he is tired and something has reminded him that he is important too.
The man looks at him, a flash of fire in his eyes at first, but there is a flicker of regret there, too.
The boy sighs and things are a little easier. The man is still quick to anger and cruel at times, but, mostly, he leaves the boy alone, sends him off to school. Sends the boy somewhere far away, where the man won't have to see his deepest regrets staring back at him from the face of his only son.
Hesitant at first, but willing to try, to seek happiness in this new freedom he was strong enough to demand, thanks to the words of someone he can't remember. He makes friends at school, studies hard, and grows up to be a firefighter. To save lives and protect those in need.
When people ask him why, he tells them that it puts food on the table, that he likes riding around in the trucks, that it makes him happy. Truthfully, the boy, man now, doesn't really know how he ended up spending his life running into burning buildings with conviction in his steps and determination in his eyes.
The answer is always there, has always been there; when he closes his he can see pride swimming in golden brown and freckles splattered across wide cheeks. If he's paying very close attention he can hear the voice of a hero reassuring him that he is, in fact, the one who had done the saving.
...
Throughout the lifetimes they had shared, there were two constants that could always be counted on.
The first: They would find each other.
And the second: They would make each other heroes.
A young boy with tameless, green curls swings his legs idly in the too tall chair of the doctors' office as he waits to hear the results of the test. His mother worries over him, concern written on her face, but her eyes are full of affection.
At the tender age of four, a dream is shattered. Quirkless.
His mother takes him home and sobs brokenly while she apologizes over and over. Sickening deja vu runs through his veins, but he doesn't understand the feeling.
Still, he is determined to be a hero, despite the taunts, laughter, and physical violence of his peers and the sad, hopelessness present in the faces of adults. He stands tall and proud, just like his favorite hero, All Might, who is good and true and saves people with a smile on his face. He plasters on one of his own and tells people he is going to be a hero. After all, the conviction he has in his dreams is written into his very essence.
...
The boy nearly dies, captured by a villain, and he can't believe his luck when it's All Might who comes to his rescue. Real life shines a little duller than dreams, but it shines nonetheless.
It's painful to hear and he almost gives up when All Might, his favorite hero, who he has spent his whole life emulating, tells him that no, he can't say that someone without a Quirk could be a hero. For the first time, he almost believes it.
Then he is running, swinging his backpack at the villain, his body moving long before he has a chance to think because Kacchan needed help and, even though Kacchan had never treated the boy with anything but hatred, he was going to help him. He couldn't help it, he was always meant to be a hero.
The boy is shocked into tears when All Might finds him, tells him that he was wrong, there is hope. For a moment, the boy sees another face in All Might's, rounder cheeks and a broader chin, dark curls that fall over olive skin, but the light in their eyes is the same, lit by their identical, blinding smiles. Heroes.
...
For months and months, the boy trains and trains, hauls trash across the beach and follows All Might's schedule to a T. It's hard work, but he has fought his whole life for this, and other lives, too, though he doesn't remember.
Then, the entrance exam and he is certain he has failed, not having managed to take down a single robot, managing instead to break nearly his entire body. A miracle, rescue points for taking down a 0 point robot in order to save a classmate from being crushed. All Might says something about what makes someone a hero. The boy can barely hear it through the buzzing in his ears, too many emotions course through him and distract him from the very gentle tug forming in his chest.
It happens more slowly this time, takes a little longer for them to remember. Perhaps it's because their last time together had been brief, nothing more than a thirteen-year-old's forgotten dream, the memories of those other, fuller times more distant and harder to reach. Perhaps it's because time has stolen the whispers from the wind, nothing more than the gleam in a young child's eye, the sparkle in a wide smile, and the signs go a little longer unnoticed. In the end, it doesn't matter why, they find each other anyway, they always do.
...
School starts and the boy manages to break only a finger on his first day, it's painful, but at least he doesn't get expelled. He's so full of excitement and nerves he can hardly take in the scenes going on around him. He feels as though he is riding on a cloud as he meets his classmates, makes real friends for the first time in his life, is happier than he's ever been.
Something else, he's been experiencing chest pains. At first, they don't seem like that big of a deal. Little flutters like fingers prodding at him from the inside, as though there is something he needs to remember. They are worse at school, a painful tugging reminding him there is somewhere he doesn't know he is supposed to be. He considers telling his mom.
The class survives the attack on the USJ intact, but barely. All Might comes to save the day, and, for the first time, the boy is scared for him. All Might wins with a phrase of reassurance and a smile. He is a hero, after all.
...
There is controversy surrounding the Sports Festival, understandable considering the very recent attack. Life must go on, however, and excitement fills the air as the students train for the events. The boy is content as he works for his dream, save for the pulling, thrashing force in his chest that is sometimes so painful he can hardly breathe. He finally tells someone about it. All Might takes him to Recovery Girl, who runs some tests. Everything comes back normal and nobody has any answers.
The day of the Sports Festival arrives and the boy is disappointed when he wakes up to the pain in his chest, intense and familiar. Determined as ever, he inhales and buries the pain deep, he's going to show the world that he is here.
He wins the obstacle course, dumb luck and a little resourcefulness, but he wins. He's not so lucky during the cavalry battle, but 10 million points puts a target on his head and somehow the chest pains have gotten worse and he's losing focus, especially every time Lida's team draws near. Determination paints his features as he fights hard to keep the band from the boy with the red and white hair. What is his name? The boy is frustrated that he can't remember. It's something familiar, but he is having a hard time hanging onto it, like the idea of a word, just waiting on the tip of his tongue.
The field is full of noise and action, and the boy's chest hurts so badly. It is the sensation of hands dragging him forward towards the team that stands before them, a red and white haired boy waiting to steal the band from his head. In the end, he has an excuse to rush at the other boy with One for All coursing through his veins, its power easing the pain in the boy's chest, or so he thinks. He doesn't notice the pull disappear if only for the split second it takes for him to steal the band from the other boy's neck.
...
He isn't expecting to get cornered in the hall by the boy who is to be his opponent in his first Battle Round.
He isn't expecting to hear the saddest story that anyone has ever told him, the oldest story he knows. About a boy, hurt by someone whose love for him is skewed by the angry power of another. A boy who has only known bad and doesn't yet remember that there can also be good. A boy who needs help.
He isn't expecting the relief in his chest as the pulling ends and warmth replaces it, to see so many faint, familiar, smiling faces in the shadows that surround the other boy's scowl, to hear the symphony of voices when the other boy (Shouto, he remembers, finally) speaks.
There is confusion in Shouto's face, his forehead creases as he watches the eyes of the boy seem to age right before him. Emerald orbs shining and full of something Shouto thinks he is supposed to know, but doesn't. He shakes it off though, can't allow it to distract him.
It happens this way sometimes. One soul remembers the truth and the other isn't ready. It's a little more work than usual, but their paths have always been steeped in patience.
...
This time, the boy has to permanently damage his hand to remind Shouto. He can't feel the pain of it as adrenaline courses through his veins and he fights and fights against and for Shouto, proof in his injuries that Shouto deserves more, has always deserved more than what fate has offered him. The boy is here now. The boy had waited and now it is time to act.
"It's your power, isn't it?" The boy screams from across the stadium, frustrated and tired, but relentless. He has never given up and laughs at the impossibility of the idea.
He sees it then, something creeping into Shouto's vision and his eyes widen as Shouto explodes in a fit of shock and confusion. The boy is unconscious, limbs sprawled on piles of demolished concrete, so he misses the look of wonder and relief in Shouto's eyes as he watches them carry the boy off to Recovery Girl.
...
A boy with red and white hair sits patiently in a chair that sits in the room of a school that was, a long time ago, or perhaps is, somehow simultaneously, a hospital. In that same room, in that same building, in another time or plane, a young, sick boy dies and a sad, hurt boy begins to live. Their story is always sad and this one might be the saddest. It's never the last though.
Izuku wakes up and in the chair across from him is Shouto, a face to remind him of all he knows. Shouto is watching him with careful eyes, as though he might know something Izuku doesn't and is unsure whether he should share. Somehow, even after lifetimes and lifetimes lived together, of meeting and learning and growing again and again, Shouto's gaze still makes Izuku blush pink underneath the constellation of freckles that tickle his cheeks. He holds the gaze steady, though, and there are tears shining in his deep, green eyes as he nods his head. Yes, Shouto, it's alright now, I'm here. The words of a hero.
Then Shouto is there, sitting on the bed next to him, inspecting his hand, regretful that he had hurt himself so badly. This time, they are so relieved to have found one another after so long, that they can't hold back, touching and kissing and laughing in the few moments they have with the memories of their past laying bare the truth of their twin souls.
Slowly, they sober, the sorrow of their last time together, brief, a dream really, fills the room with sadness, but there is beauty too. Izuku wonders in awe at the life that Shouto had lived without him. Against all odds, Shouto had remembered. Izuku had been there after all, he remembers that now, too.
"I'm so proud of you." Izuku states, playful and honest, as he pushes Shouto's bangs out of his face, kisses the scar over Shouto's left eye.
Emerald green stares into Shouto's own, mismatched iris' and, for a moment, he sees mahogany, and a proud, wide smile, maybe not quite as wide as Izuku's is now, but radiant nonetheless. He smiles at the face, both new and old. "I know," he says simply as he pulls Izuku to his chest. It won't be long now, Shouto knows, as the faces and sounds of their pasts, the events and times and places that weave them so tightly together, not the dream, though, never the dream, begin to fade, just a little on the edges. Just enough to make Shouto wish they had a little more time together like this, with everything out in the open between them. It will be like this again, it always is.
"Shouto," Izuku says, a familiar plea in his voice as he breaks their embrace. The memories are fading quickly now and he clings to what is left, "Shouto, promise you'll remember." Izuku stares hard into Shouto's eyes, words said and never spoken, "You deserve it."
The words offer Shouto the strength to propel himself away from the bed and back to his seat, to regain his uncomfortable position right on it's edge. With the last dregs of their knowledge, their deepest truth, Shouto smiles, and nods, "I know," and the warmth in his eyes says see you soon and a million other words from a thousand over lives. In the last breath of the spell, Shouto sees Izuku nod sweetly at him, centuries of affection and unconditional love spilling out of him and shining green in the tears that begin to fall. Then, confusion dries his eyes abruptly, and the spell is broken.
...
The boy in the chair asks him "why?" and the boy on the bed doesn't have an answer, really, besides "you looked like you needed a friend," more words, unspoken but not unheard, "you deserve it."
Neither of them mentions the pull in their chests. It's not painful now, but warm. A reminder of something to come, something that is and has always been. They don't really understand the comfort that they find in each other's presence, even in the not so awkward silence. Eventually, they will walk together hand in hand, their bond strong and true as ever.
For now, they are two strangers, unaware of the tether that returns them to one another time and time again. It will take time, it always does, but they can be patient, they always are.
Izuku and Shouto are very old souls. Some of the oldest in fact, around long enough to remember watching the birth of the universe with a bang. At the time, they had been little more than simply two ideas of somethings, bonded even then. Together, they watched the world grow, watched it fill with life. There was beauty there, but it was the sorrow that drew them to it. They recognized its ache.
Sadness exists even outside of time and space and the souls had dealt with more than their share, but they had found one another and filled each other's wounded heart's with comfort, a friend. That had been the first time; there is always a beginning, even when there is no end.
The two souls had watched as the universe aged, had watched as people continued to live and laugh and smile, despite the hardships that came with the gift of life. There were bad things, but there was good, too and somehow the souls had gotten it into their heads that they could be the ones to procure smiles on the faces of those who were dealt life's harsh blows, bring them comfort and safety when times were dark. Of course they could. Separately they had saved each other, together, they could save the world.
Their choice came with a price though, as these things usually do; and it is their own pain and hardships to be overcome, to remind them, again and again, of the dream they share and the reasons that they have always fought so hard to achieve it. They are strong souls, bound together with determination and faith in the path that always leads them back to each other, that always has and always will.
Though they can remember the lifetimes they have shared, the memories of their youth, their true youth, have been lost to them. The origins of their ideals and strength had been cast aside to make room for lifetimes of faces and people needing saving.
It is no surprise then, that they do not remember the third soul who had been there with them at the beginning.
If Izuku and Shouto are very old souls, then this third soul is ancient. Having been around since before there was anything, save a handful of souls that floated aimlessly in the nothing, wondering at the possibilities of it. This soul had watched the birth of existence in awe, had loved it with every fiber of its being, had sworn at that moment to do anything in order to protect life and those lucky enough to get to live it.
So, when the soul had seen two bright, young souls flicker into the light, holding the greatest dream in their hearts, determined and curious and a little sad, he had encouraged them to follow it. Inspired them to do good for the sake of doing good. To be true heroes.
In return, the soul would watch over them, guide them along their paths, and make sure they always found their way back to each other.
The soul had no hand in fate, but it could damn well do its best to make sure everything always turned out alright.
...
A phrase. A promise.
Even without a face, the soul has a smile so bright it could blind.