'fantasy' tag coming into play

"Izuku speaking"
Katsuki speaking
"Others speaking"

CW: sensory deprivation and overload, blood

"…And Atlas through hard constraint upholds the wide heaven with unwearying head and arms, standing at the borders of the earth before the clear-voiced Hesperides; for this lot wise Zeus assigned to him…"
—Hesiod, Theogony

Chapter 2: Abduction

The darkness only lasted for a second. A blink. A twitch. Just a breath.

Then there was light again. Colors filling his vision. But with it came sensations Katsuki couldn't handle because they were too fucking much.

They weren't in his office anymore. Katsuki said 'they' because Izuku was there with him. But he didn't see him, no.

There was too much of everything and nothing jumbled together for him to be able to know that he still existed. Katsuki would try moving his hands and forget what hands were. What were they for again? What were fingers, nails, skin, muscle, and bone?

All he knew was nothing, and the thought of using his hands passed and went; a cycle before it went through again. The same went for when he'd try to speak. Or walk. Or run. Or blink. Or even breathe.

Katsuki struggled and relaxed, remembered and forgot, was there and there wasn't. He couldn't describe what it felt like because he didn't know what feeling was. He couldn't give an account of his surroundings when words were lost before they could even form.

And yet, amidst it all, there Izuku was as the sole anchor that kept Katsuki from being swept away.

Izuku's voice– soothing– rang and reminded Katsuki how to hear. Hands and fingers– wrangled and scarred, yet nimble– were warm and taught him how to use his own all over again in a pace too quick.

Slowly, rapidly… Katsuki could breathe again.

He heard Izuku's laugh all around him and the rumble of his chest against his back. Katsuki turned, and nothing was thereー, just endless sensations that almost took him.

"I thought I lost you there, Kacchan," said Izuku.

You fucking think, asshole? The words were strong and vehemently snarled out but never reached their destination. It tumbled from Katsuki's mouth, but it tripped and fell from consciousness before it could set off.

Izuku laughed again. "You really should stop scowling and frowning so much, Kacchan. You'll get wrinkles early."

Not with the old hag's genes, I don't. Katsuki huffed, unperturbed by the sudden muteness afflicted on him. Don't project on me, seaweed-hair.

He crossed his arms as a faux show of strength to hide the involuntary trembling of his hands. The muteness was a blessing in this case－ it alleviated the possible humiliation of a crack in his voice to betray him.

Katsuki knew all this because he knew that he was at the fucking mercy of this idiot. All because he did the one thing a hero never should've done:

Underestimate the enemy. Dismiss them as a threat. Lower their guard.

Dammit. Katsuki should've clocked this guy in the face the moment he opened the door.

"You know we're literally in your head right, Kacchan?" Izuku chuckled. "And your murderous thoughts against me and self-deprecating ones aren't exactly… quiet."

A gust of what felt like air hit against his ear, and Katsuki acted purely on instinct when he turned and let out an explosion. The familiar prickle gathering of combustible liquid on his palms before it bubbled and crackled made him almost choke on a cry.

Thank fuck he still had his quirk.

There was still the usual smell of burnt sugar mixed with smoke that filtered through his nose. But other than the feel and smell of it, Katsuki couldn't see it. Just as he couldn't see where the next step was; where his hands and feet were; where that stupid guardian angel was.

It was like being taunted– with him being able to know and do but not confirm that he moved, breathed, and produced miracles in his hands.

Katsuki felt like he was in the middle of a goddamn joke, and he wasn't laughing.

"Oh, Kacchan…" Katsuki flinched but remained rooted when he felt something– hands, fingers– run through his hair as people would when he was young and branded defenseless. "I assure you, this is not a joke. Not a prank. Not a villain attack or whatever more you want to make of it."

Then what the hell is it, you cryptic fucker?

There was a weight on his forehead. Breaths not his own on his face. Something brushed against the tip of his nose. Eyes he couldn't see boring into his own. It was creepy– how Katsuki couldn't feel any warmth or coldness. No pain from the way those fingers– wrangly and crooked– ran through knots in his hair. Just pressure– a push and pull.

Even the breath fanning his lips, the rare brush of another nose against his own, and forehead resting on his didn't make him feel drowsy with warmth or flinch from cold. Just– pressure.

When the hands in his hair tightened, and the forehead against his was more bashing than leaning, Katsuki didn't feel anything more than the brush of words against him.

"It's me showing you why I came down in the first place."

Katsuki didn't remember why he wanted to be a hero. He'd just woken up one day, went to the nearby store, saw the muted TV screen shift to a person moving faster than anyone else, and decided–

I'll be faster.

There wasn't a profound reason that everyone else around him then wanted to find and prod at. Katsuki had just seen– got a glimpse– of the top and wanted in. He'd heard of interviews where someone worked hard and decided– I'll work harder. Had put two and two together and saw the school where heroes were born and decided–

I'll be the chosen. Be the best. Wreck the top.

What Katsuki did remember was when, eventually, he had to face the truth. Sooner or later, he'd had to reconcile the thought of others with the idea of him as a hero.

A hero who did not think of others could not be a hero at all, and Katsuki experienced his first loss at that revelation. A bitter tang added to the glorious meal he'd set, prepared, and readied to feast upon.

He had to be faster to save others. Had to work harder to make them feel safe. Would only be the best– chosen, top– if others deemed him enough.

How sickening.

"Is it?" said Izuku softly. The voice broke off at the end. Katsuki still couldn't see the fucker, but he didn't have to to know that the idiot was crying. Of course, his guardian angel had to be a crybaby. It was only natural judging by how Katsuki's life seemed to be following the trend of 'shit' now.

Stop reading my mind, seaweed-hair.

Izuku laughed, the unmistakable sound of an aborted sob muffled. "I can't do that when we're in it, Kacchan. I told you earlier, right?"

His mind, huh. His memories, too, if Katsuki was buying whatever Izuku was trying to sell to him. Unlikely since he was sure, absolutely, that memories were repositories of the past.

This was not Katsuki's past.

He looked straight at scarlet eyes and entertained the possibility that it was a mirror before him. One of those joke ones in amusement parks that'd distort reality– make things so far as detached as they could be. But the likeness of the shade, shape, and intensity made him explode that possibility to high heaven– a pun that Katsuki could not fucking resist.

It wasn't every day he made a joke as he saw himself in his personal hell, was it?

Katsuki could feel Izuku waiting. If he tried, he could hear the man– angel, whatever– gnawing at his lip or shift from foot to foot. Maybe even a flutter of wings might be there, flapping away nervously.

He stared at scarlet eyes again. Marveling, momentarily, at the sheen of them, even with the dark bags under them and cracks deep and oozing at the corners. He moved on to the vanilla blonde hair, strands dark and sticking to the face it framed. It made Katsuki's own fingers itch to run through his own hair. He wanted to make sure that it wasn't as matted with dirt, dust, and death as this other him did.

Izuku was still waiting, and who was Katsuki to keep his guardian-fucking-angel waiting?

Katsuki laughed, hysterical. No sound came out just as it had been the times he'd snap out a response or snide remark at Izuku. Instead, he laughed with his body. His shoulder shook, biceps flexing as they wrapped around his middle, clutching at his stomach. Katsuki was bent over, legs wobbly and threatening to let him test just how vivid this memory was.

If he tripped, would he fall? Will there be pain– feeling– that's been absent since he'd been dragged into this whole mess, racing across his being– jolted?

Or would Katsuki just blink and end up taking his place?

How sickening.

"No…" murmured Izuku. "I think it's sad, Kacchan."

Katsuki's laugh eventually trailed off. His body stopped shaking, and tears-not-tears stopped building up at the corner of his eyes. He was back to how he was a while ago– not minutes or hours because who knew how the hell time worked here– just standing over this memory.

Isn't death and suffering always sad, idiot?

"It is," said Izuku, and Katsuki felt a ghost of a brush against his hand. He didn't take it. "But seeing you suffer is a bit more painful for me. A bit too much that I can take."

A hand-not-there gave his a squeeze before disappearing again. Katsuki didn't want to– won't admit that he squeezed back and clung on before it did. He was helpless enough already.

Hanging onto the jackass who messed with his head for support? He wasn't that desperate just yet.

Katsuki spent a few more breaths and blinks before he turned his back on the distortion of a man Izuku said he would be.

Describing it– grasping an understanding of what exactly was happening wouldn't be possible for anyone else but Katsuki. Not even the seaweed-haired fucker could confidently say that he understood why precisely this was Katsuki's 'hell.'

All Izuku could do was infer and wait futilely for an answer that would not come.

When the asshole's voice rung in his ears and implored him to be shown a memory of him being in hell, Katsuki called bullshit. Being whisked away, he didn't think too much of it (other than the multiple ways he could make this fucker rot in prison).

Then Katsuki saw it and, well, he never wanted to see it again.

Him, with his back broken and hunched over and trembling. Arms that were once straining with power, now straining, cracking, and popping from a weight it couldn't bear. They shook and threatened to lose their hold but didn't. Pathetically, this Katsuki continued to carry the weight of a mountain-load of pebbles on his back. He was naked, but the sheet of dried and caked blood was enough as a cover– at least for this Katsuki. His body was trembling from exertion, but still– still, he didn't utter a single word of complaint or even a pitiful sound like a whimper or cry.

No, this Katsuki was silent in upholding a duty that threatened to break him with every pebble added to the pile he carried. From where it came, who knew. Even as just an outsider perusing the memory– fucking twisted as it was– Katsuki knew the pebbles wouldn't stop coming, and this future him wouldn't stop either way.

How sickening.

Let's get on with it, asshole, so I can dump your ass in jail.

"You know, usually," said Izuku conversationally. "People who get to see how they die don't look like that."

And how do I look like, seaweed-hair?

"It's Izuku, Kacchan." Instead of it being laden with exasperation as it'd been since the umpteenth times Izuku tried to correct Katsuki, now it was just an offhanded remark. It seemed Izuku's long given up on any hope that he'd get Katsuki to call him by his name any time soon.

Which, if things went his way, it'd be 'guilty' that Katsuki got to call this asshole.

"And, well, you look like… not concerned at all? Not even a teeny-tiny bit scared or wallowing in terror that you're about to lose your mind? I expected humans to be more of an… existential crisis type."

Katsuki didn't deign to give a response. Instead, he just grunted and continued looking at the scene that unfolded with excruciating detail and turtle-on-land speed. Wasn't there a fast-forward button here or something? It wasn't like he needed to know that he burned his tongue on his coffee on the day he died, anyway.

After spending a few beats looking at himself– something that was getting old pretty quick– drown in paperwork, he 'spoke' up again.

And I told you I'm the fucking exception out of all the shitty extras, didn't I? Katsuki scoffed, not bothering to look around when he knew he wouldn't catch a glimpse of Izuku. What, is being deaf a side-effect of you not having wings, dipshit?

"I have wings, Kacchan!"

Uh-huh. And I have a pair of horns and a tail.

Katsuki felt something run through his hair and slide down his back. A pressure, poking and prodding and–

He jumped away (though it's more of an eery gliding motion) when one of Izuku's hands– who else would it fucking be– slipped a little too low than what was comfortable.

What the fuck are you doing?

"Um."

Don't you fucking 'um' me, you dirty fucke–

"Get the hell out of here. I don't need you or your brat's shitty help."

It was disconcerting. To hear his voice like that– so disconnected, so muffled, so not from him. Katsuki turned and finally took in what had been happening in the time he'd been practically groped by his guardian angel.

They weren't at his pseudo office anymore. There was no paperwork to drown in; no Hawks-themed feather clip pinning his hair back from his face; no reading glasses slipping down his nose; no hearing aids set on his desk.

In a blink, a breath, a twitch– Katsuki was looking at himself die.

"But, Dynamight-san–!" Katsuki turned towards the indiscernible blob of a person standing a couple feet away from the dying him. They were limping and injured by the way drips of black (what he assumed was blood) splattered on the wrecked pavement.

Letting a civilian get injured? How pathetic this Katsuki was.

A couple pieces of rubble cracked off and tumbled between the two, making the civilian who'd been trying to get closer yelp. They stumbled back, and their hold on the child clinging to them tightened.

Katsuki looked at himself, all battered up with a smidge of blood wiped from his lips. "Just fuck off. I can handle myself, shitheads."

There were crackles, familiar popping on the palms of his– this Katsuki's hands. Under the smoke-filled red sky and the sun's setting rays, they looked a bit more menacing; a bit less like glorious miracles and more impending fires of Hell.

"Or do I fucking need to list down 2 deaths when I get out, ha?"

Katsuki didn't get out of the way when the two civilians fully turned and ran right through him. It wasn't like he and they felt anything. This was a memory, after all. A repository of the future playing out as the past.

The wisps of black that blocked any distinguishing feature of the civilians wrapped around Katsuki before it dispersed. Now, it left just them– Katsuki and Dynamight.

Seeing the civilians leave, Dynamight finally reached the limit of whatever control he had. Black blood splattered on the pavement. No rubble was spared from being colored as the same as the hero's insides. It was being pushed out with every cough and every dribble from Dynamight's lips– bubbling and popping.

Briefly, Katsuki wondered if he would've felt that terror that Izuku expected to see if everything wasn't monochromatic. Maybe, he liked to think, that he would've been like the civilian– rushing forwards to help himself– if Dynamight's eyes burned bright scarlet instead of a light sheen of grey.

He would've done all that to try and prevent such a pathetic death.

"It isn't pathetic, Kacchan," Peripheral bits of the memory shifted to show bits of others; a memorial, a grand funeral, mourning, a child donning his uniform. "You died a hero just like you wanted."

Don't assume shit about what I want, asshole. Katsuki swept the images away, clearing them until he was back to seeing himself die.

A hero's death?

Dynamight's hands went slack. His palm let off a few week crackles, failing to let off one last explosion that would've given him the smallest of chances to live.

Katsuki watched, brows furrowing deeper and deeper. Something dripped from his clenched fists.

Dynamight coughed a few more times, muttering something indiscernible before his mouth went slack. Then, the eyes lost light. It ebbed away, bit by bit, until it left them a darker grey.

How pathetic to die under a piece of rubble.

This is a hero? What an idiot.

Izuku laughed. The sound was a bit broken, and he knew there were tears there again. "If you're an idiot, Kacchan, then I guess we're both cut from the same cloth."

Tell me again. Why the hell am I wearing a blindfold?

"Ah, well," Katsuki grunted as Izuku tightened the knot, the pressure digging into the back of his head. "I know you're not delicate like almost everyone else. You know, with you seeming unfazed from seeing your hell, death, and whatever else that makes a normal person go insane."

Yeah, I know I'm fucking awesome. What does that have to do with this BDSM shit?

Izuku sighed but didn't bother with a retort. The ghost-feel of hands were still fussing over the knot, inadvertently pulling at his hair. Katsuki didn't know why he hadn't broken them yet (more than they were already broken, anyway).

"You're all that, but it's another thing entirely to see them. And I don't want you to go insane or do a complete personality change or something. I don't want to lose my Kacchan, you know?"

Them?

Katsuki felt his surroundings shift again, just as it'd been the other two times. But instead of that perpetual feeling of nothingness and pressure, there was this… warmth.

"Yup," said Izuku, popping out the 'p.' "You're still human, Kacchan. I don't know what'll happen if you see God and the Devil in the same room. I'm sure you won't fangirl or something."

Wait, what the actual fuck–

"What do you mean Kacchan's in hell?"

Hearing his own voice disconnected from him was disconcerting as fuck. Katsuki's stomach went up in knots at hearing something seemingly familiar sound foreign. If it was possible, he would've felt nauseous. Call it overreacting, but he fucking knew that it was wrong.

But hearing Izuku's voice that'd been clear– light through the stormy fog– duplicate out as murky and muffled wasn't any better, if not worse.

"It's exactly what it is, Young Izuku."

It took everything in Katsuki to not let out a pathetic yelp. It'll be soundless like all the others, but still, he and Izuku will fucking know. So he bit down on his lip, the pressure a welcoming distraction to the booming voice that rolled up so suddenly– so warmly.

The answer to who the hell was speaking and making Katsuki feel things were soon answered when Izuku– the other Izuku snapped.

"Oh no, please elaborate, Yagi-san," said this other Izuku venomously. "Because there's no way my Kacchan–"

"–isn't in my domain right now, doing as all humans who sin do? Suffer?"

Even without his sight, Katsuki decided he did not like this other person. Unlike the other one, the presence of the other made him feel downright cold. He thinks he would've been shivering if it wasn't for the extraordinary warmth counteracting it.

Well, now Katsuki knew who was who and which was which.

Did it make the situation better? No. No, it did not.

Despite Katsuki's internal struggle and conflict on the subject of whether or not he'd look up fucking God and the Ruler of Hell in the system once this whole sham was done, the memory(?) still went on.

"What, do you need confirmation or something, Midoriya?" The cold-feeling man scoffed. "I'm sure his door's here somewhere–"

"No!" Izuku seethed. "I want to know why, Aizawa-san. He's my charge! Of everyone, I should be the one who would've known hell was what awaited him."

"Would it even change anything if we tell you why, Midoriya?" asked Aizawa, and even Katsuki could sense the overall tiredness in their voice. 'Their' since he may be an asshole, but at least he respected others' pronouns– Devil or no. After spending who knew how long with only Izuku for company, Katsuki shared a sense of kinship with this Aizawa who seemed to want to be anywhere else but in this conversation.

"If I think something can, then something might," said this Izuku, his voice overlapping with the Izuku's voice that mimed the lines word-per-word.

What a nerd.

Izuku sighed, and Katsuki felt a poke at his side. "Kacchan. Focus."

Don't tell me what to do, seaweed-hair. You know I bet you only blindfolded me so I won't see your shitty subpar wings.

"I told you it's so you won't go insane!"

Sure.

With a huff, Izuku went silent again. Katsuki wouldn't say he waited, but he did anticipate another remark or mutter. He didn't get any.

"You angels are so stupidly optimistic," grumbled Aizawa. But, then, the cold disappeared for a glorious second– a rare moment where Katsuki practically trembled from the warmth he felt.

But all good things come to an end.

The cold, passive as it was, flared and sharpened with a chaotic ferocity. Katsuki couldn't control the flinch, the involuntary scramble backward and away to no avail. It was everywhere– stabbing, prodding, choking whatever it could reach; which, at that moment, made Katsuki the perfect target and prey.

"Fine," Aizawa gritted out. "It's a simple answer. No fanfare or anything else."

"Please just tell me," whispered this Izuku, words almost lost under his breath. Even with the impending danger of being frozen from the inside out, Katsuki still found it in himself to feel irritated.

This Izuku sounded too weak. Too much of a pushover. Too not his De–

"Superbia, Young Izuku," said Yagi, voice breaking off the cold and whatever trail of thought that Katsuki had. "That is what made Young Bakugou have his door."

Before Katsuki could even process what was probably a mind-boggling revelation and try to get a grasp on that lost thought, he felt it. That gust of air. Air picking up.

It was then that he smelt the first thing he'd been able to smell in this hellhole (pun not fucking intended at all). That scent that he greedily ate up. The smell of dust after rain. Of suspended air of rolling thunderclouds coming on.

Power. That was what he was feeling and smelling– what he was getting drunk on.

"Pride? That's it?" The sound of this Izuku's voice jarred him like a lightning strike. Not in the growling undertones or the venom dripping from them, no. It was the genuine indignation felt for Katsuki. "Kacchan's a hero! He's saved way too many lives for something like that overturn everything! It doesn't make sense!"

" And yet it does because he's here," said Aizawa. "The only thing not making sense is you not accepting this. This brat's just like all the others."

No, I'm fucking not.

"Except he's not," Izuku's voice doubled, and there's pressure around Katsuki's hand again. "He's my Kacchan and I'm not letting this happen."

Katsuki turned his head to the side where he heard the voice strongest– his left where his hand was squeezed along with his heart. He felt his throat dry up, and somehow swallowing was something hard to do now.

"Pride? I know you call it a sin, but you forget that it comes from love first of all. It's a selfish love but what love isn't?" asked both Izukus, their voice a symphony of clear and muffled; of light and shadow.

Yagi sighed. "You know that isn't the issue here, Young Izuku."

Katsuki felt Izuku's hold on his hand slacken, and his fingers twitched to do their part. Hold it back, a voice said. He didn't listen, and Izuku's hand was back wrapped around his.

"I know…" muttered Izuku, both their voices softening and deflating a little. For a moment. "But I know that Kacchan just needs to see that the love he holds for himself can be– is allowed to be directed to others."

Katsuki's chest tightened. His hand went up to it and grasped at nothing peculiar. His fingers still went through whatever mass of something Katsuki was. They searched for a heart. He found nothing.

And yet, his chest still tightened. Stomach still fluttering. Throat still dry and blocked with a lump.

"Pride is still a sin, Midoriya," said Aizawa. "The oldest one, if you forget. The one where all the others come from."

"And it's the most convoluted one because I've seen the pride that parents show their children that allow those little miracles of life to grow and feel loved." Izuku's hand in his tightened again with a renewed grip. It was pathetic in the desperation it reeked.

Katsuki squeezed back.

"So imagine, please imagine, that Kacchan can be– is allowed to be proud of others if given the chance. Then maybe."

Maybe what? Katsuki's words made no sound again, them passing over both Izukus who did not notice– or perhaps chose not to.

"Maybe," said Yagi after a few beats. A silence followed after that, making Katsuki fill in the blanks of what was happening.

There was still Izuku's hand in his. He could still see nothing. The taste and feel of power were still there, and Katsuki was partaking of it shamelessly. The cold still hurt. The warmth was scalding.

He missed feeling nothing. Missed forgetting how to think about the constant tightness in his chest, the knots in his stomach, lump in his throat and burn in his eyes behind the blindfold. Katsuki wanted not to think about how all of that was connected to the words that rooted themselves in his mind– the anger, indignation, desperation for him.

"Do you know what you're asking for, Midoriya?" asked Aizawa. Their voice was deeper, and their tone turning graver.

When this Izuku spoke again, the Izuku beside him didn't say anything. It was like Katsuki was alone again and lost to the darkness. There was only the pressure around his eyes, the knot digging into the back of his head, and the lace of ghost fingers through his that told him otherwise.

"I'm not asking for anything, Aizawa-san, Yagi-san. This is a courtesy call done out of respect for both of you."

Aizawa sighed. "And you really want to rely on that 'maybe?'"

The blindfold fell away, and before Katsuki could catch a glimpse of anything else, pine green filled his vision. Izuku's eyes shimmered and glowed, shifting from one shade of green to another, jumping and playing.

Izuku smiled at him. A scarred hand went up to cup Katsuki's face. Full lashes fluttered and touched freckled cheeks. The number of them, Katsuki couldn't count even if he tried.

Izuku rested his forehead on Katsuki's, and he remembered why this felt familiar–

This was how they started.

"Just like you said, Aizawa-san," His Izuku mouthed the words, the voice of his double muffled and getting fainter. "Angels like us, we're stupidly optimistic."

–and everything snapped into place.

Katsuki had no idea how long he'd been there– wherever 'there' was. He had tried counting down the seconds to get a grasp, but the numbers escaped him quite literally. So he was at an utter loss.

Unable to speak. Sluggish movement. Feeling, smelling, tasting nothing but pressure and weight. Even his hearing was muffled; an unseen wad of cotton lodged deep in his ears. It was probably the same with his vocal cords.

He'd been in a state of suspension and loss for too long and short a while that gaining everything back all of a sudden was, well, hell.

Too many voices.

Too many touches.

Too much air.

Too many screams that only later Katsuki would realize were coming from him.

It was an effort to open his eyes, but he had to. A pain to shut down the screams tearing through his throat, but he had to. A hassle to keep fighting against the others– familiar, friendly, safe– who held him, but he had to.

His voice was hoarse from the battering his throat got. Lips and tongue oversensitive from even the slightest whisper of air that'd touch on them. Moving them made him see white and black spots.

Still, Katsuki stormed through because he had a promise to get to.

Before his mind forced itself to shut his body down, and he was forced to retreat beneath the blanket of unconsciousness, he glared at Izuku. The man was pinned to the floor, limbs bound and still smiling at Katsuki.

Asshole.

"You're under arrest, seaweed-hair."

"…love of self perverted to hatred and contempt for one's neighbor."
—Dante Alighieri, Inferno on 'superbia, the ultimate sin of pride'