Breakfast Blend
Izuku can't remember ever not living in his house. Which isn't really an impressive statement given he's only twenty-three years old, but it takes on more context when he recalls that this house hasn't changed hands since it's construction after the Edo Period. And according to 'her', the spot has been inhabited by his ancestors since they came over.
He isn't one hundred percent sure that she's being accurate, but he also isn't about to tell a creature that hasn't aged in the twenty-odd years he can remember what is and isn't historically accurate.
The Midoriya household isn't actually that interesting of a house either. It's out in the countryside, and it's a plain two-story wood house, and Izuku has only recently considered changing the wooden slat exterior for a more durable vinyl siding. It's a quaint three bedroom two bathroom house, with a tidy-if outdated kitchen, with a basement and a pantry.
None of that is particularly interesting, but it was worth noting that the basement door is under the stair and opens closer to the table than it does the fridge or stove.
Which isn't a terribly interesting detail- but it's a detail that Izuku has come to know the importance of throughout his twenty-three-year-old life.
Perhaps it's because that fact is combined with the ritual of brewing a pot of tea for three- with the house only containing two until recently- and setting the third cup at the spot closes to the basement door. Izuku can remember since the dawn of his memory his mother brewing tea, pouring the cups and watching her slit her finger and dribble two or three drops of blood into the cup.
He can remember his mother's fingers always being dotting with thin Band-Aid's and both a knife and a box of Band-Aid's always being in easy reach.
Izuku supposes that in all actuality of it, suffering a minor cut and dripping a few drops of blood into a cup of tea isn't actually a bad trade off given in exchange he gets to chat with an ancient eldritch being that has seen either the dawn of creation or the end of the world.
Ochako has never truly clarifies how time works for her.
He just knows that she takes her tea once- at a minimum- or twice- if you're feeling like having company- a week, and she likes to change flavors of tea and usually takes it with two sugars and a few drops of Midoriya blood in it.
She will answer any question he asks, though there are some questions he doesn't remember the answer to- and he suspects that might be for his good- and she will regal him with any tale of his ancestors that he likes- if he can specify when or where, and that might be the reason that on a Thursday afternoon he brew a kettle of tea at their usual time.
It's raining outside, pouring buckets and buckets of water that rushes across the shingle roof and washes over the double-paned windows before seeping into the ground. In the morning the house will be no-worse for wear- despite winds or time, and the basement, which should rightly floor or get damp and cold, will be perfectly cozy and warm.
There are certain things that are not worth questioning.
He sets about brewing two cups of tea, humming to himself as he listens to the silence of the house.
Until a week ago his mother was here.
Until a week ago he was an only child, with a mother that he loved more than anything else in the world and a father that was a distant memory.
Two days ago he became a son again, to a man he had looked up to for years. And his mother was happy again, smiles and laughs and genuine joy radiating off her like she has always deserved.
Izuku drums his fingers against the handle of the kettle, listening to the kettle fill with water. It's not that he's opposed to the sudden shift in his family dynamic.
Yagi Toshinori is a fantastic man, a wonderful father-figure, and… Izuku trusts him. Then again it's fairly hard not to trust him, the man was just so genuine. So he wasn't bothered by the fact that his mother was now-remarried, nor was it that he was bothered by her moving out and leaving him the family home.
The kettle fills and he turns the sink off and clicks over the gas burner. There's a momentary hiss before a blue flame fans out around the eye of the stove. He sets the kettle onto it with a faint sizzle.
Muscle memory and habit allows him to keep moving as he stews over his thoughts. He pulls a knife from the drawer, along with a band-aid as he fetches two mugs- one with a handle and one without. He never really understands why, but 'she' prefers the mugs without handles.
The kettle steams and hisses as he pulls it off, pouring the steaming water into the two mugs before he cuts the burner off and sets the kettle back on the eye. It's the third time this week he's made tea for 'her', but he knows that on rainy days she likes jasmine and he likes green.
Tea is another thing that is always close at hand and well-stocked in the Midoriya household.
Strangely enough he can't quite recall ever having to buy it.
He supposes that's just another one of those things associated with rooming with an eldritch being with galaxies in her eye sockets.
He dunks the tea bags in, letting them soak for a moment before they sink down into the bottom of the mugs. The next step is just as much habit as it is ritual at this point- and a portion of him fears that if he ever had anyone actually join him for tea he'd accidentally spike their tea with blood. All the same, he runs the blade of the knife against the side of his finger, hard enough to cut the skin but gentle enough that it's a small cut that will seal quickly.
It's a talent that both he and his mother have at this point.
Blood oozes from the cut and Izuku allows it to run around the crook of his finger before dripping into the amber liquid. Three drops of red tint the liquid a darker shade, but it lightens when he adds in the sugar. He wipes his finger clean, another band-aid joining the others that adorn his fingers.
He's stopped worrying about what people thing when they see his fingers. It's easy enough to get a little nick on a finger without even trying to, and Izuku can always excuse it by saying he's clumsy.
Which isn't completely untrue, but he likes to think he's at least dexterous enough to not slice into his own fingers every time he picks up a knife.
Just during tea time.
Being able to detect when Ochako appears is an art that is not based on being able to feel or hear a shift of weight in the old boards of the house. It is not a matter of being able to smell her presence- though he notices that she smells like honey when he's close to her- nor is it derived from being able to hear the basement door open.
He realizes she's there, much in the same way he realizes that he is breathing or he has to concentrate on blinking. One moment there is no consciousness of the action taking place, and the next it is all that can be focused on.
He picks up both mugs, carrying them to the table where she is waiting.
She allows him to call her 'Ochako' but he isn't sure that's what her name is. To his mother, she was always, 'Uraraka', but to him it has always been 'Ochako'. She greets him with a smile, thin pink lips on a round-ish face.
She looks like a woman, young and vibrate and easy-going in her white and yellow-sunflowered sundress, but he knows that she is capable of any imaginable feat because the area around her eyes is a black hole.
His mother used to say that was how her mother went mad. She looked 'Ochako' in the eye too long and stared seeing the stars crashing together in dreams and ancient creatures swimming in the depths of space.
Izuku does not look 'Ochako' in the eyes.
But he does sit down with her, handing over her tea before glancing out the window. He feels her hand against his, warm fingers covering his own for a moment before she teases the mug out of his hand.
"Good afternoon." She greets, and though she is more powerful than his mind can comprehend and looking into her eyes can crush the soul and fry the brain, her voice is gentle and chipper and he feels like she even has a bit of a rural accent.
"It's rainy." He replies, his own hands wrapping around his mug to try and absorb some of the warmth seeping out of the ceramic.
"The house feels cold too."
He drums his fingers against the wooden table, watching the rain beat against the glass before turning his gaze back to her.
He doesn't look at her face- he knows better- but instead allows his gaze to fix on her neck. The sundress exposes the soft curve of her collarbone and the subtle strength in her shoulders, but he fixates on her neck instead.
"My… mom got remarried." He says slowly, finding his fingers anxiously spinning the mug around in his palms. He takes a sip of the green tea to smooth his nerves. "She moved out yesterday."
"Well that's good."
He shrugs, because he doesn't know what else to say about it. "I think it is." He drums his fingers against the wood again, and then corrects his statement. "I know it is. I just…"
He trails off and lets out a huff. "I guess I'm just… lonely."
"I can tell." She quips, and he can feel her amusement based on the wave of heat that wafts off her being and the sudden pop of the space around him. Like space itself has suddenly laughed at him.
He grimaces instead of answering, choosing to look across the table at a stack of envelopes- unopened and no doubt full of impending bills.
Somewhere in the time it takes him to blink, the fraction of time it takes for his eyelids to slam shut and scrape back open, the envelopes are suddenly opened and sorted.
The bills are neatly stacked, messy script across them marking them 'paid'- because even an arm's length away he recognizes Ochako's messy script- and the return envelopes stamped and ready to go in the mail.
He huffs, dragging his eyes off them to refocus on his company across the table.
She offers him a smile- one that he can see at the edges of his vision as he stares at her collarbone.
"Izuku, you know there's nothing wrong with being sad or feeling lonely." She offers the advice gently and accents it by extending her hand across the table.
Her fingers are pale, but he knows that she doesn't spend all of her time in the basement. She appears throughout his life, momentary flashes of her across the street when he goes to the market. Sometimes when he's at work he'll look up and recognize the style and color of her hair in a cubicle that's supposed to be empty.
But she chooses to have pale skin and warm hands. He slides one of his own hands into it, feeling the callouses on his hands catch and stick before their palms touch and he wraps his thumb around her's.
There is silence between them, and in it neither of them speak or move. There is the faint sound of lips on ceramic and tea being sipped, but Ochako's hands do not move, and the cup on her side of the table does not shift from the spot he set it.
He always finds it empty at the end of their talks though.
"You could choose to be anywhere in the world." He says suddenly, glancing over at her. Her lips quirk into a smirk at his statement, and it probes the next line out of him. "So why is it that you choose to sit here with me, in an old house in the middle of the country, sitting tea and holding the hand of a twenty-three year old who has never been anything more than a number on a list instead of a name to a person?"
She chuckles and space seems to reverberate and tremble around them as she does. It doesn't give him a headache, but it gives him the impression that she finds his statement truly funny.
"Do you know why I choose to make a pact with the Midoriya household?"
He shrugs, peeling his hand out of hers to curl it back around his mug. "I guess? I mean…" He shrugs again, "Mom said it was something about our bloodline. It was a… a delicacy, or an enhancer for being's like you."
She hums at that, and he get's the impression that he's not wrong- but he isn't completely right either. "Close enough." She says instead of rebuking him. "But do you know why I choose to stay, even now?"
He doesn't have a clue.
Why would something like Ochako stay? He can't even look her in the eye without going mad. He can't feel her presence, only recognize her sudden appearance and feel when she is absent.
"Haven't the foggiest." He replies.
She grins at him and a shiver goes down his spine at the sight of her teeth. An age-old instinct triggering the reaction because no matter what she says or does, she is a predator and he is prey to her kind. "Because I like you, Izuku. Every version of you that I find, I like."
Version?
He blinks.
"What do you mean?"
She smiles, her head tilting down to examine her cup. "How many cups do you feel like brewing today?" And she slides it back across the table to reveal that it is suddenly empty.
He purses his lips, unsure what to do or say in the face of that. She is always willing to tell him whatever he asks-albeit usually cryptically and in words chosen to be confusing or obtuse.
But she will tell him.
She is honest.
She does not lie.
He considers it.
And then decides.
"I'm off work next Tuesday, how about I brew another cup then?" He suggests.
"Of course." And her mug disappears from the table- and he knows that he will find it later already washed and dried in the cupboard. "It's always a pleasure Izuku."
"As it is with you, Ochako." He says her name and watches her reaction. It's a shiver and the air around her ripples.
She hums and strangely she does not disappear when he blinks again. Instead she leans across the table, taking his hand again. "I like you because you are selfless and kind." She tells him, and suddenly her other hand is tilting his head up before he can resist.
His eyes meet hers.
Green emeralds burn into the void of space that is her own, staring into the infinite void of stardust and nebulas. He can see the universe in her eyes, fragments of gas giants swirling in the depths- accented by a smattering of stars. There are icy comets streaking across the infinite black, trails of frost and fire spinning off the frozen rock as it rips through the void. There is a sun peeking out from behind another star, rays of light and tongues of flame dancing around it.
He blinks, and she pulls away, a smile on her lips. "Oh, I always knew you were special Izuku." She says, leaving him with no explanation as he blinks again.
And finds himself alone at the kitchen table, a mug of lukewarm green tea in his hands and the sound of rain beating against the glass window.