Katsuki runs his hands down his face, exhausted. A yakuza group decided to rear its ugly head recently, and Katsuki's worked two doubles this week to cover the uptick in crime. His exhaustion is only compounded by the fact that he hasn't had a letter from Deku in over a month. This happens sometimes, but he finds himself feeling out of place and antsy when he hasn't heard from him in a while. Even from so far away, Deku still grounds him. He has a stack of photos on his desk at home that he's so desperate to send it feels like they're burning a hole in the tabletop.
This is what they do. This is what their friendship has been reduced to over the years. Katsuki's broken himself down into letters, photos, and the occasional gift on birthdays and holidays. Maybe Deku will call him on those days, too, but Katsuki's learned not to hold his breath waiting for that.
"Mail call!"
This happens every morning. He has Deku send his letters to his agency because he's here more than he's at home usually. He knows the mail woman by name, and she has a vested interest in constantly pestering him about Deku. She's nosy, and far too cheery for Katsuki's liking, but he can't help but anticipate her arrival strictly because of what she brings with her.
"Morning, Ground Zero! Looks like you've got three letters today! Lots of mailing errors. Two return to senders. No wonder it's been a while."
"Figures," he mutters, unwilling to show how relieved he is. Still, he feels weeks old tension melt away from him, a tight knot of unease uncoiling in his chest the moment the thick envelopes are placed in his waiting hands.
"The look on your face when I give you these really keeps me going. Say hello from me."
Katsuki can feel his cheeks burning. There's no look. It's just Deku. Stupid Deku who won't come out of hiding, who won't let Katsuki visit. Deku who breaks himself down into letters and pictures and the occasional phone call for Katsuki to devour and still never feel sated. It's been seven years of this, and it never gets any easier.
Katsuki's about to announce that he's going on break, just to be able to skim one letter, to feel the indents in the paper where Deku's pen pressed ink into the page, to look at the familiar, hasty scrawl, when crusty old Endeavor stomps into the room.
"Mandatory agency-wide meeting in ten minutes. No exceptions."
Motherfucker. Katsuki really needs to open his own agency.
—
Izuku finds a mostly-clean shirt to tie around his head for when the boy inevitably comes back. He foolishly left his blindfold at his mother's house, more to make a point to himself than anything. It was a statement, as if to say I won't ever need this anymore. Izuku is great at lying to himself.
It's Friday again and Izuku's stomach is in knots about it. He lays on the porch in stressed anticipation, and the kitten, heavy as she is, lays on his chest—a small comfort. Izuku can't help but stroke the grooves of frozen fur along her back. Tama was his first living statue, and he can't make himself let her go. She's been with him for over twenty years now, and the guilt of what he did—albeit by accident—never ebbs.
She was a gift for his fourth birthday. So many memories of that age are fuzzy for him, but he remembers his birthday clear as day. He remembers insisting that he didn't need a party or presents because he was going to get his Quirk for his birthday. He remembers how excited he was, and it makes him feel nauseous. His Quirk is the worst thing that ever happened to him. His Quirk is the reason he's out here in the middle of nowhere with no electricity. It's the reason the kitten on his chest never got to have any kind of life. It's the reason he's locked himself away, and lives in constant fear of interacting with people.
He heaves a long, tired sigh and covers his face with the old shirt, and allows the dwindling sunset and August heat to lull him to rest.
—
Kota finds him on the porch, that cat statue on his chest, as if it were a real animal perching atop him for a nap. His face is covered again, and Kota can only assume it's intentional if their first meeting was any indication. Kota wonders what he looks like, if his face really is as monstrous as everyone believes. He sets the bag of groceries down on the porch with a pointed thud, hoping to rouse the man. No such luck—he doesn't move even a little. Kota clears his throat awkwardly, and briefly considers finding a long stick to poke him with.
"Um, hello," he says, gruff and unsure, as he is with most people. The man jolts awake, one hand flying to the shirt on his face, and the other cradling the statue on his chest. Kota waits for him to get his bearings.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you."
"It's fine," he says, the words blowing out in a throaty sigh, like he can't catch his breath. "My groceries?"
"On the porch," Kota says, gesturing to the bag even though the man obviously can't see him. When he realizes he's doing it, he quickly brings his hands back down to rest at his sides, feeling like an idiot.
"Thank you. Um, usually Mandalay brings my mail, too. Have any letters come for me?"
He's still pressing that shirt into his face, so his words are muffled slightly. Kota can tell he's just as bad at talking to people as Kota is, and that somehow makes him feel a bit more confident. He sits on the porch, still a healthy distance away from the man.
"No mail. I checked. What's your name?"
The man doesn't respond right away. He fiddles with the shirt, tying a haphazard knot at the back of his head so he doesn't have to hold it. It reveals his mouth—a normal, human mouth, no fangs to speak of—and just a bit of freckled cheeks. The gesture makes Kota feel as if he's at least committed to speaking with him.
"Look, it's not safe for you to be here. It doesn't matter what my name is because you really shouldn't be speaking to me at all."
Kota rolls his eyes, a bad habit he picked up when he was younger, and forced to mingle with heroes. He's grateful the man can't see it. He barrels on.
"I'm Kota Izumi. Why are you wearing a shirt on your face like an idiot?"
For a moment, the man's mouth forms an o, and Kota's sure that, if he could see the rest of his face, his eyes would be wide with surprise. It curves into a small smile soon after the shock has worn off, and Kota reaffirms that his teeth are perfectly plain, canines just as dull as his own. Something like a laugh falls out of his mouth, like he didn't plan to do it.
"I'm Midoriya Izuku."
"And the shirt?"
"My Quirk is dangerous. My eyes—my eye," he says, like he's correcting himself, and Kota wonders for a moment if he actually is a cyclops. It's probably rude to ask. "Well, if you look at my eye, this will happen."
Midoriya holds the cat statue a bit higher, a frown on display.
"This is—was—Tama. My cat."
"So, these aren't statues," Kota says, feeling a bit ill at the sheer amount of stone corpses littering the property. He meant to phrase it as a question, but he failed. It sounds blunt and accusatory, and Kota winces when the words leave his mouth. Midoriya nods, solemn.
"And you can't reverse it?"
"No," he says, the word clipped and raw with emotion, and Kota can practically see the remorse behind the shirt. He can imagine this person spending days hunched over a lifeless statue, willing it back into existence. He can imagine the lonely life someone like Midoriya has led. So lonely that sequestering yourself in the mountains isn't a big deal.
"Well, that's not your fault. That doesn't make you a monster."
Kota can't remember the last time he's ever said something so kind. He's usually surly at best, and an angry little shit at worst, but his counselor told him that was because he pushes people away out of a fear of losing people. Basically, he's a lonely little shit with abandonment issues. Kota can relate to loneliness, and this guy must be the loneliest sap in the world.
"That doesn't make it safe for people to be around me."
"You've got a shirt glued to your face. I think I'm safe. You any good at math?"
"When I can see the numbers," he says, and it sounds like he's attempting to make a sarcastic joke. Kota is both surprised and smug that his impromptu subject change worked.
"Good. I didn't carry my backpack up here for my health. Whip off that shitty blindfold and help me."
Midoriya's hands fly with impressive speed towards his face, pressing into the shirt.
"Are you crazy?"
"I'm joking," Kota deadpans, and watches as that slowly dawns on Midoriya. His shoulders slowly slacken, his hands fall down to his lap again. His shoulders shake, and Kota's pleased to have made him laugh. Then, he realizes that there are tiny rivulets of moisture running down his face. He's crying, and Kota wants to melt into the ground, or run screaming away from his blatant emotions.
"Um, fuck, oh shit," he mumbles, completely unaware of what he's supposed to do now. Something about Midoriya is so guarded, so fragile, that Kota can't help but want to help him. He never figured himself for a person with a hero complex, but there it was.
Midoriya presses his hands into the shirt, presumably to wipe up his tears—and Kota thinks built in tissue, how convenient, only a tad hysterically.
"I'm a crybaby, sorry. I just—I can't remember the last time I laughed."
Kota feels something dark and sticky in the pit of his stomach, a heady mix of pity, empathy, and determination to do something about the sad person beside him.
