LoV? AFO? What's that ahaha
CW: mention of miscarriage, mental illness, slight manga spoiler (blink and you miss it)
"Folks don't like to have somebody around knowin' more than they do… You're not gonna change any of them by talkin' right, they've got to want to learn themselves."
—Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird
Chapter 5: Limit
When Katsuki graduated from U.A., he was given a choice. A plethora of options, actually. Being the consistent Top 1 of their class had flooded him with more than enough emails, agency numbers, dinner invites, and luxury bribes veiled as graduation gifts.
"Hey, man! Me and the squad are planning to form an agency– from scratch and all. Wanna come with?"
He had choices, and he made one without looking back. Because when Katsuki made a choice, it was always the right– no, the superior one.
The thing about those bigshot agencies was this: remain in their good graces, and they'll shower him with promises of fame and of a future secured. Spit in their faces by making his own agency? That was when they'd show their fangs and sneers, telling Katsuki (if not to his face) that he'd go under and come crawling to them in less than a year.
With that, he'd flipped them off and signed his name with others he came to tolerate and couldn't cut off no matter what he did.
Five years. In five years, the Great Explosion Agency cemented itself as the agency known to every household in Osaka and surrounding prefectures. There weren't any rankings for hero agencies, but if there was, everyone knew that it'd shoot up to the top just as its Pro-Hero namesake had done.
What would've happened to Katsuki if he turned away from Kirishima's invitation? He doesn't think too much about that. Nosy media people did, though, and when he did deign to answer them, it was always the same one that made everyone bristle–
"I always come out on top. Whether I do this or fucking that, the outcome's still gonna be the same. I ain't like you extras."
–making his popularity plummet as his and the agency's achievements let them soar higher than the others. Even the current No. 1's agency up at Yodogawa-ku was forgotten, remembered only when Hawks would go off do another one of his flashy and newsworthy feats of heroism.
Katsuki couldn't say he was proud. It wasn't his idea. He'd been the stowaway suddenly named captain and made to drown in treasure hauled by others not him.
It was Kaminari's idea, Jirou and Satou's savings from their music and bakery gigs that served as their starting capital, Sero's connections that managed to snag the perfect manager, and Kirishima's personality that got them to worm their way into Chuuou-ku's hearts.
Everything was from scratch, and yet by the time Katsuki had made his choice, he only needed to assemble the parts and power it through with his name and self-made fame.
So, no, he couldn't be proud of their agency. Not the way the others were when the first fruit basket got sent to the lobby.
Katsuki couldn't be proud of anything else than his own achievements– of anyone else but him. Those straight backs and heads held up high by Tokoyami as the No.1 Hero's sidekick, or of Yaoyorozu with her joint agency with Kendo down at Hirano-ku?
He doesn't recognize that as pride. How someone could learn to be proud of something they couldn't entirely call their own, or of someone they're related to on the smallest of margins, Katsuki couldn't understand.
Rather, he wouldn't understand. He knew what pride was. And what every shitty extra thought they felt as pride when Japan garnered achievements, or when Japanese heroes would make a name in the world?
That wasn't it.
That kind of feeling was something pitiful, pathetic, and a trap that Katsuki would never let himself fall to. Because when Katsuki saw achievements like that, he did not feel proud. No inklings of a misplaced sense of pride ran through his veins or nagged at his heart. Instead, there was irritation for not being the one to do it. Determination to do better and go beyond.
So when anniversaries of their agency's founding came and went, Katsuki was nowhere to be seen. While the six others who signed their name with him gladly went to events to receive awards from the mayor, Katsuki was out there stomping down on a villain's face.
Whether he had made the choice of taking Kirishima's hand or snubbed it didn't matter. In the end–
Bakugou Katsuki, no, Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight always came out on top.
It'd been a little over a month since the 'attack.' Katsuki didn't like calling it that, but what he liked never really mattered to the media, who practically bled with glee judging by the articles they churned out.
Their reaction was less sympathetic as it'd been when Hawks ended up murdering a doppelgänger-making villain afflicted with split personality disorder and more merciless as they'd been when Todoroki Rei outed Endeavor's domestic abuse as the reason she miscarried her youngest child-to-be.
But that wasn't what irked him. The media wasn't significant enough to even take a minute's worth of space in Katsuki's mind.
"So."
"No."
Just like the traitor he was, despite being the self-declared "i take no sides" member of this squad that Katsuki got roped in, Sero slammed the door before he could even get one step towards it.
Sero smiled wide, and Katsuki considered knocking out one of his stupidly perfect white teeth. "Now, now, Bakugou. You can't keep running away from this forever."
"I'm not fucking running. You'll be the one running if you don't get out of my way, Scotch Tape."
The threat was waved off easily as Sero brazenly pushed Katsuki back to an open seat. He growled but stayed put. At least it was one of their cleaner chairs.
Kaminari was now smiling widely, mimicking Sero with a hint of teasing. "So…"
Katsuki grunted, staring at yellow and black eyes with a deadpan expression. The lack of response just made Kaminari's smile split wider. He shuffled his own chair closer, leaning over the back of it.
"It's been, what, over a month now, Kacchan?" asked Kaminari without really expecting an answer from the question that was more of a statement.
"Wow. Congrats, Pikachu. You can count the days. Real nice."
To Katsuki's horror, the yellow-haired idiot just laughed and continued, unperturbed. "Come on, Kacchan. It's been over a month and we got nothing on this guy of yours!"
"You mean, guardian angel of his, right?" Sero snickered as tape shot out of his elbow and caught the stapler thrown at him. "The one who came down to save his precious Kacchan."
"Stop fucking calling me that, idiots," said Katsuki, barely missing his grab for Kaminari's hair. "I hear it enough at home."
"Sure, sure," Kaminari waved his hand dismissively, still grinning. "We'll stop if you call us by our names, Kacchan."
So, never, they meant. Katsuki moved to stand and storm away– not run away– from this joint office that made anyone in it lose brain cells by the minute.
"Aw, come on, Bakugou. Don't go pouting, man," said Sero with a hearty laugh when Katsuki almost tripped over the tape that shot out to trap his legs.
One day, Katsuki thinks, he'll douse the fucker in gasoline and set him on fire.
With him back in his seat, Kaminari got all up in his face again, batting his eyes. "Dude, we just want to know how things are going! I mean, is he still alive? Not dissolving in your very scary snake's stomach?"
"Boa constructor," Sero corrected.
"Bro, you can call it a rainbow glamour sparkly bracelet and that doesn't change the fact that I'm sure it measured me up when we met it."
"It was hugging you!"
"Yeah… to measure me if it can eat me in one go!"
"That's not– hey! Bakugou, where are you going?" Sero scrambled out of his seat, toppling over piles of paperwork that seemed to have been there since they first started five years ago.
Katsuki kicked at Kaminari's chair and watched him roll uncontrollably across the room for a few seconds. Then, he turned to the door, tore away the tape on the doorknob, and moved to pull it open.
"Leaving." Saving my brain cells from further deterioration.
"But we haven't even finished asking about Midori-chan yet! And you didn't even answer us!"
Katsuki looked over his shoulder, raising a brow. "You fuckers really thought I'd even give one?"
At that, both of them paused in contemplation– Kaminari still spinning on his chair, and Sero still having an open case file split open on his head.
Katsuki scoffed as realization– something only idiots experienced– dawned on them. He rolled his eyes and moved to get back to patrol. He had only meant to drop by to get some files of his that most likely (seeing from the massive pile on Sero) got mixed up with Dumb and Dumber.
"Wait!" cried Sero. His hand was dramatically outstretched towards Katsuki. "At least tell us if he grew his wings back. I need to know if I won the bet!"
Katsuki stopped halfway out the door, looking over his shoulder again. His brows furrowed, and he knew he was going to regret asking but– "What bet?"
"The bet to see if you managed to wish really hard for someone to satisfy your not-so-secret wing kink."
He slammed the door behind him.
Izuku didn't grow his wings back.
No, instead, his annoying presence and relentlessness in poking and prodding at Katsuki grew multitudes. It reached heights taller than Shoji, and that was saying something when the now sidekick at Great Explosion Agency had to duck down everywhere.
That minor spat they had when Katsuki went back to a wrecked home, a traitor snake, and an unwanted companion thrust upon him was just one of many. He should've known better than to think Izuku had the sense to know what boundaries were considering the idiot, well, broke into his goddamn office.
Remembering the wreck he was met with after leaving Izuku alone for one day, Katsuki knew that his once-perfect space was now just a pipe dream.
He wasn't stupid, far from it. Katsuki was the very definition of the embodiment of the complete opposite of the word. It was the reason he was surrounded by the embodiments of the said word. Opposite attracts and all that crap.
Katsuki'd seen the glint in Izuku's eyes when he came home to whatever version of disaster the crazy idiot concocted. He called the man 'crazy' since, even after Tsukauchi's almost resigned affirmation of the facts, he did not buy that angel shit.
Katsuki may offer his greetings and respect the local shrine every shougatsu, but he wasn't that big on religion. The whole thought of supplicating himself and acknowledging that he was meant to offer what he'd toiled for to supposedly superior beings? Yeah, ha, no.
So, yes, Izuku was still the crazy motherfucker who managed to slip through the police and hero commission's fingers and land himself in the perfect situation to force Katsuki's hand.
Guardian angel? More like a manipulative seaweed-haired idiot who mixed the salt with sugar when trying his hand at making onigiri. A supposedly millions of years old being that had godly powers? Katsuki only saw a pathetic twenty-two-turning-twenty-three-year-old who had a ninety-year-old's memory when it came to not overfeeding his damn snake.
He may be known for his temper, but Katsuki could learn to control himself when needed.
In the past weeks, where Izuku would try (sometimes subtly, sometimes just upfront) to drag Katsuki over the edge again just like the first time, the attempts bore no fruit.
The now dubbed "useless housekeeper who spoils the snake and keeps breaking things" would drop hints now and again– of what he'd seen on the news; of neighborhood gossip he'd overheard; of whatever else he saw on the internet. They were tidbits here and there meant to be the tinder that'd turn the spark to follow as a roaring flame–
"You can't keep running away from this, Kacchan. I won't let you– no, I can't and I won't let you no matter what. I've come too far to give up on you."
The things Izuku would bring up were nothing new to Katsuki, but maybe it was for the 'angel.' The fucker bound in mystery and no record of identity in any database (not even the foreign ones) had probably been living under a rock or had his head up in the clouds to seem so… shocked. Bewildered. Hurt for Katsuki.
Just as he'd done and continued to do, now for more than a month, Katsuki ignored it all. He'd keep on eating across his guest and feed Koro with a thawed rodent. Then, at times when he felt a bit more irritated and petty than usual, he'd flop down on the couch and turn up the volume on the TV or take out his hearing aids in the middle of Izuku's lectures.
Katsuki wouldn't give the fucker the satisfaction of letting a crack at him. Not again– not after that first time when a conversation that shouldn't've happened did.
Just as he'd done every time Izuku's voice tinged with excruciatingly genuine concern and hurt rang throughout the apartment, Katsuki ignored it. Instead, he toiled hours away on the workout bench and attribute the ache in his chest to fatigue and overexertion.
This wasn't a game of what else Izuku could do or say to get Katsuki to crack and actually talk to the idiot. No, that wasn't it.
Now with the dead-cold of winter making way for the fresh winds of spring, it was just a game of until when Izuku would crack since Katsuki never would.
It was just a matter of time before he'd be able to stop whatever shit seaweed-hair did to his head on that un-fateful day.
It was an inconspicuous day in the middle of March that Katsuki got a letter. The addressee was him, even with the additional note of his Pro-Hero name appended. It was a bit worn down from handling– stickers almost obscuring the address of Katsuki's apartment and the sender. Almost, but the end made it through, popping into existence innocent as words always were.
Musutafu-chou, Fujiyoshida-shi, Yamanashi-ken.
To say he got the letter was a bit of a stretch. After all, it wasn't him who received the curated mail from the receptionist. He'd been at the agency, suffering through another PR meeting when the letter found its way through the metallic doors of the elevator and into his apartment.
It was on an inconspicuous day that Katsuki got home and thought, for a second, that he'd gone through the wrong door and floor.
Then the second of confusion passed and was quickly replaced by irritation. Who wouldn't be irritated if a stranger got them so used to seeing their home in a mess that seeing it not in one made it feel weird?
Toeing off his shoes at the genkan and shuffling into his house slippers– the entryway was something that avoided the hurricane that was Midoriya Izuku– Katsuki took small steps in. He wouldn't call them hesitant or wary, but there was something in the air that made the hair at the back of his neck rise.
The feeling wasn't the usual one he'd feel when there was real danger just around the corner. No, that was instinctual, and his mind would have already been racing at assessing everything his senses could receive and process.
This one was, well, just the type he'd feel when the extras back at the agency tried that one time to give him a surprise party and ended up having a cut in their paychecks to pay for the hole in the ceiling.
Katsuki bit his lip. His steps were only almost silent shuffles on the hardwood floors. "Deku?"
From his position now– well into the living room but not in enough to catch a glimpse of the kitchen– he could see Koro's red tail just behind some foliage in the enclosure. The screens were still in place from Katsuki's securing them before he left that morning.
There were no wine or shot glasses filled with vending machine fruit juice, milk, or whatever concoction Izuku felt like making that day on the coffee table. The TV was on, though, but it was to the channel Katsuki was watching last night.
The only hint he got that Izuku had– maybe still is– been there were the cushions rearranged on the couch (self-declared as his bed even though there was a goddamn spare bedroom). There was also that scent of jasmine tea that Izuku got crazy for.
It was still strong– freshly brewed and right around the corner.
Katsuki turned, and there Izuku was, sitting on one of the kitchen island stools, hunched over something. The cup of jasmine tea was steaming beside him but didn't look otherwise touched. His hair was still seaweed-like, another one of Katsuki's shirts monopolized, and feet clad in bunny slippers barely brushing against the floor.
Letting out a breath Katsuki didn't know he was holding, he clicked his tongue. "Oi, shitface. I fucking called your name earlier. What, you finally learned how to shut that trap of yours?"
Izuku jumped (literally. There was a miss of limbs and the clattering of his seat on the tiled kitchen floor). He whipped his head to Katsuki's direction, mouth agape and eyes shaking. "Kacchan! You're here!"
A clear sign of guilt at being caught. It was so pathetic that, of course, Katsuki had to push.
He took a step forward, eyes catching on the shift of the other towards the kitchen island and how Izuku tried to use his more petite build to block something from Katsuki's line of sight. Too bad he was three inches too short.
Katsuki narrowed his eyes and took another step forward; Izuku another step back towards the kitchen island. "What are you doing, you suspicious little shit?"
"Hey, I told you I can be whatever height I want to be, Kacchan! It's your fault for shooting up so much!"
"Sure," said Katsuki disbelievingly. While Izuku was busy muttering about miscalculations and humans' obsessions with numbers, he took the chance to make a grab at the– letter?
Shoving Izuku by the face aside (something he won't do again because the fucker played dirty with the licking and biting), Katsuki went around the kitchen island, letter in hand.
Musutafu-chou, Fujiyoshida-shi, Yamanashi-ken.
It was still unopened, though there were fresh tea and chocolate stains at the corners. Looking up from it, Katsuki raised a brow at Izuku's blubbering form. "It's addressed to me."
"Look, Kacchan, it's not what it looks like."
"Oh?"
Izuku rapidly nodded, and Katsuki swore anymore, and those big pine green eyes of his would pop out. "I was just coming from the bakery after meeting a… friend. Then– I swear I didn't mean to– I ended up chatting with the receptionist– you know his wife finally gave birth? I should send a gift soon– and somehow I ended up with this mountain of mail– oh, the rest are by your bedroom floor by the way. I was just supposed to dump them there, but then the wind– I forgot to close the door to the veranda before I went out, sorry about that– just scattered them all over the place so I had to pick them all up again. And then– then I saw this letter that didn't look that different from the others but then I recognized the address and, well, I couldn't resist, you know?"
Seeing as there were no tears, Katsuki knew Izuku didn't try opening it. It appeared that even after practically breaking into almost every crevice of his life, even Izuku knew that there was a line.
He had just started to lessen the negative respect he had for this annoying pain in his ass when something on the kitchen island rolled towards him.
Katsuki picked it up, brow raised. Izuku's reddened face paled. "A flashlight? Really?" He threw the little thing at the now excuse-spouting machine with wild sacramento green curls that bounced and swayed as Izuku flailed about.
If he hadn't torn open the letter then, Katsuki might've even called it cute– Izuku, that is. There would've been a smile that cracked across his face as he watched Izuku become physically torn. Whether he'd be blushing bright red and turning into a tomato (literally, with those freckles and hair) or pale and turn into a leek. It would've been fun to guess which would be the endgame fruit or vegetable.
Musutafu-chou, Fujiyoshida-shi, Yamanashi-ken.
"Kacchan?"
His hand that held the torn open envelope– stickers half-peeling off, tea and chocolate stains drying– curled, crumpling it. The sound of it wasn't something usually noticeable. Paper crumpling. The processed dead leaves carrying with it the scent of someplace else let out a crack in the form of a cry.
"Kacchan? What is it? Is it bad news? Something wrong? I– Kacchan, please, you're scaring me."
Katsuki blinked a couple times. The words swimming with every flutter of lids– close, open, close, open. The logo was smack dab daintily at the top of the card– such a small, destructive thing– wouldn't go away no matter how many times he blinked.
Creases appeared on the card. The smell of burnt sugar pre-exploding in the kitchen. It wouldn't be long before it reached Koro'e enclosure all the way out to the other end of the living room.
Anything was better, Katsuki thinks, than the smell of burnt–
"Kacchan?" Izuku was inches away from him, no longer across but beside him. A hand– weathered, worn, wrangled– was on Katsuki's hand, and the other cupping his face.
His voice was soft, crooning almost as it was caressing. "What's wrong? Talk to me, Kacchan."
Katsuki was still blinking and holding onto the card. Creases were still appearing on it, but it decreased in intensity with the hand on his.
"There's nothing wrong," said Katsuki, who truly believed his own words the more he voiced them out. "Just some extras sending an invitation to a useless event."
"What event?"
Izuku's hand was warm, Katsuki thinks. The crooked fingers had a sort of leathery feel to them, what with the scars and all, but it worked. Somehow it worked and fit, and they were warm. Warmth was good. It let Katsuki breathe and reminded him that no matter how many times he blinked or how hard he did, the card in his hand wouldn't suddenly change.
It wouldn't turn into a useless piece of pressed dead leaves that'd be chucked into the combustibles bin. The words and characters printed on it– not even handwritten– wouldn't change and shift into hate mail that slipped past security.
"Just a class reunion."
Aldera Junior High Alumni Association, Musutafu-chou, Fujiyoshida-shi, Yamanashi-ken.
Izuku's placid hold on Katsuki's hand and face broke with a squeeze and caress. The man may have been looking up at him, but that look on his face– the furrow in his brow, downturn of his lips, and the inquisitive glint in his eyes– suggested otherwise.
"I don't think it's 'just,' Kacchan," whispered Izuku. "It isn't 'just' that, is it?"
The warmth was pleasant, but not when it was patronizing and reminding Katsuki of what exactly he'd been avoiding for more than a month now– talking.
Katsuki clicked his tongue and tore himself away from the hold. If it was a bit rough, he couldn't bother to care. Even with the worn slippers, his steps thundered throughout the apartment.
"Kacchan!"
"I don't want to fucking hear it, Deku. I don't want to fucking hear anything from you," Katsuki was already halfway across the apartment in seconds with Izuku failingly on his tail. "I don't want to hear whatever story you think you concocted from a stupid letter that doesn't mean shit just as I said it doesn't."
He was already turning the knob to his room. Katsuki could hear Izuku stumbling over his two left feet behind him, pleas lost to the creaking of the door.
"Fuck off, Deku." He spared Izuku a scathing look over his shoulder before the door slammed behind him.
And, all at once, his legs buckled and failed him. Katsuki was shaking, and the card was still clutched tight in his hand, but that didn't mean he wanted to let Izuku know. So he let himself fall back against the wall beside the door, head making an inaudible sound against it.
Katsuki was a pathetic sight. One leg folded in awkwardly, heel digging into his under-thigh, with the other stretched out too straight. His arms, strong as they were, lay limp beside him. The only thing not lifeless about them was his hands– one clutching and causing creases at the card and one digging blunt nails into the folded leg's knee.
At least he wasn't crying. A silver lining in the clouds and whatnot. Then again, there wasn't anything worth crying over; not in the last hours, minutes, or seconds.
Amidst the ringing in his ears and the relentless thumping of his heart, Katsuki still heard the knock against his door. Head still back against the wall, he didn't turn to acknowledge it– not even just a grunt or another "fuck off."
He was too tired for that.
The knocking stopped. Katsuki heard an intake of breath. Then an exhale. He expected words of some sort to carry out through the door.
There was nothing. Just Katsuki's own breathing before there was shuffling. It faded, and there weren't any knocks again.
Good. Katsuki got rid of one pain in his ass. Now, he opened his eyes– when did he even close them?– and lifted the invitation. Just one more, and he'll be fine.
Would something even change if he chose to turn the card into a crumpled-up ball with the number of creases spreading like cracks on it now? There was a good enough amount of sweat in his palms for a small explosion– enough so it wouldn't set off the alarms.
It'll be of our utmost pleasure if you'll be able to attend and rekindle memories.
Katsuki gritted his teeth. Fingers dug into his leg. The hand holding the card up high was shaking. His eyes swam with the letters– fucking printed, clinical, and wrong.
Though it's been over a decade, know that Aldera has not forgotten you.
His hand flopped down, fingers loosely holding onto the card. He let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes again. Slowly, the ringing in his ears become muffled, and the panicked beating of his heart slowed and slowed until he couldn't hear it anymore.
Eyes closed, and images blended with vivid sensations of sound, sight, and touch flowed in.
Black. Nothing. Deep and dark. Laughter in his ears. Ghost of a touch. Weary scarlet eyes, not his. Another pebble added. Bulging strain of arms that carried the weight of sin. A monochrome play-by-play. Black blood on concrete and rubble. Another him crushed. Light gone.
"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."
Incredible warmth, almost scalding. Immense cold, burning. Sight gone. A hand grounding Katsuki and him grounding it. A voice doubled, ringing in his ears and in his head. Power in the air. Anger for him.
"So imagine, please imagine, that Kacchan can be– is allowed to be proud of others if given the chance. Then maybe."
Maybe what? Katsuki thinks. He'd been thinking about that for over a month now. A bit before he'd staked a claim to watch over Izuku and more after he'd grunted out the man's arrest. Izuku wasn't detained for long; just a few hurricane days and sleepless nights.
What had been that maybe that Izuku– this infuriating enigma who toed the line of insanity every day– had risked everything for? Katsuki wasn't saying he believed that whole guardian angel shtick. But he wasn't saying he completely and irreversibly dismissed it.
So he had thought. Mulled over it until the decision finally came for Izuku's release. Agonized over it some more before coming back home and ready to ask–
"Your intentions, even when good, always– always depend on how they're understood and received by others, Kacchan."
–and now, over a month passed, and still, Katsuki was thinking about it with no moves on his part to get an answer. How could he when he knew that that simple act of asking would not come for free? An eye for an eye, it seemed, was a universal principle that even angels adhered to.
In Izuku's case, though, it seemed to be an eye for a limb– one answer for a never-ending onslaught of patronizing lessons veiled as introspective and thought-provoking questions.
The best course of action for Katsuki would be to do as he'd done since he first slammed the door and declared hostility and a lack of trust– ignore and wait Izuku out. Angel or crazy human, everyone had a limit.
Holding the class reunion invitation in his hand, Katsuki just didn't think it'd be him who'd reach it first. The thought of it being cosmic karma or divine intervention made him snort as he braced against the wall to stand back up.
Somehow, even with the constant insistence, Izuku didn't fit the angel persona. The only time Katsuki saw the fucker pray– hands clasped together and kneeling– was when they'd do one of the lottery mini-games after buying groceries.
The memory made him smile, though, so the thought that Izuku did somehow (Katsuki strongly doubted) use a 'get-help-from-divine-buddies' card could be tolerated.
Even when Katsuki pushed his door open and got Izuku sprawled out on the floor from trying to eavesdrop with a fucking shot glass, he didn't say anything. He just strolled over to the entryway, grabbing his car keys and slipping back into his shoes.
"Kacchan?"
Izuku was hovering behind a corner, shot glass still in hand. Seeing it made Katsuki look down at the invitation still in his hand. He stared at it for a few more seconds (Izuku, the idiot, waiting with bated breath) before throwing it on the side table.
Katsuki looked back at Izuku, eyes looking at him from top to bottom. "Yeah, no. Go wear something that actually fits you– no, I don't care if it's that 'T-Shirt' shirt you bought at Dotonbori– and make sure it's presentable. Something light– it's warmer there. I'll start up the car and you better have some actual shoes on– I will burn your shitty kimono-haori getup if you forget socks again– and come down in five minutes. You don't show up a second after, and I'm leaving your nosy ass."
"I…" Izuku stepped out of the corner. The wariness was replaced with a curious and somehow excited look. "Kacchan, where are we going?"
Katsuki eyed the invitation on the side table. He was already halfway out the door.
We hope if it is not inconvenient, that you may be able to attend, Bakugou Katsuki-san.
"Where even the wicked lays to rest."
AN:
Class reunions usually occur around 5-10 years after graduation and are set at the date of graduation too. Japan uses a three-term system, so graduations happen in late March.
High school takes 3 years, and now it's 5 years since U.A. graduation = 8 years
Manga implies that Musutafu's somewhere near Shizuoka-ken, so I placed it at Yamanashi-ken.
'Ken' = prefecture
'Chou' = town
'Shi' = city