Ivory

by ijustwanttodestroy

"Who are you? What are you?" Izuku says again, even though he knows. He knows. And then the boy says, "I'm you, stupid. The real question is—what are you?" Midoriya Izuku is many things. He is a Human, a Shinigami, a Hollow. He is a monster, a demon, a god. In other words: just a boy. [BLEACH AU/NO QUIRK AU]

a/n: TW: suicide / self harm / past bullying / gore / emotional drama / mental illness

i tried my very best to make this readable for people who are lucky enough to have never read bleach (congratulations). several stuff are inaccurate to the og material-including the terms, which ive altered to make it easier to understand to non-bleach readers. dont worry about it, bleach isnt the point anyway. and to bleach fans: bear with me and my interpretations.

this story is connected with my other bleach au fic Off-White, but they can be read as standalones.

ichigo and deku happy belated birthday, you boys are my favorite emotional punching bags.

---

0.

"who are you? what are you?"

"i'm you, stupid. the real question is—what are you?"

---

I.

"And then?"

"And then," she says, "and then I said, I said I want the lives—"

"Leaves," Izuku corrects her.

"—the leaves to be purple. But sensei says they gotta be green, because that's how real leaves are. I don't care how real leaves are," she insists. "I want them to be purple."

"I see."

"So I colored 'em purple."

"Naturally."

"And then," she pauses meaningfully, as if she is going to reveal a terrible climax of a story. "She gave me a C."

Izuku shakes his head in aghast sympathy. A C? The horror. "How could she."

"How could she," she echoes him, still apparently petulant from the whole offense. "'s unfair."

"So unfair," Izuku agrees.

"So what if it's green?" she mumbles. "It doesn't have to be how it's. How it is. How it's like actually is. Y'know?"

"I know," Izuku says. And then he says, "Haru-chan. Do you think you could tell me the way to your house again?"

She doesn't reply for a while, still apparently immersed in the memory of the injustice done to her artwork. "Look up," she says finally. "And then. You, um, you look for the second star to the right.."

"..and walk straight on till morning," Izuku finishes. He smiles. "I know. But before that. We want to make a stop first, okay?"

"A stop?"

"Uhuh. 'Cause I think we can find Fuwa-kun there."

She brightens up at the mention of her cat. "You think so?"

"Yep, Fuwa-kun is probably waiting for you right now," he assures her. "So. before you look for the second star. Where does your mom take you? From the park."

"I think," she says, slowly. "Umm. Usually Mom takes me to the ice cream shop. First."

Just like everything else, the ice cream shop is closed. The only place open at this time of the night is the Seven Eleven across the park, an electric blue amidst the other dim street lights. They haven't fixed the lights in forever, around here.

She looks disappointed, pouting at the sight of the shuttered windows. "I want their mint chips," she says, a little petulantly.

"It's the best," Izuku lies. He has never gone to that shop, in nighttime or otherwise. "Okay. Where to next?"

"We, mm, we usually pass the house," she says. "Uhm. The one with the pretty pink fences. With the, the purple flowers."

Aha. "I think I know which house you're talking about," Izuku says—there is a house a block away with wisterias on its porch. That makes it easier. "Does this area seem familiar to you, Haru-chan?"

A man passes them by the sidewalk, and Izuku reflexively takes a step to the side before they crash into each other. The man doesn't seem to notice, not sparing either of them a single glance. "Mm. I think so," she bties her lips. "I think. To the left, next."

"Good girl," Izuku says. It's cold around here at night, but Izuku barely feels it. In this form, what he feels is a different kind of cold. A kind of cold that has nothing to do with temperature. "Hey—don't run, okay? Stay where I can see you."

Her feet make no sound as she traverses through the path—it's getting narrower as they go further away from the main street. There is barely anybody around in the complexes, not a soul to be found. Except for both of them, Izuku supposes. "Onii-chan!" her voice cuts through the night, excited, loud enough to wake the whole neighborhood. "I found him!"

"Really? That's great," Izuku says, walking towards her ringing laughter. A moth buzzes above, circling on the flickering street lamp. Something catches his eyes—his steps halt. He can hear a cat meowing in response as Haru coos, "Fuwa-kun, Fuwa-kun, c'mere.."

Izuku crouches down. The lamppost is fractured and bent on its bottom part, as if something had crashed into it at high speed. And on the base of it is laid a bouquet of flowers—wisterias and chrysanthemums, scattered around a photo frame. They are still fresh, not yet wilted; he can smell them if he leans close enough—the scent of soft earth, a sick sweetness.

"Haru-chan."

"Yeah?"

Izuku stands up. He smiles around the lump in his throat. "Look," he says softly. "These are for you."

"For me?" she is right next to him in an instant. No sound indicating her movement— nothing at all indicating her movement, or her having moved, or her existing at all. Her smile is toothy, mirroring the smile captured in the photo of her beneath the petals. "Wow, really?"

"Really," Izuku says. "Aren't they pretty?"

"So pretty," she says, and reaches for the flowers. And doesn't succeed.

It's not that her hand goes through them—nothing so cliche—but it does not make contact nevertheless. A contact between the incorporeal and the physical isn't something that can possibly be done. The petals never touch her fingers, the same way her feet never—will never again—make a sound.

There is a beat where her smile falls off her face and Izuku's heart stops. She takes her hand back, empty, flowerless.

She goes quiet. Izuku's heart jumps again, a painful beat in his chest. He swallows and makes a poor attempt to smile. "Won't you introduce me to your cat?"

She doesn't reply. The night isn't exactly silent—from faraway, there is an ambulance siren going off, crickets chirping in the bushes, and the distinctive static that you can only hear at three in the morning. The moth buzzes, its shadow slitting the light of the neon streetlamp like a knife. "Haru-chan," Izuku says to the static. Izuku's throat feels dry. He doesn't know what to say. He never does, not for fifteen years and counting. "It's, it's—"

"Onii-chan," she says. Quietly. "Am I not real?"

The cat meows. An old thing, with butterscotch fur. It slinks from the shadows, trotting up next to her—but not exactly next to her. There is a divide between Haru and everything else. A distance that is less of space and more of time, of inevitability, and of fate. "I don't want to be like this," she says, and then Izuku feels it—the sharp coldness, something icy and hollow. A cold that has nothing to do with temperature, and more with emptiness, radiating off her.

With alarm, Izuku watches as the link of chain jutting from her chest trembles, as if it's going to shatter apart. The moment it does, her soul will be beyond saving. "Haru-chan—"

"I don't want to be like this. I want to be, I want to be real again—"

"Haru-chan. Haru-chan, listen to me," Izuku tries again, kneeling down so he can look her in the eye. "You're real. Of course you're real. See?"

She looks down to where Izuku's hand grasps hers. "Can you feel me?" Izuku asks her.

The chain length has shortened down a few inches, but to his relief, the tremor is dissipating ever so slowly. "I—I can," she sobs.

"I can feel you too," Izuku says. Her hand is much smaller than his, much paler, and soft like a flower petal. The cold fades, and there is a warmth again now—not the temperature kind, but something gentler. "I'm real, so you're real too. Okay?"

"Okay," she wipes her face. Izuku wonders where her tears go when they fall. Wonders if they'll ever touch the ground. "This is. Um, this is Fuwa-kun."

"Hello," says Izuku to the cat. The cat sniffs at him before meowing again at Haru, indignantly leaning towards her as if wanting to jump into her arms.

Haru laughs. "He can see me," she says, so happy by her existence being evident, and Izuku smiles. "Of course he can," he replies. "I can too, can't I?"

She goes quiet again. And then, "Can you pet Fuwa-kun for me?"

"Excuse me, Fuwa-san," Izuku says to the cat politely. "May I pet you for a little while please?" The cat sniffs.

"He likes it. Behind the ears," she instructs.

Fuwa-san the cat does not seem to be so pleased with the prospect of being touched by Izuku, but it does not attempt to claw Izuku's hand to shreds. "He is very soft," Izuku makes his consensus.

"I know," she says. "Onii-chan. I think. I think I'm ready."

Izuku stands up. "If you're sure."

"Does it hurt?"

"It doesn't," Izuku says, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword. "I promise."

"Okay," she says. To the cat, "I'll miss you, Fuwa-kun."

Fuwa-kun—Fuwa-san, for Izuku—meows resentfully, as if in protest. She laughs. And then—

And then he hears it.

No, he feels it. A howl. A sound like the world is tearing apart at the seams—a weight like gravity doubling down on them all. The cold, ice in his heart, a kind of cold that has nothing to do with temperature but leaves your bones shattering nevertheless.

The cat yowls and darts into the alleyway. Izuku watches as Haru's smile drops and in its place, comes horror. "Onii-chan," she says, looking at something behind him. "What is that..?" Izuku turns.

From the dark, the creature rises like a corpse from the deep trenches of the sea—a magnificent thing, stygian flesh and bone-white mask as its head. Several car alarms go off all at once, as if an abrupt scream. And then The Hollow unhinges its jaw, baring a row of teeth like stalactites—and screams back.

Izuku unsheathes his Soul-cutter. Behind him, Haru grabs the fabric of his shihakusho. "Onii-chan.."

They've been loitering for far too long—or was Izuku distracted? He never sensed it coming. Careless. If Toshinori-san was here, he would get scolded—

"Midoriya Izuku."

Izuku wishes he would stop calling him by his full name. "Todoroki-san."

Todoroki Shouto stands out against the dark like moonlight, cut sharp. His eyes move, dispassionate, to Haru—and then back to the Hollow. His voice, as always, is ice. "We haven't time to waste," he says, unsheathing his own Soul-cutter. "Perform a Soul Burial on that Plus." And then he fights the Hollow.

Fight isn't really the right word for it. Todoroki does not fight Hollows—he decimates them. Todoroki's Soul-cutter splits the dark like light, and it's over in seconds. Todoroki hunts Hollows like someone who has done so for a hundred years, and that's exactly who he is.

But more are coming. Izuku can sense them now—their reiryoku. The splatters of coldness, the emptiness closing in. Creatures in the dark, voids in time and space with their alabaster masks and their screams, sharp like sawdust. From the other end of the street, one appears, a movement in black. An unhinged jaw.

"I'm scared," Haru says. "Onii-chan. I'm scared."

"It's okay," Izuku says with a stilted sort of calmness. "It's okay, Haru-chan. Those things aren't real."

Todoroki moves to greet it, his black shihakusho blending in with the thick of night. The snow white half of his hair is the only indication of his presence—along with his Soul-cutter, they dance in the pitch black dark like lightning. The hollow roars as Todoroki cuts it apart, as if cleaving meat.

Izuku gently turns her away from the sight, his one swordless hand cupping her chin as tender as he can be. "It's not real," Izuku repeats. "And what's not real can't hurt you. Okay?"

"Okay," she says.

He lifts his Soul-cutter. "Good girl," he says. "You know where to go, don't you?"

"Second star to the right."

"And straight on till morning," Izuku says, the hilt of his sword touching her forehead, gentle as a kiss. "Goodbye, Haru-chan."

She goes with a soft glow. Soul Burial is one of the very first things Toshinori taught him—but to Izuku, this isn't anything like a burial. Her form dissipates—like fireflies ascending into the sky, particles of photons illuminating the dark—before she's gone entirely. And Izuku knows she's gone not because he can't see her any longer, but because he can't feel her spiritual force, her reiryoku—that gentle, fleeting warmth. Like a birthday candle. Like a life gone too soon.

All that's left now is the cold. The void, a blot of ink in space, and in between his ribcage. Izuku raises his head to look the Hollow in the eye.

The Hollow howls. A terrible sound: tectonic plate shift, freight train crash. Its teeth a row of stalactites with the promise of death. If not death, then what comes after.

People misuse the word monster, Izuku thinks. A mean person isn't a monster. A person of ill will isn't a monster. Cruelty implies a consenting self, a purposefulness of harmful intent. Monsters aren't cruel—what they are is far too innate to be called cruelty. It isn't so much intent as much as it is instinct. And instinct is never really consensual.

Izuku's soul-cutter gleams in the moonlight, a silver-gilded meat cleaver tracing a parabola in the air. One he knows but doesn't recognize—its shape traced in his grip of the hilt like instinct. Parabola of destruction. And salvation.

Todoroki makes it look easy—it isn't. It isn't like cleaving meat. It's like cutting a hill, a mountain. Cutting an impossibility. Cutting what doesn't exist.

The Hollow shatters like glass—the word an antonym of synthesis. It falls apart like fireflies flitting into the cold night, so easily. Perhaps that's why they are called Hollows; they're empty at the core after you unmask them, like a seashell with nobody at home.

And then silence.

And then him. Just him. And the night.

He makes sure of it. He knows where to look, now, and what to feel—Musutafu is just a small city, population of a few hundred thousands, and if he closes his eyes he could feel them: the people's reiryoku. Their warmth. Notes of fireflies burning the back of his eyes. No coldness, no knife-sharp emptiness—none, at least for now.

He sheathes his soul-cutter. It's a weight on his back—not a comforting one, but a weight nonetheless. Police siren is closing in, the lights in the neighborhood are turning on. Some of the car alarms have been put out, people walking outside their houses, half-asleep, wondering if there was a passing earthquake. Izuku pays them no mind. If one would look into the street he stands in, one would see nothing.

He is in the street, he slays a monster, and no one sees. If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it…

Izuku's feet stop at the lamppost once more. The glass of the photo frame is cracked, from the shockwave of the fight—the flowers are all blown away. Izuku crouches down to tidy them up as best as he can. Haru smiles right back at him from the photo frame.

"Midoriya Izuku."

He has got to stop doing that, Izuku thinks. Just his surname would be enough. Izuku steps away, turning to look at him. "Todoroki-san. Are you—all right?"

A foolish question, of course; Todoroki is completely unscathed. A couple of low level Hollows would never be able to leave even a single strand of his hair out of place. Todoroki looks back at Izuku with those stolid, mismatched eyes. "We will leave for Soul Society at once," Todoroki says, hard like flint and just as unyielding. Todoroki only says sentences like there are orders, or orders to be carried. "You have been summoned to the Court."

---

1.

"Do you know why I called you here, Midoriya-kun?"

"No, Sensei," Izuku lies.

The other teachers aren't paying attention—the school hour has ended, and half of them are supervising after-school clubs while the rest are tidying up their last worksheets.

"I see," Fukukado-sensei says, leaning back on her seat.

Behind her, the window is half-opened, letting the wan breeze in. Summer is coming soon; the air feels bone dry. The air con of the teacher's room isn't much use. "I suppose you also don't know why the chicken crossed the road?"

Izuku blinks at her.

"Right, perhaps that was too advanced a question for a high schooler," she says, the end of her pen tapping her cheek. "Do you know why the sun didn't go to college, at least?"

"The—the sun?"

"Because it's already had a million degrees."

Izuku opens his mouth. And then he closes it again. He does this several times.

"You may laugh," Fukukado says, looking amused—but then again, she has never looked any other way. "That was a bad joke, so you may boo as well. But please," she gestures at a nearby chair. "Do sit down."

Izuku obeys, mostly out of reflex. "Would you like a mint, kid?"

"Oh," Izuku momentarily panics, as one does when one is offered a mint. "Um, sure—" he regrets it instantly. Wouldn't it be more polite to refuse? "I mean, you don't have to.."

Fukukado-sensei does not seem to be aware of Izuku's internal social anxiety meltdown. "Here you go."

Beat. Izuku looks at his hand, and then at her, because what she just handed is definitely not a mint, and instead—

"This is a lemon," he says stupidly. A straight up lemon, yellow and spherical in all its glory.

"You don't always get what you want in life," Fukukado-sensei says wisely. "Oftentimes, all you get is lemons, and when life gives you—ah, so you can laugh."

Izuku shuts his mouth immediately, awkward and startled and—confused, he supposes. He did laugh. That's already bizarre in itself. "Uh."

"You should do it more often. It lengthens your life expectation," she continues conversationally, bulldozing right through Izuku's poor social communication skills. "Say, do you remember the first assignment I gave your class this semester, Midoriya-kun?"

Now this is better. A question with a direct and concrete answer and none of the social awareness variables—Izuku can do that. "You asked us to do an essay on, um, on our favorite movie—"

"I did do that," she says, sounding somewhat delighted, as if Izuku just informed her that she won an award.

It's not as if Izuku could forget. He tends— tended— to remember all his school assignments to an obsessive degree, yes, but it was also an odd assignment. Fukukado-sensei teaches Japanese literature, and yet the assignment was on films; and there were not any restrictions either—any films will do, local or otherwise.

"I remember your essay," she says. "Your movie was City Lights. An unexpected choice for someone your age."

Izuku feels like a response is expected of him. He fumbles for something to say, and for once, opts for the truth. "My mom … loves classic movies. We, um.." it feels weird, saying it— sharing it. A piece of trivia that nobody cares about. His voice falters, but Fukukado-sensei is staring at her expectantly, as if he's saying something of importance. "We marathon Chaplin sometimes.."

"That sounds nice," she smiles. "It's a very good movie. Very, very funny. And also bittersweet. My favorite combination, personally."

Another response is perhaps expected of him, but Izuku can't find it in him to risk saying something—unnecessary. Once again, though, she doesn't seem to mind his awkward silence. "You wrote an excellent essay, Midoriya-kun. Carefully constructed. Precisely worded."

Izuku remembers; he was given an A. He used to be always given an A. "Um—thank you.."

"I called you here because I hoped that you could enlighten me," Fukukado says. "On why you did not hand in the last three assignments in a row."

He knew this was coming. Izuku can physically feel his cheeks heat with shame. And guilt. "I—" his voice cracks. He tries again. "I'm sorry. I haven't been feeling—well."

Her eyes flick to the jacket Izuku wears over his uniform—the jacket he always wears. "So I heard," she says.

Not reprimanding, not really, but Izuku flinches nevertheless. "I'm sorry," he repeats. "I'm—I'll try my best to catch up, and I could.. I could hand in the assignments by—"

"You don't need to hand them in."

Izuku pales. He messed up—he knows he did. He won't get graded for those missing assignments and by the end of the year he won't be passing the class. He messed up. But he did it on purpose, didn't he? He knew this would happen, didn't he? He—

"I'll give you a new assignment to make up for those three. How about that?"

Izuku looks up at her. Dazed, he says, "huh?"

She isn't looking at him, instead opening and closing her drawers, going through the stacks of books and papers astray on her desk. "Where is the—ah, here you go. Your new assignment!"

Izuku receives the book she just handed to him, and tentatively flips through it. Blank pages stare at him.

"Write me a diary."

If he was dazed, now he is stunned. "I'm—I'm sorry?"

"You can write about your day-to-day life. Think about it like a summer report!" she says cheerfully. "Come meet me every day after school so I can go through 'em, kay? But!" she wags a finger. "You can't miss even a single day or our deal is off."

Izuku stares. "Uh.."

"Of course, you don't need to come see me if you are feeling unwell, and you don't have to share anything you aren't comfortable with," she amends. "You just have to fill the pages up. Doodle on 'em if you want, even. Deal?"

He looks at the book. And then at her. "Okay," he says, mostly on autopilot.

"Great," she says, and makes a light shooing motion. "Off you go now. I'm clocking out, I can't hang around… heh, get it? Clock, hang around."

"The, um, the lemon—"

"Keep it, kid," Fukukado-sensei says. She is barely looking at him anymore, putting her stuff inside her bag. "God knows I got lots of 'em in my life."

Understanding that this is his cue to leave, Izuku moves to do just that. Before he gets to the door, his eyes meet those of the English teacher sitting a few cubicles over.

"Yagi-sensei," Izuku bows politely.

"Midoriya-kun," Yagi Toshinori says. "Going home?"

"Yes, sensei."

He nods, wrinkles appearing around sunken eyes as he smiles. A rare sight, that smile. "All right. See you then."

"See you," Izuku replies. With a lemon and an empty notebook in hand, Izuku walks out of the teacher's office and makes for the school roof.

Going to the roof is forbidden.

They closed off the stairs to the rooftop two years ago, but Izuku finds another way on the first month of the semester. The fourth floor is empty now—just like the teachers, most of the students have either gone home or rest going to their clubs. Izuku enters the bathroom.

"Midoriya-kun."

"Okano-san," Izuku says. He climbs up the sink to open the window. "Busy day, today?"

"Oh, you know," Okano says, moping a stain on the floor with a non-existent mop. "Same old, same old."

Izuku pulls himself out of the window, carefully placing his feet on a narrow pipeline. Below him is a twelve metre fall to a broken neck.

"Careful," Okano, ever the helpful, warns him. "She is acting out today. Scaring the hell outta the others, that girl."

"I know," Izuku says. "Thanks."

Okano shakes his head, his voice following Izuku as he treads a narrow path outside the wall. "Dunno what her deal is—can't just do it quietly like the rest of us.."

Sunset is coming in three hours, but the sun is still relentless. Izuku shields his eyes against the light, bouncing on the tiles and the eggshell walls.

His eyes glance at the vase placed near the very edge, on the tiles. The flower inside it is all wrinkled up—the sun exposure dries it very quickly. Izuku should change it soon.

"Togeike-san," Izuku says. "You're scaring the others."

She doesn't reply. She doesn't seem to hear him, busy as she is, tip toeing on top of the chain link fence like a child. It's an impossible visual; no one would be able to get that far up there and balance themselves over it without falling.

She stops abruptly, facing the sports field below. Her skirt is unmoving in the wind, and so is her hair.

"Don't do it," Izuku says, tired. "Don't do it. Stop—"

She jumps.

It looks almost surreal. It is surreal, in the very sense of the word. One second she is standing on top of the fence, and the next, gravity takes hold of her.

Or it should. Nothing falls in the same way that something fell, once. There is no sound of a body hitting the ground. The air distorts, something glitching—if Izuku runs to the edge and looks down, he would see nothing on the concrete. There is, however, a distant scream: a girl's wail, horrifying and piercing and desperate—but Izuku knows no one could hear it but him, because memory is not a physical thing.

"Why," Izuku says, "do you keep doing that?"

She laughs.

Time and space works differently for her than it does for Izuku. Time isn't as linear and space isn't as embracing—she moves from one spot to the other as an image skipping frames. In a blip she is on the fence again, the exact same spot as before, on the tippy toes of her school shoes.

She turns to look at him for the first time since he got on the roof—or he assumes she is. Her eyes are covered in too much blood for Izuku to tell.

"It hurts," she says, voice hoarse out of her wrecked throat. Izuku isn't sure if she even heard him, if she even knows what she's saying. "It hurts, you know. It hurts. It hurts a lot. But after that—nothing," she smiles. Half her teeth are missing. "Nothing. Nothing ever again."

Izuku knows the secret: after death, you can stay. Most people don't. But the rest do. Like her.

And that's how eternity looks like, he thinks. Like rot. Tongue decaying and molars decomposing. Wound forever unhealing and persistently festering. Eternity is ripped school skirt, blood-crusted, finger stumps and missing nails. Eternity is psychosis entrapped in the filament of time. A forever stasis of death. Jumping over and over and over again.

That's what's waiting for all of them, for him: nothing ever again.

"Stop it," Izuku says. It sounds redundant even to him. "Togeike-san. You're just—" repeating things. Most of them do. Reliving their most encompassing moment of life in death, again and again. "You're just hurting yourself."

"Wrong," she says. Skirt unmoving. Hair unmoving. "There is just nothing." And then she jumps.

Time and space works differently for her than it does for Izuku. But not when he is in this form.

It's a strange sensation, leaving your body behind. A strange sensation, to be freed from the shackles of physics and gravity. Shedding your human skin and flesh and bone. The strangest thing of all is how easy it is.

Izuku's Human body crumples down like a doll, splayed on the tiles of the rooftop, and Izuku's soul is standing in the sky, blue all around him and the school down below, stopping a broken soul from reenacting her death for the thousandth time. An impossible, reality-defying thing.

"I said stop," Izuku says, holding her broken wrist in a vice grip. "Stop!"

The chain on her chest rattles—it's getting shorter, that thing. Shorter and shorter every time she jumps, every time she relives the memory of her last moments in life. "Stop it!" Izuku snaps. "Do you want to turn into a Hollow?"

Haru's spirit felt warm. But Togeike, she feels—volatile. Flame so hot it's cold. Being near her feels like standing on a precipice of a cliff—a cliff encroached with a fire and a glacier down below as your only reprieve.

The others avoid her. Death is stagnant, and most of them like it that way. But the ones like Togeike—they are on their way to running empty. Burning the last of their wick. Her reiryoku feels closer and closer to something no longer humane and once her chains disappear entirely, she won't be—she'll be Hollow. A monster without a heart, a monster with a void instead of a heart. A monster who knows nothing but an insatiable hunger for something, a ravenous desperation for warmth.

"I can help you," Izuku says. She didn't even know her own name when he met her the first time—she had forgotten them. Izuku went to the library to look for student records but he didn't find her there; she never graduated. He found her, instead, on a newspaper clipping. "Togeike-san. I can help you, I can help you to—to move on. I can—"

"Move on?" from this close, Izuku can finally see what her eyes look like. The blood vessels are burst, turning her scleras into crimson. "Move on where?"

To a better place, he'd like to say. But here is another secret: there is no other place.

Soul Burial is a purification method. It helps wayward souls like her to go to Soul Society, where souls are supposed to go after they die. There, she will live with every other person who has died, waiting for her turn to be reincarnated again into the Living World. Soul Society is nothing but a passing point. Move on where?

Everyone who dies will one day live again. There is nowhere to move on to—you just have to try again. Have another go at life until you get it right, because life and death is a circle without escape. There is no paradise, no second star to the right.

This is what Izuku had found out the night monsters without hearts and a god of death appeared in the midnight sky over the roof. The night Yagi Toshinori asked him, can you see me, boy?

"You've been here long enough," Izuku says, in lieu of answering. "You can go. You have to, or you'll lose yourself. Okay? If you stay like this—you'll lose your heart."

There is a flicker of something in her bloodshot eyes. Something close to sobriety, or some manic version of it. She smiles. If Izuku tries hard enough, he could imagine how she once looked before she died—less bloody and more whole. Just like any other girl. Going to class. Doing essays on her favorite movie.

She says, "isn't that the point?" and then laughs at whatever look is on Izuku's face.

Izuku lets her go. As she falls, he closes his eyes.

---

0.

"everywhere you are, i'm there. everything you do, i do it too. and every single thing you've done to yourself—"

---

II.

Izuku isn't sure if he'll ever get used to the Gate—an actual rip in time and space to another dimension. Izuku steps inside, and tries to pretend that he is indifferent to the sudden assault of vertigo, the mystifying knowledge that he is out of his own world. Todoroki leads the way, as wordless as always, with the Hell Butterflies fluttering around his rigid shoulders.

"This isn't—" Izuku winces at himself, hating the way his voice sound: unsure and barely legible, as if he were in class. He clears his throat. "This isn't … the Court's Gate."

Izuku has passed the Gate only once before, and upon entering, he would be greeted by the Court's troops of Shinigami. But there is no such sight now; what he sees instead is a tranquil garden and a large complex of a traditional Japanese house—the location strangely unwelcoming in a way that beautiful things often are.

"No," Todoroki says. He is still gazing straight ahead as they enter the house. "This Gate belongs to the Todoroki household."

Izuku tries not to trip over himself as he hurriedly takes off his waraji. Servants appear as if from nowhere, and Izuku shifts uncomfortably as they open the shoji for him. "I thought—I thought there was only one Gate in Soul Society."

Travel to the Human World is strictly regulated and the Shinigamis who are at liberty to open the gates should at least be a lieutenant—such as Todoroki. "The four noble houses have their own private Gates," and then he finally turns to look at Izuku, stoic and critical. "I see your knowledge still lacks."

"He is not to blame for that," a familiar, ragged voice says. "I am."

"Toshinori-san," Izuku says, something in his chest unclenching at the sight of the man in relief.

To anyone but Izuku, the sight of him does not merit relief. He never looks as sallow as he does now, thin in his bleach-white yukata. His height makes him look gaunt and malnourished. "Hello, Izuku," he says, the bloodless line of his mouth frowning in what possibly constitutes a smile. "It is good to see you, my boy. I am dreadfully sorry for the short notice—"

"I apologize, All Might, but we have no time for idle talks."

There is nothing in Todoroki's mannerism that suggests impatience, or any other emotion at all—there is barely any inflection at all in his voice. The Hell Butterfly sitting on Todoroki's fingertip flutters away after it finishes delivering its message. "We must leave at once," his eyes move to Izuku's, addressing him as minimalistically as possible. "You do not want to keep the Council waiting."

Toshinori sighs, appearing years older in the span of a second. "I understand."

"What—what's going on?" Izuku looks between the two of them. "The Council?"

Todoroki's blank face nearly looks disapproving. "The Council is the highest judicial order in Soul Society. You should at least know that much."

Izuku does know that much, but he can't find it in him to retort. He swallows. "What do they want from me?"

"It will be alright," Toshinori says, which isn't an answer. "It's a mere formality. They simply must … ascertain … your capabilities."

"My capabilities," Izuku repeats.

"They shall decide whether you are worthy," Todoroki says. "To be the next holder of One for All."

Izuku's stomach feels like ice. "But I ... already hold One for All."

"That is why it is nothing but a mere formality," Toshinori says. His smile looks strained—but then again, it always does. "They must meet you eventually, my boy. After all, you will be the one to lead them one day."

Toshinori's hand moves to hold Izuku's shoulder in a squeeze. It's a parental gesture. Fatherly, if Izuku ever knows the meaning of the adjective. Izuku attempts to stretch his mouth in some sort of smile, or anything at all to make him appear at least composed. "I see."

Toshinori's hand leaves Izuku's shoulder; a lost warmth. "Do not fret, boy. I will be with you."

Behind Toshinori, Izuku catches Todoroki's eyes. The Shinigami is staring at him, in that persistently dispassionate way—like he could not care less. Todoroki is the first one to look away.

Izuku looks down. "Okay," he says.

Izuku has only been to Soul Society once before and it still feels as foreign as it did the first time. The vast expanse of barren lands and rows of traditional houses as if a scene captured frozen from the Heian period—a jarring sight from the industrial buildings and neighborhood houses of Musutafu. Time and space works differently for souls, and Soul Society is entirely made out of soul particles. None of it is physical just as how Izuku is not, at the moment, physical.

And yet it's real. It's all real all the same.

"Here we are," Toshinori says, solemn. "The Court of Pure Souls."

The capital of Soul Society. Surrounded by heights of pure white walls reaching for the sky, the city is a mighty formation of circular castles. The city looks like it's taken out of paintings of a bygone era, a place lived by emperors and empresses. By gods.

And isn't that exactly what they are?

"This place … feels strange," Izuku says. The moment they enter the gate, everything feels—stifled. Cold. Like he just entered an enclosed space—an aquarium, or a freezer.

"The Capital is barricaded by sekkiseki," Todoroki says, once again enlightening Izuku's ignorance of how things apparently work in the afterlife. "These stones negate reiryoku."

The white walls. Izuku looks at them, and an understanding comes to him: It's a fortress. The way they are positioned—surrounding the entire Capital—is to guard against attacks. This entire place is a fortress, designed to ward and to trap.

Shinigamis are waiting for them as they approach the Compound, bowing at the sight of Toshinori and Todoroki—and him, Izuku realizes suddenly. These people—these gods, black-clad, swords at their waists. Their gazes on Izuku are—

"Open the gate," Todoroki commands them. "The Hero of Soul Society has arrived for the Court."

—reverent.

The Shinigamis obey wordlessly. Their stances are military, they walk like how soldiers march. Izuku thought it would be difficult to picture them as not humans, but—it's easy. It's surprisingly easy. There is something distinctively off about them, despite their human appearance. A distance.

Izuku has never seen so many of them at once and it startles him, somehow. Even shocking. One day, you will be the one to lead them, Toshinori had said.

Izuku knew that. He thought he did.

"The Court is conducted in the underground assembly hall," Todoroki says. "All Might, you shall have to take your place with the rest of the Councils."

"Ah.." Toshinori says. He looks at Izuku regretfully, and Izuku feels a sudden pang of anxiety. "Can't I at least escort him to the—"

"I shall escort Midoriya Izuku to where he is required."

"..I see," Toshinori says. To Izuku's pale face, he says, "We will meet soon. I am on your side, my boy."

After they separate, Todoroki brings him further inside the compound. There is barely anything in the octagonal space—its foundation is regal, ceilings impossibly tall, flooring vaster than anything Izuku has ever seen. There is a kind of serenity in this large, majestic structure of a space—the cold kind, like a cathedral. Quiet, very quiet, with an indubitable sense of emptiness.

"Through here."

The Shinigamis open a door that leads to a row of stairs towards the depth of the ground. The moment both Todoroki and Izuku enter, the door closes behind them, and all noise shuts out.

It's even colder down here as they descend farther and farther, a cold that has nothing to do with temperature. This, Izuku thinks, might be the most impenetrable part of the Capital. He barely can feel—anything, from the outside world. Barely any reiryoku, all dampened and snuffed out by the protection of the walls.

Unlike Izuku, Todoroki's feet make no sound as he descends the stairs—silent as a spectre. The light is dimmer underground, and the silver half of his hair shines in the dark as if a beacon guiding Izuku's path.

I am on your side, my boy. What does that mean?

Isn't Izuku on the Council's side? Aren't they all on the same side? Fighting the same war?

Izuku's heart pounds in his chest, louder than the stifling silence. He wants to throw up. The Soul-cutter clinging on his back a shifting weight as he climbs down the stairs.

If they are on the same side, then why does it feel like Izuku is on his way to be judged?

"We are here."

Izuku's head snaps up at the announcement. They must be at the deepest part of the compound now—he can feel no warmth, nothing at all. In front of Izuku is a tall door, reaching the ceiling of the underground tunnel.

"You may enter," Todoroki says, stepping to the side. "The Court is beyond this door."

Beyond that door, the Councils are waiting for him. The leaders of Soul Society, the captains of their militia. They are waiting for Izuku—for the new Hero of Soul Society.

Izuku swallows. He doesn't want to do this— he has to do this —something is going to go wrong— everything is fine—

Izuku reaches a hand to push the door when something pulls him back.

No, not something. Startled, Izuku looks back only to see a pair of mismatched eyes staring right back at him. Todoroki's hand is circled around Izuku's wrist in a cold, vice grip.

"Todo—Todoroki-san," Izuku stumbles back, shocked. Todoroki has barely ever talked to him before—barely has ever looked at him—and now his face is only inches away from Izuku's. "What's—"

"My father despises Humans," Todoroki says. "He has always despised All Might. He despises you."

Izuku stares, stunned into silence.

"He believes Humans deserve no place in this war. He believes Humans are not meant to lead gods."

There has always been something inherently distant about Todoroki Shouto.

He has been the only Shinigami that Izuku has really known other than Toshinori, and he—paints the picture exactly. God of death. Statuesque, reverent, ice. Something untouchable and inhumane in spite of his humane appearance—something persistently empty. He never lets Izuku forget, not even once, that he isn't human—not with his words, but with his mere presence.

But now, there is a speck of human emotion Izuku recognizes on Todoroki's face: hatred.

"Todoroki Enji," Todoroki Shouto says, "is not an honorable Shinigami."

And Izuku has learned enough in his fifteen years alive to know that the hatred is not aimed at Izuku.

"Todoroki Enji..?" Izuku knows that name. The Captain-Commander of the Gotei 13, Soul Society's imperial guards. Todoroki Enji is the Shinigami who took lead of the militia after Toshinori lost his Shinigami powers. "What are you—"

Todoroki's grip is still tight around him, unrelenting. Izuku has never heard him speak this many words at once. "He will not abdicate his place to you easily," he says. "All he ever wanted is to be the Hero of Soul Society. He will do anything to achieve this."

Todoroki lets his hand go, abrupt. Izuku's skin burns where Todoroki's fingers have touched him, but Izuku can't take his eyes away from Todoroki's gaze—that anger, it's still there. Todoroki's face contorts into it, the scar over his left eye twisting into jagged maroon. And Todoroki's reiryoku, usually so strictly reined in, leaves their imprint in the air: heat like forest fire.

Toshinori told him that Shinigamis age differently than humans, living for centuries, and even for millennia. Todoroki must be at least a hundred years old—Izuku wonders how that would translate into human age. Because right now, for the first time ever, Izuku realizes that Todoroki looks just like a boy. Just like himself.

Izuku wants to say something. Wants to ask him what does that mean? Wants to ask, why are you telling me this? Wants to ask, what am I supposed to do?

But Izuku never finds his voice, and the fire in Todoroki Shouto's eyes flicker shut. "You may enter the Court," he says, once more untouchable. He speaks it like a command. Always like a command. An order to be carried.

And what can Izuku do, if not carry it?

The door opens. Izuku steps forward.

---

2.

Izuku slinks back to the class meekly, and as he reports to the teacher, he attempts to be as invisible as possible. Unfortunately it isn't very possible at all to do in his Human form.

"Feeling better, Midoriya?"

"Yes, sensei," he manages. "I—I apologize for missing the class."

The teacher smiles at him. Strained and caustic, Izuku can tell. He can recognize that kind of smile anywhere—he's learned to. "I do hope you can stand from having another anemic fit throughout this lesson."

Izuku tries to ignore the instant, horrified blush rising in his cheeks. "I'm sorry," he mutters once more, returning to his seat, and as always, stays quiet for the rest of the class. When the bell for recess rings, Izuku makes his way to the rooftop.

"Busy day, Okano-san?"

"Oh, you know," Okano says, moping a stain on the floor as he always does. "Same old, same old."

Getting on the roof when you're carrying stuff is a lot trickier than when you are not, but Izuku manages. He walks to his usual spot by the chain link fences, setting his bento down, the notebook Fukukado-sensei gave him. And then he walks to the vase.

He crouches down, gently pulling out the dried flower and replacing the water with some from his bottle. From underneath his jacket, he slips out a new stalk.

"What flower is that."

So today she can talk. "Freesia," Izuku replies. Beat. And then he adds, "it means purity. Innocence. Friendship. You like it?"

She doesn't reply. She still doesn't say anything after he finishes replacing the flower, or when Izuku settles on his spot on the tile, taking the bento and the notebook to his lap. She does, however, follow him closely behind. Like a cat, or a haunting.

Izuku doesn't mind. He picks up the notebook— the diary, he corrects himself—flipping through it, and empty pages look back at him. He is going to meet Fukukado-sensei after school, so that's … not good.

"Doing homework?"

Talkative too, apparently. "Sort of."

"You don't have to do homework if you're dead."

Izuku has had a lot of lows in his life, but getting suicide baited by a dead person is a new one. "Thanks for the tip, Togeike-san."

He opens his bento. He didn't have much time this morning, so now he only has eggs and yesterday's leftover sausages. He left another bento on the table for his mom to bring to work—she was still sleeping after a long night shift—and gave her a bigger share. Might as well—Izuku doesn't feel very hungry. He rarely ever does now, and she needs the energy more than he does.

He takes a pen from the pocket of his jacket, and writes the date. His ink makes a dot as he pauses, thinking on what to write. Day to day life, she said. What does he do, everyday?

Dear diary, Izuku thinks. Today, I went to the afterlife again...

Wouldn't that be funny?

"Cute," Togeike says. "I didn't know you could smile."

Izuku snaps the notebook shut, out of reflex more than anything. She is sitting next to him. From this close, Izuku should be able to smell the blood and grit smeared all over her—but he doesn't. Her wounds are no longer physical.

Her reiryoku feels calmer today—almost stable, a candle flame swaying in a still night. Izuku glances at the chains jutting out of the chest of her torn uniform. Still there. "Why the frown?" she says, tilting her head at him. The right side of her skull is caved in, like a half-smashed watermelon. "You look better when you smile."

"Thank you," Izuku says, warily.

She grins, cheshire if the cat was ever so bloody. She likes it when he's uncomfortable, he notices. Not him specifically—she likes it when the others are scared of her as well. He figures it's her only source of entertainment. You don't get much choice when you're dead.

"You don't look so good lately, Midoriya-kun," she coos. "Ever since you got that new gig. You've been having a pretty rough time, huh?"

Izuku averts his eyes from her, opening the notebook again, pen in hand. "Not really," Izuku says. "It's been fine."

"It's okay," she pats his shoulders. He can feel it, even in this form. He has always been able to feel them. "You can always talk to me. Purity. Innocence. Friendship. Aren't we friends?"

It's insane to say yes, but Izuku has never been good at saying no. "Yes," and Izuku isn't sure if he is even lying.

She laughs at that, shrill, like it's so funny. Her reiryoku fluctuates, momentarily spiking high. "Oh.." Her gaze slides away to the other end of the roof. Her voice is slick with delight when she says, "look, Midoriya-kun. We got company."

She doesn't need to tell him. Izuku freezes, eyes nailed to the figure coming closer and closer to their spot, walk brash and not so much confident as it is contemptuous. Izuku would recognize that figure anyway, but he still hopes, in vain, that he is wrong.

He isn't. "Kacchan," Izuku breathes.

" Kacchan," Togeike echoes, and this is the first time Izuku has heard her sound so cheerful. "Aw, a nickname? That's adorable."

Kacchan stops right in front of them—of him —blocking the light of the sweltering sun. His height casts a shadow over Izuku. He doesn't say anything, not yet, but one look on his face and Izuku already knows how this conversation is going to go.

Kacchan is always pissed off, as is his factory default reset, but Izuku has learned to tell when Kacchan is pissed off at him. It has been a difficult lesson to learn.

"..Kacchan," he tries again. Attempts for a smile. Togeike must have lied, because it feels awful on his face. "What … are you doing here?"

Going to the roof is banned, and now that he's been found out a part of Izuku wonders, idly, if both of them are going to get in trouble for this.

But that isn't realistic. Only one of them will, and that person is never going to be Kacchan. It never has.

"Mineta Minoru."

Izuku stares at him, uncomprehending. It's strange to see him here. Alarming. They see each other every day in class—not so much seeing as much being aware of each other's existence—but they never … talk. Not for a long time now.

Not if Izuku can help it.

Carefully, Izuku puts his bento away from his lap, the notebook tucked underneath it. "Um .. what are you—"

"Mineta Minoru, Deku?" Kacchan says. He's always been an expressive talker. Izuku can't help but eyes the hands moving as he speaks, warily. An old reflex. "Fucking Mineta Minoru beat you in math? Are you fucking kidding me?"

Izuku stares at him, blank. And then. Ah. They must've announced the mid-semester test results on the board—so that was today, huh… vaguely, Izuku feels some kind of surprise undulating in his chest. Surprised by the lack of—of surprise.

Surprised by a voice in his head that says, so what?

Izuku swallows, heart thumping in his ears. Somewhere down below, from the music room on the third floor, someone is playing a clumsy rendition of Canon in D.

"I like him," Togeike announces. She moves forward to circle Kacchan as if the latter is a science exhibition. "He isn't very nice, is he?"

Izuku laughs. Isn't very nice. That's one way to put it, for sure. He looks back up to see Kacchan staring at him in that—in that way he's always looked at him, like there is nothing else more aggravating in the world than Izuku's pathetic existence.

Kacchan always hates it when Izuku laughs. Izuku tries again, as always. "He is smarter than me, Kacchan—"

Kacchan walks forward.

Izuku stands up immediately, tense and shocked, and—he can't help it, he can't help it—eyes moving to look at Kacchan's fists swinging by his sides, a buried childhood habit—

"You've always been such a fucking liar."

Izuku's eyes snap back to his face.

"You aren't even in the top ten," Kacchan says. "Deku. What the fuck?"

Oh.

Izuku hears someone laugh—and then realizes that it's him. Oh, he laughs. So that's what this is all about.

It's funny. It really is. Izuku thought that—heh, that that's one of the many reasons Kacchan hates his guts: Izuku being the try hard number two to Kacchan's number one, Izuku being always just one step behind him on the ranking board. Izuku always thought that this is what's always driving Kacchan up the wall—this pretense of a dying, one-sided rivalry. This presumptuous farce on Izuku's part thinking that if he tries hard enough, maybe he could ever be Kacchan's equal.

But now that Izuku stops trying for the first time in their lives — he's mad?

It's funny. And then the voice in Izuku's head says—

"—why do you care?"

Pin drop. The chainlink fence rattles, rattles. Summer is coming soon, and Izuku is sweating profusely underneath his layers of jacket and uniform.

The regret comes quickly. Izuku flinches at the look on Kacchan's face—a look so familiar, so close for so long. Togeike is still, standing behind Kacchan, both of their eyes looking right at Izuku. One dull with death, the other alive with fury. "You mind repeating that, Deku?"

Izuku hates it. Even after all this time, he hates the way he still—

"I—you—" Izuku feels sick, suddenly—sick and tired. Or maybe he just realized that he has been sick and tired. "Kacchan. What do you want? Really."

Because Kacchan has left him alone—has finally left him alone for a long time now. They are in high school, they aren't little kids anymore, there is supposed to be no more rough housing. No more you've always been such a fucking liar—

"You think I wouldn't notice?"

Izuku freezes.

The Canon in D stops, and Moonlight Sonata begins—first movement, amateurly played, heavy and stuttering. He has gotten taller again, Izuku notices, gaining even more centimetres over Izuku. He's always taller than him. Izuku looks up at him, slowly, and attempts to sound calm. "What are you talking about..?"

Kacchan opens his mouth as if to snap a reply and then, the sun shifts just right, and a flash of light glints over a corner of the roof, reflected over clear plastic.

Kacchan's gaze moves to the vase of freesia, sitting alone in the dead wind. There is pause. Izuku watches in horror as Kacchan's face goes momentarily dazed, as if recalling a buried memory. And then understanding colors his face like blood. Kacchan looks back at him and understanding rises between the both of them now, old and half-faded, a memory that isn't held dear.

"Oh, I see," he says, low, rough, and Izuku feels sick, sick. "I see, now. You've lost it, haven't you?"

It's not supposed to be like this. This isn't supposed to—to happen again. There is a ringing in Izuku's ears, static-snow, and he can barely hear his own voice over it. "Kacchan. Please—don't."

"Shit, Deku, grow up," Kacchan barks a short, disbelieving laugh. Sharp with disgust. "We aren't in grade school anymore, for fuck's sake."

The line of Deku's shoulders turn rigid. "It's not like that—"

"Really? So you aren't spending your lunch breaks hanging out with your imaginary fucking friends?" Kacchan spits. Always so angry. Fists clenched at the sides, and Izuku watches them like his life depends on it. "What are you, five? Shit.."

Izuku doesn't get it. They've been avoiding— ignoring each other just fine. For years, even. So why now? Why does he even bother? Just because Izuku forgot to hand in a couple of assignments, skipped a few lessons—just because Izuku slipped a few dozen spots on the ranking board? "Stop, just—" he sounds pathetic. He hates it. He thought he would never sound like this again. "Just stop."

Kacchan doesn't stop. He never did. Izuku pleads, and Kacchan sneers—that's the way the world spins. That's how the entire universe works.

Kacchan's eyes narrow into slits, merciless. "That's why you've been skipping class, Deku?" he says, cruel. "You've been talking to ghosts?"

There it is.

That sure brings back memories, a distant part of Izuku notes. Summers ago: the sandboxes. The flowers, the scraped knees, the broken glass. Lemon ice cream all over sticky fingers. The empty house with the ghost of a burnt boy, and the lighter flicked open in Kacchan's hand. The laughing children. Ghosts aren't real, Deku, Kacchan had said. If you want to talk to ghosts so bad, why don't you—

"What are you going to say?" Togeike asks him, behind Kacchan. Indifferent in the way that the dead are, hollowed by the absence of life. "Are you going to lie?"

Kacchan—you believe me, right?

What Izuku wants is just for this to be over.

"What do you want me to say?" Izuku says.

Which seems to be exactly the wrong thing to say, because something switches on Kacchan's face—like he's never heard anything more repulsive in his life. Kacchan looks at Izuku like he could kill him, and for a moment, Izuku believes it. "You—"

"You kids aren't supposed to be here."

Kacchan turns, surprised. Izuku tries to breathe, tries to get the pounding of his heart to—stop. Toshinori-san—Yagi-sensei—closes the rooftop door behind him. He must've asked someone for the keys, the aluminium material flashing under the sun in his hand. "The rooftop is prohibited," Toshinori-san says. His voice is careful. "I'm afraid I must ask you both to leave."

Now that Kacchan is distracted, Izuku proceeds to tidy up his things, trying to calm down as he does so. "I'm sorry—" Toshinori-san, nearly slips "—Yagi-sensei. This won't happen again."

"It's all right," Toshinori says. "Though I have an obligation to report this incident, you understand."

Kacchan doesn't say anything throughout the stilted conversation—shoulders rigid, gaze unflinching. And then he turns to look at Izuku, something cold and knowing in his face, and says—"ain't it nice to finally be a teacher's pet, Deku?"

Izuku stares at him.

Kacchan turns on his heels once more, walking past Toshinori for the stairs as if the latter doesn't exist. They watch him go, loud steps echoing to the expanse of the roof. When they can't hear him anymore, Izuku crouches down so hard his glasses nearly fall. Sighing a harsh breath, hands in his hair. His heartbeats feel like thunder strikes.

You think I wouldn't notice?

No, no. That's impossible. There is no reason why Kacchan would know that he—would know anything about Toshinori-san and Izuku. No way he would know what Izuku has been doing.

No. He might notice that Izuku has been spending too much time with the teacher, he might have, but whatever it is Kacchan suspects him to be doing—the truth couldn't possibly be anything Kacchan could ever imagine.

After all, ghosts aren't real.

Toshinori has stopped to stand right in front of him, momentarily shadowing Izuku of the sun. "Are you all right, son?"

When Izuku doesn't answer, he feels a hand on his shoulder—a weight lighter than it should be. "Izuku, I could feel your reiryoku all the way from the teacher's office."

Explains the timing. Izuku doesn't look up, not yet. "I'm sorry," he manages. "I'm sorry. It's hard."

He could usually rein it in. Not perfectly, but he could. They've been training for this for months now. "It's all right. Deep breaths."

"I'm sorry." Toshinori's grip gives his shoulder a soft squeeze. Izuku can't feel his warmth under the layers of his clothes, but he could feel Toshinori's reiryoku—familiar, now. A comforting light, lukewarm orange hues. Toshinori's soul is like sunset.

Izuku tries to focus on that. Tries to keep his own reiryoku in check. He has to, or the Hollows are going to come crashing in—their hunger detecting Izuku's soul like a moth to flame, ants to candies.

"Thank you," Izuku grits out, when he can finally feel his reiryoku ebbs down—a low tide on a moonless night. "For coming."

"Of course.." Toshinori's hand leaves his shoulder bereft. Beat. "I needed to talk to you."

They've been up here too long. The bell must've rung. Izuku glances at the notebook, crumpled in his hand, with the empty pages still inside. He has to work on that soon. "I know."

There is a pause. "That Plus … you haven't performed Soul Burial on her."

Togeike. Izuku looks to find her standing far, on top of the fences once again, staring at them. She's there, and then gone in the blink of an eye. She never likes it when Toshinori is around. "I'll do it. Later."

"She is turning into a Hollow soon."

"I know that," Izuku cringes. It was not really a snap, but he hates his tone nevertheless. "I'm sorry. I'm just. Tired."

Pause. "It's all right. It's not what I came to talk to you about.." another pause. "You have been … exerting yourself, son."

Izuku looks at him. "What do you mean?"

"You have been spending a lot of time out of your physical body," Toshinori says. "It's not good for a Human to be so … immersed in the spiritual world. You need to rest more."

Izuku doesn't get it. "We need to suppress All For One's army."

"That doesn't mean you have to fight every battle, Izuku."

"It's my duty," Izuku says. "As your successor."

Something flits through Toshinori's face—almost a flinch. Something Izuku can't quite interpret. "You are still a child," Toshinori says, finally. His voice sounds rusted—he hasn't been looking too good, lately. His skin looks almost translucent under the afternoon sun. "You can grow into it in time.."

Izuku feels like he's been slapped. So even Toshinori agrees with the Council. Even he thinks that Izuku isn't ready.

Even Toshinori doesn't believe him.

"Please," Izuku says, standing up, suddenly desperate. "Just give me a chance, Toshinori-san, I—" he can do it. He has to do it. Or he's going to lose this. He can't lose this. "I can do it, I promise I can—"

"Izuku," Toshinori says, his voice thin, shocked by Izuku's outburst. His hands are back on Izuku's shoulders, the both of them, holding him as if Izuku is going to wash away. "Son, that's not what I meant—I'm just concerned that you —"

The realization that he's been screwing up so much that Toshinori is concerned over this hits him like a freight train. It's almost too much—Izuku can feel his reiryoku wavers once more, threatening to spill. Just another proof of his incompetence. "I can do it," he repeats. "Just give me a chance. I'm close, I know it, just give me some more time.."

Toshinori goes quiet, staring at him, wordless. Sunken blue eyes, with something indecipherable flashing underneath. Izuku doesn't know when his own hands have moved to hold on Toshinori's on his shoulders, squeezing them in a plead.

"Just give me some more time," Izuku says. A prayer in repeat. "I can kill it."

---

0.

"are you going to kill me? even though—"

---

III.

You will be the one to lead them, Toshinori had said.

That's impossible, Izuku realizes. That's impossible.

"All for One's army grows stronger every day. And this Human has not even achieved Shikai."

"He has only held One for All for but a few months," Toshinori replies, solemn. "Even for the most talented Shinigami, it would take centuries to know the name of one's Soul-Cutter—"

"We do not have centuries to wait for a Human to save us all," Todoroki Enji says. His gaze falls on Izuku—blistering blue like gaslit flames. "The balance of the two worlds cannot afford centuries, All Might."

Todoroki Enji's gaze feels unbearable on him. The same eyes as Todoroki Shouto's left—and yet not at all. Todoroki-san's might be cold, and Izuku has now known for them to burn—but his father's, it's … nothing. Just nothing, inside them, nothing Izuku can recognize as even remotely human. Godly voids. The rest of him is obscured in the dark of the room, along with the rest of the Councils.

They look barely more than shadows, to Izuku's eyes, pitch black figures sitting on the thrones far above, circling him like prison bars. As if Izuku is standing inside a birdcage—to be pinned and picked by the neck. Scrutinised.

Izuku feels, suddenly, an enormous realization that they have not experienced life as Izuku does. These gods—these beings, they have lived for thousands and thousands of years, and they have spent all of it in war. Compared to that, Izuku's life is less than infinitesimal.

The one to lead them. This? This is what he is supposed to lead?

"If that boy does not prove himself to be useful for Soul Society," he says, "then he is nothing but a Human frolicking where he should not be."

"..One for All has to be passed down to a Human successor," Toshinori says. His voice sounds weary, and his white kimono—a mark of his humanity—shines in the dark of the courtroom. "Midoriya Izuku has been chosen for this generation. You cannot take this away from him."

"The candidate for the next holder is the Council's decision to make, not yours. The next Hero of Soul Society should not be some runt that you picked off the streets."

"I was a runt that Shimura Nana picked off the streets," All Might says, his voice ringing clear like a bell in the enclosed space of the courtroom. "I have led Gotei 13 for a lifetime."

"Soul Society might be indebted to you, All Might, for your service. But you are no longer the leader of the Gotei 13, I am," Todoroki Enji says. "Humans do not last."

Izuku can't see Toshinori's face from where he stands, but he can see the latter's figure—the line of his back, sad and slanted, like a flower in a thunderstorm. "Midoriya Izuku now holds my Shinigami powers, and is therefore a Shinigami. One for All cannot be undone—"

"But it can be transferred once more," Endeavor says.

Dread chokes Izuku like a noose. There is silence in the courtroom.

And then there was light.

Toshinori Yagi might now be a mere Human, but he still holds the last flare of One for All within him, and at this moment, it shows its light. Izuku knows that Toshinori was once powerful—the most powerful being, perhaps, in both worlds—but Izuku doesn't know. Not until now where he gets a peek of the sun—an unbearable expanse of golden manifested. Toshinori shines like the center of the galaxy in the dark space of the courtroom, noble and celestial.

"One for All is now Midoriya Izuku's power," Toshinori says, His voice sounds deeper at the moment—ocean deep, reverberating throughout the void. A glimpse of what his youth as a Human-God might have been like. "And I cannot let you take that away from him."

Toshinori's soul has always felt tender and transient, the last rays of dusk. But at the moment, just for a second, it's a supernova.

The light dissipates as soon as it comes. It should not be possible, Izuku realizes, to release so much reiryoku inside the most spiritually suppressed place in Soul Society even for a split second—but Toshinori manages to do that, even with One for All dying inside of him.

The atmosphere in the room changed. Izuku can feel the tension, the conflicting spiritual pressures of the most powerful figures in the militia brushing against each other restlessly.

"One for All his power as it was my power and my teacher's power," Toshinori says again, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "I have the right to choose my own successor, as she once did, and the predecessors before her."

But Endeavor is immovable. Unbothered by Toshinori's show of power, the blinding tantrum. "Wrong," Todoroki Enji says. "One for All is Soul Society's power."

The air fluctuates, and there is a moment where Izuku thinks that supernova will return—but then Toshinori sighs. A fatigued sound. Under the baroque lighting of the room, his shadows look even more gaunt, skeletal—it makes him look fragile. So human against the black-clad gods. "Forgive my impertinence," Toshinori says, weary. "What I mean to say is merely that I believe Midoriya Izuku has what it takes to be the next Hero of Soul Society. Midoriya Izuku is my chosen ninth."

Izuku can feel eyes on him, pinpricks on his skin. He would lower his face in shame—but adrenaline shackles him from even breathing.

"No Heroes of Soul Society has ever defeated All for One," says the Captain-Commander. "What makes you think this Human will be different?"

Izuku's fists feel cold, nails digging into skin. Toshinori pauses a moment before speaking again, his voice a wisp. "You are right, Enji. None of us … none of One for All Heroes … have ever been able to defeat him," Toshinori says. "All we can do is try."

"Trying is not enough. This war has gone for far too long."

The implication of that sentence sinks shocking and insidious, like a syringe. Toshinori's shoulders are rigid.

"It is due time," Endeavor says, "that we rid of an obsolete practice."

Izuku's breath catches in his throat. Far ahead, Toshinori shifts, can't help but become agitated by such a suggestion. "Human Shinigamis have protected the two worlds for millennia—"

"Human Shinigamis have made no progress in the war for millennia," Endeavor says. "Perhaps Humans cannot win the war. Perhaps Humans—" his eyes shift to Izuku, weight like a sledgehammer "—should not be playing gods no more."

"Enji," Toshinori's words are half aghast, half pleading. "One for All can only be wielded by humans, not Shinigamis. Only One for All can defeat All for One. You know this."

"And yet All for One has not been defeated in eight generations."

"One for All has kept the balance intact for eight generations."

The retort is not said by All Might, but by another shadow in the room. "Captain Aizawa Shouta," Todoroki Enji says, his voice cold. "Do you have something you wish to say?"

"I do," Aizawa Shouta's voice is deep and rough, monotone. "With all due respect, Captain-Commander, you do not hold a unanimous decision for the rest of us."

Another silence. And then there is heat—a match struck, gasoline spilt. Endeavor's flame, his reiryoku so hot it's cold, permeates the room. If Toshinori's is golden sun, Endeavor's is blood red—a nation burning over the horizon. "I do what is best for Soul Society."

Aizawa Shouta is undeterred. "You do not decide what is best for Soul Society," he says. Izuku can't see him, cloaked in shadow like the rest of them, but Izuku thinks he might have glimpsed eyes glowing crimson in the dark. "The Council does. Which means all of us do."

"The rest of us get a say as well, do we not, Captain Commander?" another voice says, lilting sweet. The figure leans forward over the rails, as if to take a better look at Izuku. "Look at him—he is just a sweet little boy. Aren't you, Midoriya Izuku-kun?"

"Captain Kayama."

"Forgive me, Captain-Commander," Kayama Nemuri says, velvet smooth. "But this one suggests that perhaps we should let Midoriya-kun prove himself. If he wants to be a Shinigami so bad, let him work for it, yes?"

"That Human barely has a grasp on the way of the sword," says the Captain-Commander coldly. "I have seen more than enough."

"He has potential."

Izuku looks up at that. At the pair of red eyes in the dark. "Midoriya Izuku has been the Substitute Shinigami in charge of Musutafu city. And that city still stands at the moment, does it not?" Aizawa says. "Our troops fall against All for One's army every single day. Low-ranking Shinigamis are eliminated from All for One's new Hollows and Tomoko's entire division is eliminated by the Arrancars.

"We need all the hands we need—even if the hands are experienced. And.." a ray of light shifts, and Izuku manages a glimpse of ink black hair along with a cold, stern face of the Shinigami. "If he can achieve Bankai, then we have a chance to push All for One's army back."

Bankai. Izuku's heart drops. There are murmurs in the tall seats, shadows shifting and mingling, words hushed. There is something stirring now, in the room, an anticipation. Aizawa Shouta's voice stays low and flat as he continues his argument, as if dispassionate despite the sharp words.

"Even you, Captain-Commander, know that One for All has the most powerful Bankai there is. Stronger than anything, than any of ours," Aizawa says. Stronger than even yours is unsaid. "Without it, we shall suffer a great loss."

"This Human does not even know the name of his Soul-Cutter," Endeavor says, his voice bringing another bout of silence to the room. "How could he possibly achieve Bankai?"

"Izuku is still but a child," Toshinori says, once more letting his weary voice be heard. "In time, he—"

"I can do it," Izuku says.

Silence falls to the courtroom.

He knows this feeling well. He should not have spoken.

Eyes are back on him. Sharp pin pricks. It's not exactly regret what he feels—more acceptance than regret—a nonsensical, out of my mind audacity. Even Toshinori turns to look at him, face tight. "Izuku.."

"Not only did you pick an incompetent child, you also picked an arrogant one," Todoroki Enji says coldly. "Most Shinigamis do not even achieve Bankai in their lifetimes. And you, a mere Human—you think you can do such a thing?"

Shame burns. Izuku bites his lips, feels like he's swallowing glass. He wonders if Todoroki Shouto is sitting somewhere in the room, watching Izuku being torn apart, with that cold expression on his face.

"Oh, Captain-Commander," Kayama says, leaning further forward, and Izuku can see her now—a pale face with a red smile. "Perhaps we should let him speak. It is, after all, his fate that we are discussing. Don't you agree, boy?"

Izuku wills his hands to not shake. And for his eyes to look forward, and above, gazing to the heavens. To these gods, whom one day he will lead.

"Just give me a chance," Izuku says.

Believe me, the voice in his head says. Believe in me.

---

3.

"I haven't seen you for a while, Midoriya-kun."

"I'm sorry," says Izuku, the words tumbling out of his mouth like a well oiled machine.

Fukukado-sensei waves her hand. "Pshaw. Just happy to see you all right," she takes the notebook from his hands, running a finger over the curling covers. Izuku cringes at the sight. He would usually laminate the covers of his notebooks neatly with stainless plastic. Wonder when he'd stopped doing that.

She doesn't seem to mind, though, flipping through the pages. "Hm.."

"I'm sorry," Izuku blurts out. "I—I'm sorry for … missing the days.." he looks down at his shoes, ashamed as he struggles to find the words. The right thing to say. "Fukukado-sensei, you… gave me this assignment, but I—" messed it up. Wasted her time. Took it for granted. "I couldn't ... do it properly, and—"

"Midoriya-kun."

It takes him a few seconds, but Izuku manages to brave himself to look into her eyes. Her gaze is steady, without judgement. "I'm just glad you feel well enough to come to school today."

Before he can even process what she just said, she continues smoothly, "was there anything you struggled with in this assignment?"

"Uh," Izuku's brain momentarily scrambles. "Um.." what's the right thing to say? "I … found it hard to.."

His cheeks heat up—if there is anything Izuku knows, it's that the truth is never the right thing to say. He is about to backtrack, but Fukukado-sensei is staring at him expectantly. Izuku looks down. "I found it difficult," he says with great difficulty, "to talk about myself."

"You can lie, you know."

Izuku's head snaps up at that. Fukukado-sensei isn't looking at him, now, but flipping through the notebook—the diary. "P—pardon?"

"It's okay to lie," she says again, tone neutral, light. Honest. "I don't mind."

Izuku stares at her. She smiles at the dumbfounded look on his face. "Everyone lies about themselves, anyway," she says. "Truth is kind of.." she shrugs. "An optional thing. Don't take this as an encouragement to cheat, by the way."

Izuku doesn't know what to say. "I won't cheat," he says stupidly.

The smile turns into a grin. "Great—I won't be liable if you ever do, kay?" she returns the notebook to his hands. "Great job, Midoriya-kun. Will I see you tomorrow?"

Truth—never the right thing to say. "Yes, Sensei."

"Okay. Midoriya-kun?"

Izuku turns to look at her.

"Remember—you can write anything you want. Okay? Anything at all."

There is something strange about her expression that Izuku can't quite put a finger on. Izuku tries to smile obediently. "Um, okay—"

"Even if it's a lie."

It's because there isn't a smile on her face, he realizes. Fukukado Emi has the kind of face that always looks like she is smiling, and without it, it makes her look older. More determined. Something rough and hard, and something a little desperate.

"Even if it's a lie," she repeats. "I'll believe you."

Izuku's fingers clench around his notebook. His jaw flexes. "Okay," he says, and suddenly can't find it in him to look her in the eye. "Thank you."

He passes Toshinori's empty chair as he walks out. And then, walking hurriedly out the teacher's room, he nearly bumps into someone.

Nearly. Reflex takes over and Izuku side steps, muttering, "sorry, I didn't see you—"

"Yeah, 'cuz apparently those stupid shitty glasses are just for show, huh?"

Izuku freezes. He turns.

There is something in Kacchan's hand. "You dropped this—" Izuku snatches the diary off his hands without even thinking about it.

"—stupid.." Kacchan finishes his sentence, frowning at whatever it is that just happened. "The hell, Deku? Fucking relax."

"Sorry," Izuku says immediately. Sorry, sorry. The only word Izuku ever says. "It's an assignment," Izuku murmurs, hating that he even feels the need to explain himself. "It's not, it's—"

"So you still do your assignments," Kacchan says, a sneer. "Wow. Who would've fucking thought?"

Something about Kacchan's tone strikes a nasty chord in Izuku—he isn't sure what. His fingers clench around the notebook again, digging into the cover. And then the voice in Izuku's head says—

"None of your business."

Izuku waits. Around them, the hallway is bustling with kids, chattering as they get ready to go home. The both of them look at each other, neither saying anything. A frame frozen in time while the rest of the world goes on. Beats pass.

And then Izuku realizes that Kacchan isn't going to hit him.

It's a peculiar sensation, waiting for the shoe that never drops. Kacchan looks at him with a strange, unfamiliar expression; almost surprise. Half stricken—and half something else. There is anger there, but his fists stay still by his side. To Izuku, it's a shocking sight.

There is still that instinct in Izuku to brace for the hit—a childhood habit Ingrained and beaten into him. A deep set belief that Kacchan would snap at him, would beat the shit out of him, like how he used to back in the days, all those years ago. Those days of perpetual summer.

But Kacchan, Izuku understands suddenly in astonishment, has outgrown those days.

Izuku hasn't.

Izuku turns on his heels and leaves.

He can feel Kacchan's eyes still on his back, something in them that Izuku is unwilling to read. Izuku doesn't care. He walks faster and faster, brushing past the other kids. He doesn't care. The truth is never the right thing to feel either.

When Izuku gets home, the lights are still off. She must still be sleeping. Izuku changes out of his uniform into a long-sleeve before he goes to heat the soup, cook the rice. And then he knocks on her door before entering.

"Mom?" he says, softly. "Feeling better?"

"Oh.." she yawns. "Hi, honey."

"Sorry, did I wake you?"

"It's okay, I've been sleeping for too long," she thanks him as he hands her a glass of water. "I need to go to that shift at seven—"

Izuku frowns. "What? No, you're sick," he says, fussing over her blanket. The AC was on when he left but she must've turned it off to save electricity. "These late night shifts are exactly what's making you sick, you know?"

"I'm tough," she says, and then sneezes.

He hands her a tissue. "Sure," he says, deadpan, and they laugh.

"I bought ice cream, by the way," he says, at dinner. "You can eat it when you're feeling better. I got it from this place, they say it has really good mint chips.."

"We can eat it together later on," she says. She's still pale. Izuku puts more rice onto her plate. "I feel like I haven't seen you much lately."

Izuku's hand falters. "Another reason why you should take less shifts," he says as neutrally as possible, busying himself with his own bowl.

"Mm, you're right," she smiles, and puts the rice back to Izuku's plate.

Izuku sighs at her, exasperated. "Mom.."

"You need that more than I do," she says, blinking up at him innocently. "If you still want to grow, that is, and in my humble opinion.."

Izuku's jaw drops. "How could you," he says, offended. "I got my height from you.."

Inko puts a hand over her heart in affront. "You would blame this on your poor old mother?"

Izuku loves her. "You win this round," he eats the rice.

"We should watch movies later on, for the ice cream," she suggests, as she fills up a glass of water for him. "We haven't done marathon in a while."

"Mm, sure."

She hands her the glass. "How was school, dear?"

He receives it from her. "Fine," Izuku lies.

---

0.

"you're not real. you're not. you are just—you're just in my head."

---

IV.

"A Soul-Cutter is not just a sword—it is a sentient being. A Shinigami's Soul-Cutter is a reflection of their souls, a manifestation of it. That's why it has a name."

"But this Soul-Cutter was yours. You gave yours to me."

It gleams underneath Soul Society's sun, the blade of it. "As it was given to me by my teacher."

"So the name … changes?"

Toshinori doesn't say anything for a while. "One for All is a stockpiling power in nature," Toshinori begins. "It's the strongest power that can stand against All for One because it carries the power of each and every one of its holders. Do you know what this means?"

A sentient being, manifestation of souls. All Shinigamis have a single Soul-Cutter, were born with one soul. But for Human Shinigamis, the powers are not born, they were given. And One for All has been passed down to eight people—Izuku as the ninth holder..

Izuku blinks his eyes when he realizes Toshinori is staring at him. And then he blushes. "Did I say—"

"—everything out loud, yes."

Izuku thought he'd lost that habit a long time ago—apparently not. He clears his throat. "Um. I—I think it means that One for All has more than one name. Each name representing each soul of its holders."

Toshinori smiles at that—a rare occurrence. "Precisely," he says, in a tone that sounds like good job. Izuku feels warmth blooming in his chest. "It has the names of everyone who has precedes us … all the previous holders. The previous Heroes," his hand hovers above the Soul-Cutter in Izuku's hands, as if to touch it. But it stops mid-air, pulling back. "And now it has your name too. The name of the manifestation of your soul … your sword's name."

A sentient being. Izuku has never thought of it as that—it was always a tool, to him, just something to cut with. A knife. A cleaver. "What happens when I know … its name?"

"You will begin to communicate with it. That's the only way to achieve Shikai—the first initial release, which is the first step to achieving Bankai. And Bankai, son, is when your Soul-Cutter reaches its true form—its utmost potential."

"True form?"

"No Soul-Cutters are the same, boy. They reflect their owners' souls, after all," Toshinori says. And then, to the silent figure behind him, "Todoroki-kun, if you please."

Izuku hasn't spoken to him since that day underneath the compound, at the door to the courtroom. He isn't sure what there is to say, if anything at all. But the apprehension seems one-sided; Todoroki doesn't seem to care, ignoring Izuku's stare as he walks forward.

The Shinigami unsheathes his own Soul-Cutter, his movement elegant, like flowing water. The way he wields his sword is well practiced, well honed—something that Izuku feels he wouldn't achieve within a hundred years.

Todoroki raises his Soul-Cutter, a vertical line pointing above and says, "pierce the heavens—"

Izuku realizes immediately why Toshinori had insisted on having their training done in Soul Society instead of the Living World. The sheer explosion of power—of snow and ice—blasting through their surroundings like fireworks is enough to blow Izuku back; thunderous in nature. He gasps sharply—and his breath comes out in frost, molecules freezing despite the afternoon sun.

The smoke dissipates. In Todoroki's hands is no longer a sword, but two, and all around him is—glacier. Structures of ice, stalagmites of them, towering in giant, jagged shards as if to claw against the sky. And then Todoroki's eyes meet his. Still as a pond.

Izuku tries to remember it—that moment by the stairs, the forest fire of Todoroki's soul, of his human-like fury. Izuku feels none of it, now—what he feels is heat so hot it's cold, and what he sees is a picture of grandness. A statuesque, deified sort of grandness. What Izuku feels is a realization, a familiar kind, that he feels whenever he looks at Kacchan. The realization that this is nothing but a presumptuous farce on Izuku's part, a make-believe that if he tries hard enough, maybe he could ever be their equal.

Izuku understands what Endeavor meant. Todoroki Shouto calls upon blizzards with his Soul-Cutter and the best Izuku can do is cleave meat.

Todoroki sheathes his Soul-Cutter back, the ice around him fading like a mirage in the desert. Izuku swallows, knuckles white over the grip of his own sword. Feeling small and stupid. Feeling foolish. Feeling human.

Izuku might be wearing their clothes, clad in the same black shihakusho, and carrying the same weapon—but Izuku isn't them. He is nothing like Todoroki Shouto. Izuku is just a boy. Just a boy. Not a god.

But he has to try.

"How do you—" his voice breaks. He tries again. "How … do you know your Soul-Cutter's name?"

"You have to look inside yourself. You have to go into your Inner World," Toshinori says. "You have to talk to them. Ask them. And then, to achieve Bankai—the final and true form of your Soul-Cutter ... you have to train for centuries. Some couldn't achieve it in millenia."

Just one impossibility after another.

"But that's for the average Shinigami."

Izuku looks up. Toshinori isn't looking at him, instead at somewhere on the horizon. "For us Human Shinigamis … we are different. Shinigamis are made of spirit particles entirely, of death … but us, we are still Human in essence. Tethered to life. This is what makes us powerful. This is what makes One for All powerful," he looks back to Izuku. "When you go to your Inner World, you will find it."

"It?"

"You will have to kill it," Toshinori says.

Izuku doesn't understand. "Kill..?"

Toshinori doesn't answer. Todoroki has come to stand near them after his exhibition of Shikai, silent as a guard dog, not showing any indication if he cares of their exchange. "Izuku. Could you tell me what I taught you about Hollows?"

Feeling as if this is some sort of a test, Izuku tries not to stutter. "Hollows are—Pluses that lost their hearts. Human souls that become corrupted, empty … and therefore devour souls.."

"Why do you think … those souls become corrupted?"

Izuku has seen many spirits in his life. Wandering souls with chains jutting out of their hearts, like prisoners. The cleaning uncle in the unused fourth floor bathroom. The screaming man under the bridge. The burnt up boy in a burnt down house.

Izuku thinks, abruptly, of a little girl. Lost in the streets at night, calling after her pet cat, unseen by her loved ones. And then he thinks of the girl with bloodshot eyes standing on chain link fences, falling to her death for the thousandth time.

"Because they stay behind for too long," Izuku says. "Trying to … look for something. Or wait for something. Do something. And when they can't—"

"When their goals are unfulfilled," Toshinori says. "They become Hollow."

One for All can only be wielded by humans.

Oh.

No Heroes of Soul Society has ever defeated All for One. What makes you think this Human will be different?

Izuku understands. His heartbeat climbs inside his ribcage, deafening to crescendo. He gets it. It's so obvious, all of a sudden. So clear. One Hollow's power is already a supernatural, reality-defying thing. What about eight Hollows at once?

Or nine?

"You will find it," Toshinori repeats. His voice is nothing but a wisp. A whisper, as if he is telling a secret. "In your soul—in your Inner World. You will have to kill it. That's how you … take … your power. That's how One for All's true form can be unleashed."

---

0.

"—even though i'm you?"

---

4.

"You wrote more recently."

Looking at whatever expression is on Izuku's face, she clarifies, "it's a good thing."

"Oh," of course. Izuku looks down. "Yes."

"It seems like you found a solution to your, ah, struggle, " she flips through the notebook. "Instead of talking about yourself, you talk about others, huh?"

Izuku glances at her desk. It's messy—not disastrously, but messy nevertheless. Colored pens here and there, student books and novels, sticky notes. There is a scissor and a cutter placed inside an unzipped pencil case. Izuku looks away.

"You did say … day-to-day life.."

"It's a good thing," she clarifies again. And then, "okay, talking more about yourself would be good for you, I think. But hey. Baby steps, you know?"

This, Izuku thinks, is a really weird assignment. "I guess."

"Your mom sounds like a lovely person."

Izuku's mouth curves. "She's the best," he replies.

Her smile widens at that. "I can see that," she says, giving him back his notebook. "Thank you for your hard work."

"No, thank you.." Izuku's smile stays on his face for a few seconds. "Thank you for trying," Izuku says, and then looks up to look at her in the eye because she deserves at least that. "I know I'm not gonna pass."

He's missed too many days. Missed too many assignments, failed too many tests. His homeroom teacher talked to him just this morning that if he were to keep this up, he will be staying behind.

Even if Fukukado-sensei gives him a passing grade, that's just one single subject—the other teachers won't be so kind. Rightfully so.

Her smile falters and Izuku feels a stab of guilt—you don't think about Fukukado Emi without picturing her smile. The kids love her—she makes class fun, engaging. She's sharp enough to match pubescent teenagers' wit and kind enough to care about that one friendless kid sitting at the far corner of the class. Her class is the one that Izuku regrets the most to miss.

She sighs, long and winding. And then she looks back at him—stern. The expression looks foreign on her face. "Midoriya-kun," she says. Her tone is serious. "Come here. I have something to show you."

She gestures to the chair in front of her, so he sits back down. She gestures further, so he drags his chair closer to hers. "Open up your palm," she instructs, and he obeys.

And then Fukukado-sensei leans forward to—Izuku flinches, surprised—take something from behind Izuku's ear and put it in his hand.

"I think you need to be more positive," she solemnly says.

On Izuku's hand, magically produced from Izuku's ear, is a piece of AAA battery.

"Get it?" she says, incredibly straight-faced. "Because—"

Izuku can't help it. He throws his head back and laughs.

Long and hard. He can feel eyes on him—the other teachers in the teacher's room—but he can't help it. It's just so—

"So bad," Izuku manages, between peals of laughter. "That's—sensei, that's so bad."

"You didn't like that?" She's smiling now. "I thought it was a class act."

Izuku laughs again. So hard that his stomach—to his astonishment— hurts. He forgot that laughter can do that to you.

"Get it?" Fukukado-sensei says again, relentless and entirely shameless. " Class act? Because—"

"'Cause you're a teacher," Izuku wheezes. And bursts into another bout of laughter.

"Yes, because I'm a teacher," she says, leaning back to her chair. "And it's a teacher's job to help her students. So why don't you let me do my job, hm?"

Izuku doesn't get her, he thinks. He doesn't. Before she called her to the office, before this whole diary assignment started—she never talked to him. Or rather, he never talked to her. Izuku is probably the only kid in the class who never interacted with her.

He doesn't get her. He doesn't get why she would take the time to do all this for him. Why she would take all this effort to make him laugh.

Izuku's laughter dies down. He lets the leftover of it stay on his face, a ghost of a smile. "Okay."

He likes her, he thinks.

Perhaps, if he had a teacher like her all those years ago, things would have been different.

"See you tomorrow?" she says.

"See you tomorrow," Izuku says.

Perhaps.

---

V.

"This is impossible."

"You have to focus."

Easy for you to say, says the voice in Izuku's head.

"I'm sorry," Izuku says instead. Todoroki has no time to be babysitting Izuku around, and yet here he is. "It's just—hard."

Sounds too much like a whine. Izuku regrets it.

"If it were easy every Shinigami would be able to do it."

That's new. Izuku looks up, surprised at the tone of Todoroki's voice—at the fact that Todoroki would have that kind of response at all. That Todoroki would be capable of bantering.

"Do it again," Todoroki says, and this one is a reprimand. Izuku has come to be able to distinguish the subtle differences in Todoroki's toneless voice. "Close your eyes. Look into yourself."

What does that even mean, look into yourself? His Soul-Cutter is a steady weight on his lap. Izuku closes his eyes and sees nothing. Bursts of colors at the back of his eyelids. Static-snow. The hum-drum of his own thoughts—white noise. Looking into the abyss for himself.

He can't find it. Izuku opens his eyes. And then he blurts, "why did you tell me?"

The air changes immediately, the temperature plunging to below freezing. Stilted.

Todoroki doesn't reply. He is standing, silent and still as a statue, back propped against the barren rocks of the barren land. They are at the soulless part of the Soul Society, far out the borders of the Capital, where no one would be affected by their reiryoku. Toshinori isn't feeling well today.

"Close your eyes," Todoroki says again. An order. "Do it again. Become one with your sword—"

"Todoroki-san—"

"You think you have time for idle talks?" Todoroki turns to look at him. Mismatched eyes. "I was taught the way of the sword before I could walk. It took me years to achieve Shikai and decades to learn Bankai … and you?" Todoroki says. "It has not even been half a year since the first time you held a Soul-Cutter."

Izuku doesn't say anything—he can't, stunned silence by the burst of emotion in Todoroki's voice—the heat in it. "The war is nearing its breaking point," Todoroki continues, eyes unmoving and unforgiving on Izuku. He stands straight, stalking his way to Izuku in that military walk all Shinigamis do. "Another captain has been eliminated in battle—we have lost two divisions within months. All for One's army of Arrancars… the Hollows he created… Gotei 13 has done nothing but lose battles the moment All Might stepped down."

Izuku understands what he means. The moment Toshinori left the battle, he also left a gap—a gap of power with no one to fill. No one but Izuku.

Todoroki stops right in front of him. One hand is always splayed on the sheathe of his Soul-Cutter, the other clenched in a fist. "No matter what my father says, Soul Society cannot survive without the power of One for All."

Izuku's breath hitches in his throat. He doesn't know what to say. "I'm sorry," Izuku says, feeling ashamed and horrible and useless. "I—"

"I hate my father. Perhaps that's why I told you what I did."

It's not that Todoroki is unkind.

Izuku doesn't think so. Izuku knows what unkind is like, what cruelty is like—and that's not what Todoroki is. Not really. Harsh, yes, but only because Izuku doesn't think Todoroki has ever known how to be otherwise. Izuku doesn't think Todoroki has ever known kindness.

"My mother is a Human," Todoroki says. "Do you know, Midoriya Izuku, why Shinigamis are forbidden from marrying Humans?"

"I … no," Izuku manages to fight against speechlessness, trying to process the information Todoroki just gave him without consent. Todoroki's mother is a Human? "I don't."

And then somehow, it makes sense. Izuku looks at him. It makes sense. Todoroki has always seemed so distant before, so untouchable. But now Izuku has met more Shinigamis than before—all the captains and vice captains and lieutenants, and none of them has ever showed emotion in the way that Todoroki does. None of them are ever as heated.

"There are cases where Humans are born with too much reiryoku, or where they interact with Death too much—and as a result, they gain the Sight. Like you," Todoroki says. Izuku watches as Todoroki's throat bobs, as if he's struggling to say all these. To speak anything that isn't an order. "When these cases happen, we erase their memories. You are a special case. You … and the previous Heroes. And my mother."

Todoroki looks down. His jaw flexes. "Soul Society is the antithesis to the Living World. Human souls are ever-changing, fluctuating … being too close to our world will affect their souls," he says. "You, a holder of One for All, should know this."

His voice is hoarse, as if not used to speaking so much. "Life and Death are not supposed to interact. When they do, it's at a cost. Life gives. Death takes," he says. "That's why Human souls become Hollow eventually."

Izuku's heart hammers in his chest. There is a premonition—a bad instinct. He thinks he knows where he is going. He opens his mouth to say something—anything at all, but nothing comes out. What is there to say?

"But my father … managed to persuade the Court. Because he believed ... that a marriage between a Human and a Shinigami could create more hybrids … more Human Shinigamis.." Todoroki's voice is so thick with hate it tarrs. Blistering. "Could create more like you."

There is a tremble in his voice, but he doesn't seem to be able to stop, now—Izuku hears a certain desperation in the way he talks, like a broken dam having held on for far too long.

"This is why he took my mother," Todoroki says. "But without One for All … it's too much. Human Souls will not survive such procedure."

He goes quiet. Jaw clenched. Momentarily the emotion flickers away, leaving his face a familiar, statuesque plane. The change is so sudden that it's jarring, as if by a switch, as if Todoroki just killed whatever human emotion he managed to feel. Izuku's tongue is lead in his mouth. "Todoroki-san—"

"I was the fourth one," Todoroki says. "The rest did not make it."

Izuku feels sick to his stomach.

"The only reason I was born … the only reason my siblings and I were—" Todoroki stops. And doesn't continue.

He doesn't have to. Izuku understands—he knows exactly what it means.

It means that Todoroki Shouto was born as a prototype. A prototype of a Human-Shinigami hybrid, of the Hero of Soul Society. A prototype of Izuku. It means that Todoroki Shouto didn't choose to be a Shinigami.

And Izuku did.

"I'm sorry," Izuku says, whispers, and it sounds horrible to his own ears. "Todoroki-san, I'm really—"

"Close your eyes," Todoroki says, as if he had not said anything at all. "Do it again. Look into yourself. Into your soul."

It's an order. And what can Izuku do, if not carry it?

Izuku closes his eyes—

---

0.

—and opens them.

izuku is standing on the sky.

all around him is an encompassing blue. the bluest blue. there is nothing under his feet—he's standing on an imperceptible ground, and below him is blue, more blue, much more blues than he thought possible.

izuku is standing on the summer sky. a cloudless, cerulean summer sky. and above him, far and unreachable, he finds the ground.

green-yellow-orange. a mesh of colors. an entire topographed map of fields and fields and fields as his sky. as the sky of this inverted, gravity-defying, upside down world.

it's surreal, the scape, this sensation. the most surreal of all is that it doesn't matter whether it's real or not. it feels true enough, this. true as a dream. he is in a dream, which is also his reality, which is also a dream. this world is strange but is not foreign. so is the boy staring at him, standing on the same sky as he is, his face obscured in a mask. ivory, bone-white—with garish red smeared on it in a grin. the exact same mask that izuku has seen on monsters without hearts.

"took you awhile to come here," the boy says. "i've been waiting for you, you know."

"who are you?" izuku breathes. but even as he says it, he already knows the answer.

"who am i?" the boy repeats, with a familiar voice. a terrible, terribly familiar voice. a voice that sounds exactly like the one in izuku's head. izuku can't see the boy's face behind that mask he wears, but izuku can hear the smile in his voice—slick and languorous. "what kinda question is that, stupid?"

there is barely any wind at all; the air smells dry and strangely sweet. he is wearing a shihakusho, a shinigami's uniform—the exact same one that izuku is wearing right now. however, instead of black, his uniform is colored blinding white. glaring, even amidst the blue—bright like the sun. his hair is dyed in that same bleached white—a speck of snow in the sky.

and then he takes off his mask, and izuku's breath hitches in his throat.

"who do you think i am?" he says.

the boy is almost entirely monochromatic: all sharp silhouettes of white, except for the pair of eyes with sclera so black and bright green pupils like a twin drop of acid. but its unmistakable. izuku knows, the moment he laid eyes on him. he knows.

the boy looks exactly like izuku, if someone drains all the colors out of him.

look into the abyss and the abyss looks back.

but no one told him that the abyss is a mirror.

"who are you?" izuku says again, even though he knows. he knows. there is dread rising within the trenches of his heart, an instinct, a bad premonition. "what are you?"

"i'm you, stupid." the boy says. "the real question is—what are you?"

you will find it, toshinori said. you will have to kill it.

izuku eyes the mask in the boy's pale hand. bone white, adorned with teeth and the red smile. and then he looks back to the boy's eyes—abysses with specks of green at the center. "you…" a distant, nearly calm realization comes to izuku. "you're a hollow."

a smile like a cleaver. "that's a mean thing to say, izuku." izuku. the unfamiliar cadence of the word, of his own name, in his own voice.

the manifestation of his soul. the reflection of his soul, and isn't that exactly what it is? izuku walks forward and the boy—the hollow —mirrors his movement. izuku's hand goes to his hilt and the hollow mirrors it too.

"are you going to kill me?" the hollow says, tilts his head at him, and izuku shivers at the uncanniness of it all. at his own reflection gone astray. "even though i'm you?"

izuku unsheathes his soul-cutter. the hollow follows, obedient to its reflection's whims. except unlike izuku, the hollow's hands do not shake.

around him the blue is neverending. "could you," izuku says, "tell me your name?"

the boy laughs.

shrill and high. throwing his head to the back sort of laughter. izuku has never heard that sound coming from himself—a sound so thick of glee it spills—that he can do nothing but stare. stare, as the boy looks back at him, smile enshrined on his face—garish show of teeth from side to side, splitting his face like a cleaver. an expression that izuku never knew he could make.

so that's how Izuku looks when he smiles. when he laughs.

no wonder kacchan hates it so much.

"come on, izuku," the hollow says, with that cleaver white smile, "you know what my name is," and then he attacks.

he moves like a lance—a strike of lightning in the blue summer sky. izuku barely has time to block the hollow's sword, and when he does, he struggles; izuku gasps at the sheer weight of the hollow's soul-cutter—the force of its blade.

their blades grit against each other, sending sparks flying to the air. the hollow's soul-cutter is a replica of izuku's own. or rather, izuku realizes with horror, it's the other way around.

the hollow clicks his tongue, as if impatient. "this won't do," he says, his face so close to izuku's own. "you can't kill me with just this. oh no. however will you achieve bankai?"

he knows, izuku thinks, a murky surprise. he knows that i—

"of course i know, stupid," says the hollow. "i told you. i'm you."

izuku stares.

"everywhere you are, i'm there. everything you do, i do it too." he says. blade raised, and then there is a friction in the air—electricity bursting in molecules before the storm. "and every single thing you've done to yourself—"

it doesn't feel like reiryoku. it feels like a solid thing—a tidal wave. tsunami. light so bright and then the blue sky is enveloped in green—green like envy. green like acid. green like hunger.

"—you've done to me."

it strikes izuku like lightning. there is no way to run from it—it's an all encompassing thing, pure power. a magnitude. pain is heat so hot it's cold, and izuku chokes, retches for reprieve. and then the light is gone, and izuku realizes suddenly that he no longer has skin.

he moans, throat tender, and gags when he sees his hands—all red and slick, flesh bared open. his skin has been burnt off him. his tears hurt his face, raw and stinging, and izuku makes a helpless, sobbing sound. he is still in the sky, the blue all around him, and the ground far, far above. the green landscape. the fields. a charred thing against the blue.

and then the hollow's face comes into view. the colorless boy still cackles with power—electric and verdant, the soul-cutter held in his hand. "c'mon izuku," the hollow says, above him. watching izuku as he tries to breathe against the pain. "what's my name?"

izuku manages a sound—pained and pathetic, like a dog being kicked. the hollow sighs, as if disappointed. "oh well," he says, with izuku's voice and izuku's face and izuku's smile. "try again next time," and then he slams his soul-cutter into izuku's chest.

izuku closes his eyes—

---

VI.

—and opens them.

The world comes into focus. He's in Soul Society, on the barren land. The sky above is sunset orange. Izuku gasps, his cheeks feel wet, heart beating in his ears—no, roaring. His sword is still in his lap, the weight stifling, and Izuku—

Throws his head to the side to throw up.

He doesn't know how long he does that. His fingers dig into the ground, nails splintering as Izuku empties the contents of his gut. Slowly and distantly, he can feel someone's hand rubbing his back in a soothing circle.

"Toshinori-san?" Izuku croaks hoarsely.

"Drink this," Toshinori's voice says. Izuku obeys, receiving the water and drinking some before throwing it up again in a coughing fit.

"I did it," Izuku says, when he can speak again. He turns to look at Toshinori with bleary eyes. "I did it—"

"Izuku—"

"I did it," Izuku repeats. He did it. He looked into his own soul. Looked into his abyss. "I did it. I did it."

Now he just has to find its name. And kill it.

---

0.

the blood drips and drops to the sky. izuku's soul-cutter is heavy in his slick, red grip. the hollow is unharmed.

"i don't know why you're trying so hard," the hollow says curiously. "i thought we've decided to stop trying hard a while ago."

"shut up," izuku says, and attacks.

blades clash. there is a telltale sign of electricity in the air and izuku darts away, keeping a distance between the both of them.

but the hollow doesn't give. he closes in, and—

izuku has fought him long enough to know his habits. izuku's own habits.

"huh," the hollow says, after dodging away, his shihakusho ripped at the side. it's not a deep cut, but blood is staining the white material of it anyway, stark and red. "you got me. congratulations. who would've thought you had it in you?"

and then izuku watches, in stricken horror, as the cut disappears. the red is gone and his shihakusho is pristine white once more, as if the wound is never there.

"you're not real," izuku says finally. "you're not. you are just—you're just in my head."

laughter. lightning crackle.

izuku tries to dodge it, but it's the same as trying to outrun a calamity. trying to dodge a natural disaster. he finds himself trampled on the sky once again, and izuku scrambles for his soul-cutter. anything at all to stave of the impending doom.

the hollow comes, a predator coming to claim its kill. eyes pitch black, mouth set in that cleaver grin, and power screaming from every inch of its bleached skin. it's a monster. antithesis. death in white wearing izuku's face.

"my name, izuku," it says, as it gets closer, closer, closer. "my name. what is it?"

izuku's hand finds the hilt of his sword, but so does the hollow. izuku watched in helpless terror as pale fingers take it away from him like a toy.

the colorless boy pushes a knee over izuku's neck, choking him as he holds izuku's own soul-cutter in his grip. its tip is hanging right over izuku's eyes with the promise of death. death in this cerulean world.

a monster. "my name," it says. "say it."

"you're not real," izuku says.

"really?" the hollow smiles. "i can hurt you, though?"

the sword falls.

---

5.

Today it's raining.

Raining hard. Izuku leans back against the wall, watching the raindrops pitter patter against the tiles of the rooftop. For the first time in a while, his jacket seems to be a fitting wear for the weather.

"Togeike-san," Izuku says to the rain. "Do you have anything you want to do?"

The tiles are slick with rainwater. The plane is slightly tilted and Izuku can feel the soles of his shoes getting wetter and wetter. The air smells like the ground, like chalk and ice.

Togeike doesn't answer. He doesn't expect her to, and he talks anyway. "Like ... I don't know. See someone. Find something. Go somewhere.." at the edge of the roof, the vase of freesia is overflowing, the flower bending sadly against the torrents, petals shredded by the rivulets of water. "Anything at all. Anything that makes you stay here."

Izuku looks at her. She is standing on the open plane, without a roof to shield her from the rain. The rain never touches her anyway—she is drenched in blood, not water.

"I can try," Izuku says. "I can try. So. Is there anything you want?"

No reply. Izuku looks down, and turns to climb down into the fourth floor bathroom when she speaks.

"You're turning."

Izuku stops. Looks at her.

The rain is getting heavier. The fences rattle, rattle on. She's right in front of his face, close, so close, the distance previously present between them rendered insignificant by her lack of physical body. Bloodshot eyes staring into Izuku's own, indifferent. "I can feel it, you know," she rasps. Emptily, like an idle observation. "You're turning. Like me."

Her chains are short, now, just mere inches. It will be soon before she Hollows out. Izuku's eyes flick back to her bloody ones.

"I'm alive," says Izuku.

"Your heart," she says. "You're losing it."

Beat. Beat. Pitter-patter. Izuku can feel her soul, colder than the rain. "I want to go to the riverside," Izuku says suddenly. "There is this river … near my old neighborhood … in the summer, the flowers bloom by the bank. Akizakura flowers. They are supposed to bloom in autumn, but somehow, in the summer, they..." his voice trails. Petering out.

She stares at him, silent. Empty.

"I can bring some for you next time," Izuku says. "If you want."

---

0.

"if you're me," izuku says. "then you should know … just why i'm trying so hard."

izuku can't see the sun in this world. there is no sun, just the blue of the sky—cloudless and drowning. the brightest thing in this sky is the colorless monster staring at him.

"you know why i'm doing this," izuku says. "you know. i need to do this."

the hollow doesn't say anything, parrying izuku's sword effortlessly. "i have to do this. everything depends on this, if I don't then, then—"

then all for one will win. soul society will be destroyed and the balance is gone and the world will end.

"—it's my duty," izuku says. his blade is trembling against the hollow's strength, rattling. "i have to—"

there is a nasty, resounding crack. izuku freezes, eyes wide.

"izuku.." the hollow says finally. his soul-cutter is the next brightest thing in this world. "you've always been such a fucking liar."

izuku watches, stunned, as his blade breaks and splinters apart.

alarmed, he scrambles to put a distance between the two of them—but the hollow doesn't let up, keeping close after him, chasing him without reprieve. "wait, stop—"

"let's be honest here, izuku. the real reason you're doing this isn't for some duty," the hollow sneers. his sword mean against izuku's own, chipping izuku's edge like cheap paint. "saving the world? do you really believe that's the reason you're doing this? come on."

the blades push and shove. izuku hears something snap and his heart drops. "stop, stop—"

"who the fuck are you trying to fool? me?" the hollow says. "no matter how hard you tried, you never could fool yourself. have you forgotten that?"

izuku's soul-cutter breaks. the pieces of blade fall on the sky below him without sound, as if it never existed in the first place. weaponless, izuku looks up to find his own face staring right at him, and his own soul-cutter struck deep inside his chest. his left side, where his heart should be. izuku makes a strangled sound.

"your duty … what a joke," says izuku's reflection. "you just want to feel wanted."

izuku tastes copper in his mouth. "ah—" it overflows, spilling from his lips like tar, and the sword is aching deeper inside him, digging its way through his flesh, his bones. izuku's hand instinctively takes hold of it—cutting his palms on the blade—as if to stop it from pushing further. even if it's already too late. even if he can feel his own heart bursting inside his rib cage, like crushed pomegranate. "ah—"

"nice, ain't it, to finally feel useful?" the hollow says, merciless. "So nice that you beg to be used. ahh, you make me sick.you don't care if the world ends, izuku, you never did, you don't want to save the world. you think i don't fucking know that?"

the blade twists, and izuku screams, soundless.

"what you want.." izuku's colorless face twists, smile contorting into hate. deep and real and aimed only for izuku. "is to feel like you mean something for once in your life. and you sold your life for it."

it hurts. the pain—it feels real, the pain in this world. even though he knows it's not. this summer sky of a world doesn't touch reality, it's all just in his head, in his soul, it's all just himself, but it hurts.

"you sold us," the hollow says. "and guess what? you aren't even good at that."

he pulls the blade out. izuku gasps, falling to his knees, and the monster follows, pushing him down to the sky. vertigo engulfs izuku's senses as he is pushed against the blue, lain and bled on it, and a pale hand cradles his neck like a noose.

izuku can hear his own heartbeat stuttering, slowing down, lazy and unsympathetic. izuku sobs. "you're wrong," he strains to speak against the pressure on his vocal cords, the blood choking his lungs. "you're—wrong—"

"no," says izuku's reflection. "i'm you. and you know my name. you know what my name is. don't you?"

izuku tries to gasp for air and inhales his own blood instead. the hollow's fingers dig like claws around his throat, so tight that izuku almost misses the stark cold of the blade right underneath his chin. behind the black spots clouding his eyes, what izuku sees is his own monochromatic face, smiling that unrecognizable smile.

"c'mon," the monster says. "c'mon. my name. say it. say it. say it."

and Izuku does know it, his name. of course he does. his voice is a broken, croaking thing, as the name is strangled out of his throat.

"deku," izuku chokes.

deku laughs.

"there we go," he says. and then slits izuku's throat.

pain blooms, fireworks, as izuku is killed by his own soul. bled dry like a fish. he makes no resistance, doesn't even try to stop the blood, doesn't even try to avert his eyes. As darkness closes in, he watches deku watches him, face unfeeling, izuku's blood splattering red over his white shihakusho. they look at each other as izuku lays dying on the blue sky. as death hollows izuku out.

izuku closes his eyes—

---

VIII.

—and opens them.

The world comes into focus. The battlefield around him—reiryoku suffocating the air like static, so thick he could taste it on his tongue, feels it on his skin. The scent of dirt and old blood, metallic tang of iron and writhing souls, fire and ice. The scent of war.

Izuku calls the name of his Soul-Cutter.

One for All roars in Izuku's soul. The Hollows scream. So this is what glory feels like: synthesis. Solar. Natural disaster. Power in its purest form, blazing inside him, inside his sword. Light—not golden, but green, envy green. Acid green. Hungry green.

The battlefield is his domain. One swing of his sword and the aftershock kills Hollows as far as the eyes can see in a tidal wave of manic, ravenous verdant. His sword pulses in his hands—alive, magnificent, photon undiluted. Izuku feels like he can cut through anything at the moment—hills and mountains. Light and air. Everything that exists and everything that does not.

And he does. He cuts through the impossible creatures on the plane and those damned beings see peace in Izuku's blade, their voids satiated by but a single glimpse of Izuku's light. Who needs a heart when you could be eaten whole by luminance?

Only one Hollow is left alive. The Arrancar looks like a person, crumpled underneath Izuku's blade, all four of his limbs severed into dust. "I don't want to die," Bubaigawara Jin says, as he might have done once when he was alive. "I don't want to die."

Seconds pass like honeyed infinities, slow and languid and timelessly sweet. Izuku can feel eyes on him—the army of Shinigamis behind, the captains and the lieutenants. Gods looking up to the sole human in war. Izuku doesn't care. Because at this moment the entire world, living or not, belongs to Izuku, and Izuku alone. All for him.

For nothing can escape from his light.

The Arrancar looks up at him, eyes pleading, sobbing black blood. Pitiful creature. Used up by All for One, and now left to die by Izuku's hands. "I don't want to die.."

So human, Izuku thinks, and swings his Soul-Cutter down.

Silence. And then the gods behind him explode into a reverent, thundering chant.

Their voices reverberate throughout the plane of the afterlife, shattering the corpses of Hollows apart into atoms. Long live the Hero. Long Live the Hero. Long live One for All.

And the voice in Izuku's head says—

Ain't it nice?

---

6.

"Midoriya-kun."

Izuku stops. And turns.

"Midoriya-kun," Fukukado-sensei says, her face tight. "We need to talk."

Izuku considers her. "..I have P.E, sensei," he says. "I have to go to the field to—"

"Just for a moment," she says. "Please."

The other classmates walk past him, going down the stairs, chattering and bumping as they go with their rackets. They're playing tennis today. Izuku and Fukukado-sensei look at each other as they stand in the middle of the hallway.

"..is this because I didn't come to meet you yesterday?" says Izuku, politely. "I'm sorry. I had to go home early, so I just put the notebook on your desk.."

"I read it," she says. She looks a little pale, Izuku notes. "Midoriya-kun. What you wrote—"

"All lies," Izuku says.

The hallway is empty now save for the two of them. They can hear the laughter of the kids in the field, the P.E teacher blowing a whistle.

"If you don't need anything else," Izuku says, "I have to go before Ishiyama-sensei—"

"Midoriya-kun."

Her hand is on his shoulder. Warm human. Izuku turns to look at her again. "Yes?"

"You—" she looks at loss. Desperate. Izuku stares at her. "If you … if you need help.." Izuku feels bad, distantly. Fukukado-sensei always has a smile on her face, and without it, she looks—tired. Unhappy.

She stops. Izuku says nothing in the ensuing pause, watching her as she takes a deep breath. When she looks back at him, her gaze is steadier. And then she says, "I've been a teacher for only five years."

Izuku blinks at the non-sequitur. "Five years isn't a long time," she continues. "I still have a lot to learn. A lot of kids to teach. A lot of kids to learn from," her hand is stern, on his shoulder, determined. "You have only been a person for fifteen years, Midoriya-kun."

She pauses, her jaw flexing. Izuku waits.

"Fifteen years," Fukukado-sensei says. "Isn't a very long time either."

Her gaze is persistent on Izuku, darting, as if she is looking for something in Izuku's face. Anything at all. He isn't sure if she will ever find it. "If you need help," she says again. It's almost inaudible, but there is a slight tremble in her voice. "If you ever need help.. I'm here. Okay? You're not alone. I promise. You're not. Understand?"

He really does like her. She is a good person—something that Izuku hasn't found many times in his fifteen years of life. She tries.

Izuku is the one who doesn't.

"Thank you," says Izuku. For everything.

She looks into his eyes. And then she lets go of his shoulder, slow, as if she'd rather not. As if Izuku will run off the moment her hand leaves.

"See you tomorrow?" she says.

"See you tomorrow," Izuku lies.

---

IX.

"You're still here."

"Toshinori-san."

"You need to go home," Toshinori says. "You need to rest."

"The second wave is coming. I have to be here when it arrives."

A hand on Izuku's shoulder. "Aizawa's Division will handle it just fine," Toshinori says. "Izuku. You need to go back to your Human body."

Izuku doesn't reply. He stares at the horizon, the blood red of it. Sunset in Soul Society looks like fire. He can feel the Hollows coming close, their voids screaming at him, begging, begging.

"Shinigamis can erase Human memories, can't they?" Izuku says, a non-sequitur. "Say … hypothetically … could you erase the memories of a person off someone's mind?"

"Yes.." Toshinori replies, after a pause. "It's a common protocol."

"Could you," Izuku says. "Make a mother forget she ever had a son?"

---

0.

izuku opens his eyes and the color blue greets him. izuku unsheathes his soul-cutter.

"back for more, huh?"

deku stands at the same spot he always does, the single sun in the vast expanse of the sky.

"you've always been too much of a masochist," deku says.

"i'm sorry," izuku says. lightning crackles around him, the air shivering, molecules coagulating. "i have to do this."

"liar. you don't have to," deku says, his own sword unsheathed. "that's the thing, izuku. you don't."

and they both know that. because izuku is deku and deku is izuku. because both of them are abysses looking at each other. mirror to mirror.

this, izuku thinks. this is where he belongs. this is where he can finally belong.

and he isn't going to let himself take it from him.

"see?" deku says. cleaver smile. "you made that choice."

---

7.

"Love-15!"

It's hot.

It's a hot day. It rained the whole day yesterday and now the sun is unrelenting, high in the sky. Izuku pushes his glasses up his face, the frames slipping from his sweat.

"Are you not joining them?"

Izuku doesn't move as Toshinori comes to sit next to him on the bench. They eye the kids playing in pairs, scattered on the field. Tennis balls flying high to the sky. "I don't feel well," Izuku lies. He thinks. He isn't sure if it's a lie.

It's uncomfortable being here. Not just being at school—he's always been uncomfortable being at school—but here. In his human body. In flesh.

"..it's good for you to rest," Toshinori says, and Izuku smiles, wan. Toshinori sounds like he is happy with the prospect of Izuku resting. "It's just that I … would like to see you enjoy yourself."

Izuku's smile slips off his face. "What do you mean?"

Even though he knows exactly what Toshinori means. Izuku has been a human for fifteen years and a shinigami for mere months, and yet he is way better at being one than the other.

There is that unreadable, stricken look on Toshinori's face. "When I … asked you … on that night.."

Can you see me, son? Izuku looks away.

"I asked too much of you. Too much from a child … I was—I just thought that maybe if I—"

Toshinori closes his eyes, unable to finish his sentence. Izuku wonders, distantly, if Toshinori regrets it. Izuku wonders if that's what he's going to say—that he regrets asking Izuku. That he wishes he had found someone better, asked someone better.

But then, Toshinori says, "I just wanted you to live."

Izuku looks at him. The gaunt cheeks, the sunken eyes. The wisps of sunset of an old, fraying soul. Past the lump in his throat, Izuku says, "I'm alive."

Truth is never the right thing to say. But Izuku isn't sure if he's lying.

Toshinori says, "I—"

And then they hear it. And feel it.

A howl. A sound like the world tearing apart at the seams. A weight like gravity. The cold, ice in his heart, a kind of cold that has nothing to do with temperature but leaves your bones shattering nevertheless. Izuku stands up, and he is still in his Human body, but his hand moves to where his sword would be—instinct. But before he could go, Toshinori's hand circles Izuku's.

Izuku turns. They look at each other. Toshinori speaks again, words slow and dragging, as if it's a struggle to get them out. "I thought that … if I gave you something … that you could keep on—" his words cut off. There is a glimmer in his sunken blue eyes that could be light, or perhaps tears. "But instead of giving ... I took from you."

Izuku looks at him. Silent. And it's not a lie when Izuku says, "I'm alive because of you. Because you asked." Because someone asked.

And then Izuku steps out of his body to face the Hollow.

---

0.

"it's not going to be that easy."

izuku doesn't bother to turn to look at him, opting to stare at somewhere in the distance. the fields far above. dying is tedious and boring after you've done it enough times.

"you think you can attack me with your power? with your soul-cutter?" deku says. "i'm your soul-cutter, stupid. i'm your power."

izuku's soul-cutter falls from his limp hand—he can't feel his fingers. death is coming to him, death in this dream world of perpetual summer. the cold is creeping in, settling inside his ribcage where his heart is supposed to be. "why.." izuku coughs, wet and red. "why … are you … doing this?"

izuku turns his head when deku doesn't answer. "we both know why i'm doing this," izuku says. "but you … what about you? what are you doing this for?"

the horizon is silent all around them. the neverending, brilliant blue. deku stares at him, his soul-cutter drenched red with izuku's blood in his hand.

"you," deku says.

izuku closes his eyes.

---

8.

This scene doesn't fit it.

No, not this summer sky, with the laughing teenagers running around in youth, tennis balls and water bottles scattered about, bucolic and mundane. The Hollow doesn't fit it. A creature—a magnificent thing, stygian flesh and bone-white mask as its head—standing in the middle of the field with its animal limbs. An impossible calamity of a monster amidst the humdrum of highschool life.

"Love-30!"

Around Izuku, around the creature, life goes on. Human life. Someone is losing their tennis match, and Izuku can hear Isayama-sensei scolding someone else for leaving their P.E uniform at home. Izuku and the creature look at each other, monster to monster, a stillness between the both of them. Izuku's hand stays on the hilt of his Soul-Cutter, waiting.

"Love-40!"

Someone won a match. Izuku's classmates cheer. And then The Hollow unhinges its jaw, baring a row of teeth like stalactites—and screams back.

It touches reality, that scream. Not in sound, but in impact—a physical shockwave, rupturing the air and ground apart. Humans might not be able to see it, but they can feel it. His classmates scream. Izuku unsheathes his Soul-Cutter.

It's a high-level Hollow. Not Arrancar, but close. What is a Menos Grande doing in the Living World, out in the daylight, in Izuku's school no less?

It isn't a coincidence. It's a warning—a threat from All for One. I know where you live, it means. If not as a god, I can hurt you as a Human, it means.

And Izuku thinks: you're not gonna kill me. I've been killed by worse than you.

The Hollow trashes, sending dirt and dust flying and children screaming, and Izuku knows immediately where it's aiming for. What it wants to eat and kill. Izuku lands to where Toshinori is, in the middle of the field, holding Izuku's limp body in his arms—to warn him, to get him away, but to his astonishment, someone else is there. A figure that Izuku would recognize anywhere, anytime. Izuku says, "Kacchan?"

What is Kacchan doing here? The other kids might not be able to see the Hollow, but they are running away from what they think is an earthquake, or some explosive accident. And yet Kacchan is here, still in his P.E uniform, crouching down on the ground with Toshinori over Izuku's unmoving body. As if he was—as if he was, what, trying to see if Izuku is okay? Trying to save Izuku?

And the thing that strikes Izuku the most is the look on Kacchan's face: some sort of afflicted horror. As if the sight of Izuku's soulless body is a terrible thing. As if he was grieving.

Just when Izuku thinks he can't be more surprised, Bakugou Katsuki looks up and stares back at him. "Deku?" he says, and Izuku's heart stops.

Impossible. "You can see me," Izuku says, and even as he says it, he really can't believe it. Impossible. Humans can't see him, let alone Kacchan. Not Kacchan, not him. No one has ever been able to see, no one but Izuku. Ghosts aren't real.

"What the fuck," Kacchan says, his voice trembling, "are you wearing?"

That's an expression Izuku has never seen on Kacchan's face before: fear. Kacchan is scared. Ah. If he can see Izuku, that means he can see—

The Hollow roars.

Izuku has no time for idle talks. He has a duty to do. Sword in his hand, Izuku closes his eyes—

---

0.

"do you know why you have to kill me to get your precious bankai?"

izuku never hates his own voice as much as he does now. "shut up—"

"once you kill me," deku says. "there is no turning back. you'll become one with one for all. until you're all used up. and even then one for all won't let you leave. you'll be fuel. livestock for the next holder. for the world."

izuku is sick and tired of this, of this dance between the two of them, black and white, mirror to mirror. their swords clash, and izuku sees his own face reflected back at him on the blades.

"once you kill me. your soul won't belong to you. once you kill me—"

"shut up," izuku snaps. "shut up. i know. i know. you think i don't fucking know that?"

deku laughs. izuku's sword breaks for the thousandth time.

left weaponless once more, izuku curses in frustration—and deku charges right at him, unforgiving. how many times have this happened? how many times have they done this?

this blue feels like infinity. the sweet scent of flowers mixing with the tang of blood, copper, metal. this summer sky is a cage.

"give up," deku says, sword pointed at him. "that's the one thing you're good at anyways—giving up. right, izuku?"

izuku breathes, heavy. "i—" he swallows. "that's not true," he says finally. "you're wrong."

"oh, i'm wrong, am i?' deku smiles. wary, izuku watches as deku sheathes his soul-cutter back and begins to walk towards him, easy, as if they haven't been trying to kill each other. izuku takes a step back, but deku follows. mirror in reverse.

"look at you," deku says, a slow, mean drawl, circling him like he is a show. "hero of soul society. so brave and powerful and strong. savior of the two worlds."

izuku closes his eyes, as if it hurts. "don't. stop it."

"what would they do without you, hero? without the chosen one?" deku says. "oh, the chosen one. that's hilarious. remember when toshinori found you, that night? what were you doing back then, izuku? hm?"

he's standing too close; that infuriating, grating voice slick in izuku's ears, razor sharp. izuku pushes him away, but deku just laughs as he stumbles back, like it's all so funny. "why are you—" gritting his teeth, izuku tries to stave off the memory. tries to get it together. "why are you like this? why do you have to make this so hard? you're me!"

"it was a cold night," deku says, as if izuku hadn't spoken at all. "one fifteen in the morning. mom was asleep. you wrote a note, put it on the kitchen table under a mug—"

"—that's enough—"

"—walked to school, climbed the gate, and then up to the fourth floor bathroom—"

izuku doesn't know when he's moved, but he finds himself right in front of deku, both of his hands wrapped around the hollow's neck.

deku doesn't even fight back. his hand stays by his side, the hilt of his sword untouched. and to izuku's nauseous realization, he can feel deku's pulse, right underneath his fingers: rhythmic and slow, offsetting izuku's own hammering heart. izuku can feel the warmth of his skin, and from this close, the warmth of deku's breath on his face.

just like a human.

"you took off your shoes," deku continues, as if he isn't being choked, as if there is any meaning in recounting this memory that izuku has tried so hard to keep locked deep, deep down. "put them on the ledge. and you were scared, so you looked up to the sky. and that's when you saw it."

that was when izuku saw it. monsters without hearts and a god of death appeared in the midnight sky. the wretched and the divine, calamity against calamity, and a light so golden and great and blistering and beautiful that he knew, for the first time in his life, what the word god meant.

and then the god said, can you see me, son?

izuku lets go of deku's neck, sick to his stomach. he takes several steps back, scrambles for it, wanting to get as far away as possible from his hollowed, bleached white self. "stop," he says, exhausted. he just wants this to be over. everything to be over. "please … that's enough.."

deku doesn't. "you're no hero, izuku," deku says. and it's chilling, to hear his own voice like that—the empty cadence of it, shocking cold like ice water. "that night toshinori found you on the roof he gave you a free ticket to fuck off from your life and you took it. you're no hero. you're just running away. "

"i said stop—"

"you didn't jump, that night," the hollow says. "you just took a longer way down."

"enough," izuku says. "please, please, enough. st—"

"stop."

izuku stops.

"stop," deku repeats. his voice exaggerated into a grating, high-pitched sound that sounds exactly like izuku. "stop, please stop. stop, enough, please. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. that's all you ever say. all you ever do is plead and beg and apologize. disgusting."

izuku stares, fixated on his spot as deku approaches him, something blazing in those abyssal green eyes, familiar, something that izuku knows so well.

"you're always asking for forgiveness. for being you. for existing," deku says. "but do you forgive yourself? do i forgive you?"

he's stopped right in front of izuku, their faces just inches away. monochromatic twins standing in the middle of the sky. izuku doesn't even try to run. he doesn't even want to try anymore. and he knows deku knows it too, that the both of them know this.

maybe that's the point all along.

"if you want it so bad," deku says, unsheathing his soul-cutter, "why don't you finish what you started?"

and then deku hands him the sword, except it's not a sword at all. what it is, instead, is a cutter.

a normal, mundane looking cutter, one that you use for paper and craft. one with chipped yellow plastic and rusted slightly in parts. one that is the exact replica of the one izuku always keeps in the pockets of his jacket.

izuku stares at it.

"does that make it easier?" deku says. "this fits you better than a sword anyways."

it's too much. too nauseating, too mean. he can't bear it. can't take it anymore. anything at all. "just. just—" the words can't move past the painful lump in his throat. "just why, why.."

deku tilts his head at him. "are you going to cry?" deku says.

izuku sobs. he tastes bile in his mouth and then tears come to his eyes—hot and shameful and pathetic—welling up, brimming to spill, like boiling water. he crumples, hands pulled to cover his eyes, trying to stave the dam, to avert his sight from a cutter gripped in a pale hand.

"why," izuku says, voice muffled and breaking like a glass vase underneath a shoe, "why do you … why do you hate me so much? why are you so—so cruel?"

because it's hate in deku's eyes, evident on those abysses, brimming in them. and izuku has learned in his fifteen years of life to know whenever hatred is aimed at him.

through blurry eyes, he sees deku's smile disappears from his face for the first time—the glint of canines disappearing like a sheathed knife.

"me?" deku says, voice void of glee. of anything. "i'm being cruel to you? look at me," when izuku doesn't look up, pale fingers take hold of izuku's chin, black nails digging into freckled skin. "hey. look at me."

izuku looks. animal green eyes. green like toxin, like envy, like acid. deku then yanks his chin down, and izuku's gaze follows.

deku's other arm, the one holding the cutter, is bared for him to see—the white sleeve of his shihakusho pulled back to show the flesh of his forearm. izuku stares at it. at the pale expanse of it, crisscrossed with even whiter lines. at the dreadfully familiar pattern of them. izuku can't take his eyes off of them.

he can't take his eyes off the replica of the exact same lines that are carved underneath izuku's own sleeve.

"you are the one who hates yourself, izuku," deku's voice in his ear, viciously empty. "you are the one who hurts yourself. why are you so cruel to me?"

izuku doesn't say anything. he doesn't move, barely even breathes. and then he feels deku's hold on his chin to shift into a cradle. he feels deku's thumb wiping the tears underneath his eyes, roughly and carelessly.

exactly the way izuku would wipe his own tears at night.

"it's only ever been us," deku says. "just us."

and oh, izuku thinks. oh. he gets it.

he has never been gentle to himself, not even once. they both know this. izuku understands this now. he gets it. he understands.

he gets why deku is doing this. what deku is doing this for.

izuku takes the cutter from deku's hand. the plastic familiar, dearly and terribly so, under his grip. he pushes his thumb on the switch—rusted blades showing its teeth.

izuku turns, looking at deku in the eyes. none of them says anything—they don't need to. they both know what's going to happen next.

izuku looks at him. at himself. "you're right," izuku says. "i made that choice." and then he stabs deku in the heart.

deku doesn't try to dodge, or fight back—he makes no resistance. he stumbles, and izuku holds him in half a hug to prevent him from falling. to push the thin blade deeper into his chest.

blood spurts from deku's colorless lips. "ah—" it overflows, spilling from his lips like tar, splattering his perfect whiteness into glaring crimson. "ah—" izuku twists the blade, and deku screams, soundless, into izuku's embrace.

and then it's raining. izuku looks up. there is a torrent, falling from above, abrupt and immediate. and izuku thought—oh, it's ending; the perpetual summer in this caged world—it's ending.

but it's not water, the droplets falling from the earth above—it's flowers. petals and petals of flowers, falling from the ground ahead.

izuku is standing on the sky. and above him is fields and fields of freesia. the petals land all over them, soft and miniscule, over their hair, their clothes, deku's blood.

he can hear deku's bones breaking, his flesh rupturing apart like a blooming flower. deku chokes. spits out more blood nectar. the crimson spills over izuku's ink black, over izuku's fingers. warm, hot sticky warm, deku's blood—glaring red against his bleach white.

deku wheezes, as if breathing pains him, pale face twisting in agony. as if everything hurts. it shouldn't. this isn't physical—this isn't real, none of this is. it's just in izuku's head.

and yet izuku can feel his pain: his and his, mine and mine, living and dead, human and not.

izuku thought deku was the hollow.

but he looks into deku's eyes—the animal of it—the pain in it—the tears in it—

and then izuku feels his heart—tries to feel his own heart, groping in the dark for anything at all that can be found in the confinement of his own rib cage and he finds—nothing. nothing but a space so cold and infinitely empty and hollow.

and then izuku finally, finally realizes that deku is the human.

and izuku is—

"look at that. the sun is setting," deku says. he's stopped screaming and his voice is a mere croak, teeth painted over with blood. there is a smile on his face, amidst the agony. "it's setting. it's going to be dark."

the blue around them recedes, grading slowly into gold, and then blood red, as flowers fall like rainwater. the edges of the sky are bleeding into black.

there are a lot of things izuku wants to say to him, to himself. i'm sorry for everything. i'm sorry i did all those terrible things to you. i'm sorry for the pain and for the tears and all of the blood. i'm sorry i hurt you like this. i'm sorry i wasn't a better me.

but izuku isn't sure if he'll ever forgive himself.

"it's okay," izuku says. voice void of anything. "you're not alone. i'm here."

deku laughs at that. and then screams when izuku twists the blade once more, and then again, and again. screams until he can't. until the blood chokes his vocal cords off. until silence fills izuku's inner world like a red, red flood.

izuku watches himself die. the sun sets. the petals raining from the sky are colorless in the dark, like snow, and izuku is left alone in this sunless, lightless world.

izuku closes his eyes—

---

9.

—and opens them.

"Deku," Kacchan's voice, behind him.

Izuku looks back at him. At Kacchan's shocked, fearful face, the monstrous figure of the Hollow reflected on his eyes. "Deku … what the hell … are you doing?"

Kacchan looks at Izuku as if he can't believe what he's seeing. He looks at Izuku as if he can't recognize him. As if he doesn't know who—or what—he is looking at.

Izuku turns back to look at the Hollow in the eye. The heartless monster looming with jaws unhinged, slave to the desire to devour. The desire to feel anything, anything at all, any warmth to soothe its cold, dead, lightless void.

And Izuku will give it to it, as is his duty. Warmth so great it eats you whole. Izuku will give and give until nothing is left of him.

Izuku's Soul-Cutter pulses in his hand, alive. One for All has its grip on Izuku's heart, gentle as vice, and power floods Izuku's mouth like blood.

"Bankai," Izuku says.

And then there was light.