During commercials, Izuku flips idly between the three channels the beat-up old tv can get. Chizome is in the kitchen, grumbling to himself as he goes through the cabinets, searching for enough ingredients to throw something cohesive together for dinner. He forgot to get groceries when he came home for his days off, but that's okay. They have enough to last a little while longer so Izuku's not worried yet. He'll just need to remind Chizome to go shopping before he leaves to go back to town for the week. Izuku smiles to himself and pulls his blanket tighter around his shoulders. The weather outside is warm enough now that he doesn't really need it anymore, but the feeling of soft fleece against his skin still makes him happy. Spring had brought with it an explosion of colors and a pleasant kind of warmth that had made it so Izuku could sleep soundly, now that he wasn't shivering throughout the night.

Nikko is a warm, soft mass in his lap, purring loud enough that it almost drowns out the sound of the tv. She kneads contentedly, and the tiny pinpricks of pain on his thigh are a silent reminder of her love for him. The slivers of the outdoors he can see through the rotted boards covering the windows are of green and pink and white trees, and the knowledge that he'd get to go outside during training, and feel the tickle of the warm breeze and smell the flowering trees filled him with contentment. A beam of golden light slips in through the window, reflecting off the screen in such a way that he almost misses the familiar shade of pink as he switches from a rerun of Super Friends to a docu-series about dinosaurs. It's one of his favorites because the paleontologist has a dinosaur quirk and she likes to compare scientific theories about the ancient creatures to her own traits.

Still, that flash of pink had caught his attention, and he goes back to the news channel with an odd sense of foreboding. The anchors are talking in their usual fast-paced way, and though he doesn't understand most of what they're saying, he does recognize Kazuho's name when it spills from their lips. He feels his stomach flip and his heart sink as the faces of the news anchors disappear, replaced by a scene of devastation. The footage playing on the tv is of a half-destroyed city, windows broken and buildings smoking. He sees his friend, a bright splash of color and song. She shines against the pale blue of the sky as it peeks through the grey smoke swirling above her as she leaps high into the air. Her head is tipped back, mouth wide open like she's screaming or laughing or maybe even singing. The rushing wind and the sound of explosions and yelling drown out her voice, so he can't say for sure which it is. All around her are bees, their abdomens swollen and light glistening off their beating wings. They fly right in front of the news camera sometimes, and it's easy to see that there's something very wrong with them.

There is something eerily familiar about the buzzing in his ears as he watches them, and his thoughts shift briefly to the strange girl who had shown up in their apartment in Naruhata all those months ago. Her voice had buzzed when she spoke, and now the way she'd crumpled when the knife sunk deep into her eye is creeping at the edges of his thoughts, ready to show up in his nightmares again as soon as he closes his eyes. The bees sound exactly the same. He wonders if Kazuho's pretty voice buzzes now, too.

There's a loud bang and the camera zooms in just in time to catch the way Kazuho suddenly jolts. A pixelated splotch of red grows on her back, and Izuku feels a chill spread throughout his body. The video cuts out just as her limp body begins to fall.

"Stendhal!"

There must be something in his voice, a desperation too urgent to ignore, because the man is at his side in an instant. Nikko croaks out a sound of displeasure as Izuku rises to stand at his mentor's side and she is forced to leave the comfort of his lap. The prick and drag of her nails hardly registers as she scrambles away. Stendhal watches the tv, red eyes darting over the words and the replaying footage and the solemn faces as he pulls Izuku tight to his side. Izuku stiffens at first, not used to such casual contact anymore after so many months without it, but the touch is gentle and grounding, and after a second Izuku lets himself sink into it. It is a relief to let the warmth of another human being chase away the cold fear that is making his heart beat too heavy inside his chest and his fingers feel all tingly. His eyes stay glued to the screen, though the images are blurred by tears now.

"I know her," he confesses to his mentor, voice trembling. His throat feels too tight as he forces the words out. "She's my friend."

He's not supposed to have any friends from Naruhata. They'd never really talked about what had happened in that city, and Izuku had kept his mouth shut about the people he'd met there, afraid of what Stendhal might do if he knew. He doesn't want to be in trouble — doesn't want his friends to be in trouble — but he needs Chizome to know how important this is to him. With a desperation that feels foreign and strange, he wants his mentor to understand why this matters.

"It's okay," Stendhal soothes, pulling Izuku tighter against him. There is no anger in the hard lines of his body, and Izuku allows himself to relax a little bit more. His hands are still shaking, but the careful gentleness of his mentor's tone soothes the violent beating of his heart against his ribs. "I already know about that."

Izuku nods, relieved that there's one less thing he has to worry about, and turns his head to bury his face in his mentor's side. He smells just like he used to, like leather and metal. The smell of blood and rot is almost gone. It is familiar and comforting in a way he hadn't realized just how much he'd been missing. Stendhal settles himself cross-legged on the ground and lets Izuku crawl into his lap. He doesn't protest when Izuku hides his face against his chest, letting him cry while he hugs him tight. Despite how awful the situation is, Izuku can't help but think that this is the first time he's felt so warm and safe in Stendhal's presence since they first got to Naruhata and his mentor started acting weird. He closes his eyes and listens to the steady beating of Stenhal's heart and the voices droning on in the background.

"What are they saying?" Izuku sniffles, voice muffled by the position they're in. He's a little afraid to know, but his curiosity eats at him until he can't stand it anymore. "Can you understand them?"

"A little," Stendhal says, and then pauses to listen. He murmurs along with the words in what Izuku is pretty sure is English, before he begins to explain. "They're saying there was an attack on the city's downtown area. People hurt, buildings damaged, blah blah blah. But no reported casualties yet. That's good, right, kid?"

Izuku nods into the well-worn fabric of Stendhal's shirt, and feels a hand settle on the back of his head. It pets gently at his hair, and he can feel himself beginning to relax as the pressure in his chest slowly eases away. It's strange to realize that the pain inside his chest had been there long before he saw his friend getting hurt on tv. It's even stranger to realize that this is the gentlest touch he's felt in a long, long time. Maybe even years. He'd really missed it. After a few minutes of being nestled together, he finally manages to collect himself enough to speak again.

"Is she gonna be okay?"

Stendhal pauses for a moment before answering in a slow, careful tone. "Don't worry, kid. She'll be just fine. Your little friend got hurt, but she's in the hospital now so things'll work out for her."

Izuku can't think of anything to say to that, so he just nods and whispers, "Okay."

They sit together in silence for a while, Stendhal watching the news and occasionally translating the important bits while Izuku works on calming the racing rabbit-fast beating of his heart. Nikko paces nearby, distressed by Izuku's behavior, or maybe just by the fact that it's nearly dinnertime and her bowl is yet to be filled. Stendhal keeps up his gentle smoothing of Izuku's hair, rocking them both gently the whole while. He lets Izuku stay right where he is, curled up in his lap with his face hidden in Stendhal's chest. It's nice enough that he's drifting, nearly asleep, when through the haze of foreign words he hears one he recognizes; his own name.

Izuku feels Stendhal go fear-stiff, and he shuffles himself up and away in response. He tries to twist, to look towards the tv to see what's going on, but before he can Stendhal grabs him by the collar of his shirt and hauls him to his feet. He chokes as it digs into his throat, but he keeps his eyes trained on the screen long enough to catch sight of a woman, her round face streaked with soot and her long green hair a frizzy mess, before he is pulled towards the kitchen and deposited on the countertop. Stendhal has the tv unplugged before Izuku can string enough words together to ask what's going on. His mouth shuts with a click as he watches Chizome unlock the spare room and begin moving the tv into it. The sound it makes as it scrapes across the floor feels like nails in his eardrums.

His stomach twists as he watches his only window into the world outside their lonely forest clearing disappear into the one place in this house he's not allowed to enter. The soft click of the lock sounds like the gunshot that tore through his friend's body. He wonders if the news would ever talk about his story someday, about this awful moment, too.

"Chizome," he begins, trying and failing to keep his voice light. His mentor has marched back to the kitchen, and as he stirs the pot on the stove his knuckles press white against his skin. Izuku can practically hear his teeth grinding together. He bites his lip and kicks his legs idly, heels banging against the cabinets, until Chizome's sharp gaze turns towards him. Izuku takes a deep breath and makes himself push forward.

"Who was that woman? Why'd she make you do that?"

Chizome tips his head, considering, and the hesitation raises alarms long-ingrained by years of living and fighting together. Izuku stares back, unblinking, unflinching, and thinks harder about the brief glimpse he'd seen of her. A memory stirs, of a gentle face and long hair the same color as his own. He thinks about how Chizome had reacted as soon as he'd seen her, how desperate he was to make sure that Izuku didn't get so much as a glimpse. Chizome's never been afraid of anything more than he is of Izuku leaving, or getting taken away.

Understanding dawns, though he tries to keep the evidence of his realization off his face. Nikko complains loudly as she makes figure eights around Chizome's ankles, doing her best to trip him up until he gently scoots her away with the side of his foot. Her big blue eyes flash up towards Izuku, her gaze accusatory, like she's contemplating the harshest of punishments for the crime of serving her dinner late. He can't help but smile down at her in return, and the sight of it seems to soothe some of his mentor's worries.

"She was just someone I thought I knew. Don't worry about it, kiddo."

Izuku nods, and wonders why he feels the sting of betrayal twist like a knife in his gut.

.

Izuku spends the evening thinking about the faces on the news. He imagines how Kazuho must be feeling, hurt and scared and like a stranger in her own body, made to do bad things and ending up bloodied and hated because of it. Those bees hadn't been hers, but he'd read all the articles and blog posts he could find about the made-villains of Naruhata when they'd been living there and he'd still had internet access. He knows, right down to his bones, that the kind girl who had held his hand when he was lost and shared sweet treats with him when they were both sad, would never hurt anyone if she had a choice.

He thinks that maybe he knows how Kazuho must feel, because sometimes he feels that way, too. Maybe that isn't fair to her, though. After all, she isn't like Izuku. She probably never chose to help hurt people, and she probably never stood idly by when someone else did, either.

The house is so quiet, even with Chizome home. In the silence, he keeps hearing the pop of gunfire, the slight static buzz of the tv behind it. When he closes his eyes, all he sees are flashes of pink and green. He thinks of the way Kazuho had smiled at him on the steps of the fire escape, back before things had gone bad. He thinks about burning buildings, the buzzing of bees, and the sound that flesh makes when a knife cuts through it. That strange girl who broke into their apartment in Naruhata had been so quiet when she fell, but the knife had made a nasty little wet sound as it had sunk inside her head. He wonders if Kazuho made any sound as the bullet hit her. When he closes his eyes, all he can see is the blood that has been left in all of their wakes.

He lays on his sleeping roll that night, staring up at the dark ceiling and wondering how they're doing. Was his mom hurt? Was that why they were showing her on the news? And was Kazuho really okay? Chizome had lied to him about seeing his mom on tv, so maybe he had also lied about how Kazuho was doing to make him feel better.

The possibilities eat away at him, gnawing at his brain like parasites. His heart won't stop racing in his chest, and sometimes his breaths stutter like they're stuck on a sob lodged somewhere in his throat. The uncertainty is making his skin crawl, driving him crazier and crazier as each second marches past and his brain has more time to dwell on all the bad things that could've happened.

(Izuku pushes away the thought that maybe that woman wasn't who he thought she was. Maybe he is taking this and twisting it. Maybe Chizome had never lied to him. Wouldn't it be so much easier to just believe him?)

He waits until Chizome's breathing has evened out and the pale sliver of silver moonlight creeping through the boards on the window has moved halfway across the floor before he gets up. He is careful, stepping over every squeaky floorboard as he tiptoes towards the closet with an ease born of hours and hours of practice. He's learned that if he opens the door slow enough it won't make a sound, but he's still tense as he eases it open. Darkness swallows his arm as he reaches inside the closet, and there is a lump in his throat as he feels around for what he is after.

The phone hidden inside the lining of Ingenium's coat feels cold as ice in his hand, and the corner of the envelope holding Ingenium's hero ID and the cash the strange girl had slipped into his pocket cuts into the dry skin of his hand. It leaves a thin line of blood, reminding him that he's about to break one of the most important rules. Each breath shudders out of his lungs, shaking his entire body so badly that he can hardly keep his hold on the power button. Some part of him is screaming, begging him to return to the familiar and false safety of the bedroom. This is dangerous and he already knows that it will not end well for him. As the phone powers on, battery still halfway full, he can't find it in himself to care.

There are only two names in his contacts. He pushes the second one, and holds the phone to his ear, listening to it ring with baited breath.

.

The headache pounding war drums against Shouta's temples is 50% dehydration, 50% lack of sleep, and 100% because he's had to deal with nothing but idiots for the past week. Everyone is on his ass about the attack on Naruhata, like he's personally in charge of that city. Sure, he's spent some time there, but so had plenty of other heroes and he's pretty sure they aren't having to deal with all the paperwork and bureaucracy that came with it. He barely even knew Kazuho or Koichi, yet everyone had given him sympathetic looks when they heard that the wannabe-vigilantes had been hurt. He's pretty sure that even Ingenium — who is definitely closer to Koichi than Shouta is — hasn't been getting this level of harassment.

(It would be easier to convince everyone else he didn't care if he could first rid himself of the tightness in his chest he felt whenever he thought about them being hurt.)

Nemuri had thankfully taken point on the majority of the case, talking to families and answering questions from the media. If he was a more poetic person, he might have called the way she played them all art. She had given interviews and posed for photos, shed the right amount of tears interspersed by heartfelt speeches about the tragedy of made-villains and the strength of the victims in front of the multitude of news cameras, that she had almost single handedly turned the tide of public opinion in Kazuho's favor. Not to mention, her handling of the girl's grief stricken parents. He would be forever grateful that he didn't have to deal with the tearful conversations and countless phone calls. All he's left with is handling the mountains of paperwork and holding on to the evidence until everything is sorted out.

Speaking of. The box he had kicked into the corner of his bedroom the day before is singing. He turns in his chair to stare at it, sleep-deprived brain briefly baffled before abruptly remembering that phones can be set to play music instead of ringing normally. He pushes to his feet, joints cracking in a way that tells him he's been pouring over the paperwork longer than he'd thought, and shuffles over to check the phone.

It's probably just one of the girl's school friends, or some scumbag reporter who'd managed to dig up her number and wants to try their luck at getting an exclusive interview. He lifts it out of the box, phone charms clicking softly together and tickling the back of his hand. He's never understood why teenage girls like that sort of thing. It seems like an inconvenience to him.

He flips the phone over and squints down at the caller ID. The face that greets him doesn't register for a second, and his brow furrows as he tries to figure out why the person looks familiar. It is a little warped by the crack in the screen, colors a little off. Sparkling green eyes. Messy hair tucked beneath a bright red hat. A smear of purple frosting across a freckled cheek. His eyes trail down to the name, and he feels the blood freeze in his veins.

Yudai

A thousand thoughts race through his head as he curses, fumbling with his own phone to turn on the voice recorder while trying to answer the call at the same time. He hits the speaker button, but doesn't say anything. There's a soft click from the other line and the screen goes dark, and for one terrible second he thinks he's missed the call. On bad nights he's found himself obsessively dwelling on the memories of a strange little boy hidden away on a rooftop in Naruhata, a bruised but friendly face at the rehab center, and the video of a little boy's expression changing from hope to horror to resignation as he is stolen away from a hero that he thought would finally be able to help him. The near-misses have haunted him. He is terrified that this will be another failure to add to his ever growing roster of them.

His heart is pounding so hard, blood rushing in his ears so loudly, that he almost misses the whispered, "hello?" from the other side.

He swallows hard, not sure where the sudden tightness in his throat has come from, and forces himself to speak past it.

"Is this…Yudai?" he asks, not sure whether the boy's real name will scare him off or not. There's a pause, but Izuku doesn't hang up. That's something.

"Who is this? Where is Kazuho?" There's a note of panic in his voice, still so soft, like he's trying not to be overheard. The deliberate quiet of the child's small voice compels him to also speak as softly as he does, the gentle tones sounding foreign to his own ears. His rough voice was never meant for such careful cadences, but he can't help but hope that it will still somehow soothe Izuku's nerves and keep him talking long enough to help.

"Kazuho is fine. She's safe and recovering in the hospital."

There's a soft sob on the other side, a few whispered words he can't catch, before the boy continues.

"And…my mom? Was she there? Is she safe?"

"Yes, your mom is safe. She wasn't hurt." It's a lie, though only a small one. Her injuries are nothing she won't recover from.

As he listens to the sound of Izuku's muffled crying, his mind spins, and he wishes suddenly that he was better at dealing with people. That he hadn't forgotten most of the lessons from UA about how to handle civilians and hostage situations and negotiation; he hadn't thought he'd need those skills for underground hero work. He's sure that Oboro would be laughing at his misfortune, and the unexpected thought sends a jolt of pain through his chest. He breathes deeply through the nose, steeling himself.

"Are you safe?"

"I…yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Who are you?" the tiny voice asks, tight and scared. Probably wondering how exactly the stranger on the other end of the call knew who his mother was, now that the initial rush of emotions is over. Shouta doesn't like the implications of the kid's non-answer at all. He wets his lips and hopes that he's not about to fuck this up.

"I'm a hero," he answers, trying to gauge whether the words will be enough to send Izuku running or not. There's a sharp intake of breath, but he's still there, still listening. "I go by Eraserhead. You won't have heard of me, but if you want—"

"Eraserhead! I know all about you!" There's a second where his voice rises, childish excitement making him lose control of his careful whisper, and Shouta feels his heart start to race. After almost seven years of silence, of isolation, he can't imagine that the man who kidnapped this kid will be very happy to find him on the phone with a hero. His stomach churns, knowing that every minute spent on the phone with Izuki is putting him in danger, but also keenly aware that this may be the only chance he's going to have to speak with him like this.

"Izuku," he snaps, and he knows by the way the boy's murmurs of excitement stop immediately that the use of his real name has his full attention. "Can you tell me where you are right now?"

"Uh, I'm in the kitchen. We're in a little house, in the woods somewhere."

"Do you know what the closest town is?"

"No. I've never been there."

"Okay, that's fine. Is anyone there with you, right now?"

"Yeah, but he's asleep in the bedroom. You can't talk to him."

"Is it the man who took you? Stendhal?"

"Mhmmm."

He can feel that he's losing him, questions wandering too close to a subject he doesn't want to address. Shouta changes tactics, steering things back towards the subject of where he is, and how to find him, instead of the person he is with.

"If you left, do you think you can make it somewhere safe?"

"I can't leave," the voice answers, sounding confused, like the answer should be obvious. "The doors are all locked."

"Okay, and what about the windows?"

"He boarded over them."

Shouta's chest hurts. He finds himself wishing for a cigarette, despite the nicotine patches clustered on his upper arm. Wishing that Nemuri or Hizashi were here. They would know the right questions to ask, the right way to ensure that the boy on the phone is safe. He double checks that his phone is still recording, and opens his messages to send an SOS to both of them. He wants to kick himself for not doing so earlier.

"Can you tell me anything about the situation?" he asks, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. He thinks he does a pretty good job, all things considered.

"I…I shouldn't be talking to you," Izuku says, his voice soft and solemn again. It sounds like the words hurt him to say. "I just wanted to make sure that Kazuho was okay. And my…. My mom."

"I know," Shouta soothes, terrified and aware that they should end the call soon so he isn't discovered, yet desperate to keep him on the line for just a moment longer, to try to get any leads to find him. "We're looking for you. You know that, right, kid? We are still looking for you."

There's a choked off sob, and the sound breaks his heart.

"You should," a pause, a sniffle, like he's trying to muffle the sound of his crying again. "—you should stop looking. I can't come home. You saw what happened to Ingenium. My mom could get hurt, too, and anybody else who tries to take me away. I'm not supposed to leave."

"That won't happen again. Nobody blames you for what happened." It's another little lie. There are people who theorize that Izuku was willing bait. Shouta thinks those people can go to hell and fuck themselves there. "I can help you."

"I'm okay," Izuku whispers. He doesn't sound convincing when he says it. "He doesn't treat me bad. He's actually really nice when he's having a good day."

Shouta feels his stomach swoop and churn, feels sick as he wonders what constitutes a bad day.

"But you still want to come home, don't you?"

There's a hesitation, a breath drawn sharp and scared, like the words could mean something terrible if he allows them to. Shouta can hear the heavy breathing, the way each exhale trembles as he tries not to cry. Then, in a voice so small and so desperate that it makes his heart ache, Izuku whispers, "Please."

"Then help me find you, kid. Help me bring you home to your mama."

"I don't know how!"

There's frustration in his voice, and a deeply ingrained hurt that speaks of far too much time spent dwelling on that exact subject without ever reaching a resolution. Shouta takes a deep breath, and fights to keep his voice level and calm. This, at least, he knows how to handle. He's always been good at coming up with plans on the fly, and this one is simple enough.

"When we hang up, I want you to hide the phone somewhere safe and try to find out where you are. Be smart about it. Don't ask Stendhal directly, and don't do anything to draw his attention. Look at newspapers or receipts, and see if you can get a location for me. Once you do, call me back at this number and I'll handle the rest. I promise that I'll answer, no matter what. Can you do that?"

"I want to, I really, really do. But I don't know—"

A muffled voice cuts off whatever Izuku was going to say.

"What are you doing up?"

Shouta's blood runs cold. He can hear Izuku stuttering out something, can hear the tight thread of fear in his voice. There's an unpleasant scraping sound as he tries to hide the phone, fabric rubbing against the transmitter.

"I was just—"

"What are you hiding?" the voice demands, cutting off Izuku's fumbling attempts to come up with an excuse. All the sleep-heavy fondness is gone from his tone, replaced by something sharp and angry.

"I'm sorry," Izuku says, and even though his voice is muffled Shouta can hear the way he's fighting back tears. "I just wanted to check to make sure that Kazuho was okay. I didn't say anything wrong—"

The next sounds will follow Shouta into his nightmares for months.

There's a scuffle, the man yelling, his voice suddenly terribly loud as it crackles through the speakers. Izuku is shouting back, demanding that he stop, that he give the phone back. Shouta grits his teeth and keeps his mouth shut tight, knowing in his gut that if Stendhal hears his voice things will only get worse. He hears a shout, high and childish and angry.

"You lied to me! My mom was there and she wants me back!"

And then the horrible sound of impact, hard enough to be heard through the shitty speaker, loud enough that the recorder picks it up with a damning little jump in the oscillogram. Izuku doesn't even cry at first, too stunned, only able to babble out questions, followed closely by soft apologies. They get more frantic, more hysterical, until finally, he is sobbing. And then screaming that it hurts, begging the man who has likely been his only constant source of human contact for so many years to stop, to let go.

Shouta's eyes are burning, though he refuses to allow any tears to fall. He can only listen as the sounds become more muffled. A door slams and the sounds cut off. Shouta waits, listening to the crackling silence of the call, his ragged breaths the only thing filling the space between.

Finally, he hears the sound of footsteps. Bare feet stomping hard against a squeaky wooden floor. Nothing that gives him any clue at all about where they could possibly be. He waits for Stendhal to say something. A threat. A gloat. A demand for a ransom seven years too late.

Instead, there is a crunch, and the line goes dead.

Shouta stares, silent, at the little pink phone. The charms hanging from it sparkle mockingly. His own phone buzzes as the texts pour in, advice and comfort and promises that they'll be right over. They all go unanswered.

Shouta drops his head into his hands, and sits silently with his horror and guilt.