Chapter Text
ACT I
May 28th, 1997
Most nights in his teens, Izuku sprawled out on the roof, chasing a moment of peace. It was quiet on this particular evening, save for the slight sound of the cicadas beginning to make their presence known, signaling that summer was finally on the rise. He’d taken out the screen on his bedroom window years ago to climb out and stare at the expanse of stars that graced his little town of Tenshi. His mother would kill him if she found out, but he figured it would be worth the fight.
It was one of the few moments he got to himself. Izuku was friendly, which was something he took pride in. But sometimes, friendliness could turn into a means of overexertion. He was the pinnacle of the “boy next door”. In nearly every school club, at nearly every party, knowing nearly everyone. Always there for a favor or a shoulder to cry on, Izuku was the town angel.
That’s what they called him. Angel. Izuku never cared much for that name, not that he would ever let a protesting thought slip from his smiling lips. It felt more like an expectation than a title. A title, he thought, he didn’t deserve in the first place. He was messy. Disorganized. Entirely too enthusiastic for his own good. “Angel” seemed to imply this untouchable innocence that he just didn’t possess, and wasn’t sure he had any desire to.
He groaned at the sound of silence returning to his ears. His Alanis Morissette CD had ended, and he didn’t have the energy to climb back inside and grab another album. He took his headphones off, flopping onto his back and squeezing his eyes shut.
Izuku had a vast collection of Western music—CDs, cassettes, vinyl. He’d been obsessed with old Hollywood movies growing up and developed decent English from rewatching them so many times, with the addition of studying later on. Yet another contribution to his popularity. He was in love with the emotions the West put into their media. Everything was dramatic. Romantic, angry, heartbreaking. He longed for a reality like that. A break from his monotonous, small-town life.
Looking off into the distance from his roof, he could see miles of tall rice fields, glowing softly in the moonlight. From this view, it almost felt like he was in one of those movies.
The following afternoon, Izuku wished he’d skipped that “moment of peace” on the roof. He’d hardly gotten any sleep, knowing damn well he had a game the next day.
It wasn’t necessarily an important game, but Izuku never slacked off at anything, especially volleyball. As he scanned the walls to find the scoreboard, he knew that the loss of sleep was a mistake.
The score was tied. 24—24. No room to breathe. No room for mistakes.
It was loud in the gym that day. Sharp whistles and scuffing sneakers. Chanting so chaotic that the encouragement it was intended to provide became empty sounds. The words were overlapping, the fluorescents blinding, but Izuku couldn’t hear a damn thing. Couldn’t possibly fathom the existence of anything besides the ball.
He was tired. He could feel exhaustion draining him from the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet, but it wasn’t a hindrance. It was fuel. Two more points, and they were out. He felt that familiar rage creep into his chest and spread an itch to his skin.
The version of Izuku on the court wasn’t too far off from his personal reputation on the outside. He was still smiling, still encouraging, still playing his part. But on the inside, there was an indescribable fury bubbling beneath every play.
He rolled his shoulders back, wide eyes scanning the court, but everything seemed to be a blur. Everything except the ball. It was coming straight to him. It always did. There was a routine to his position—a constant.
Time seemed to slip through the wax on the gym floors, slowing until it melted out of existence. The serve came low and fast, a clean pass from Iida—thank God—and Izuku’s muscles found their position without a thought. That’s what being a setter was. The catalyst for the win.
He had choices now. Three. The middle was calling for it, Izuku could tell. His hands were twitching, gaze trained on the setter. His defensive was barely even on the team, fresh from the bench, eyes wide with fear. But his outside hitter, bold and tall and everything Izuku wasn’t, was wide open.
Bakugou Katsuki. The whole reason he ever picked up a volleyball in the first place.
They couldn’t have been older than seven the first time Katsuki dragged him to that cracked, overgrown court by the park in Tenshi. His hand was tight on Izuku’s wrist, volleyball tucked under his little arm, a menacing grin etched onto his lips—even back then.
The day was young when Katsuki thrusted the ball into Izuku’s arms, the smaller stumbling to catch it with wide eyes. Katsuki was staring straight at the net like his gaze would burn a hole through the fabric, his little arm pointing high towards it.
“Bet you can’t even serve it over the net, Deku,” he sneered, a familiar edge to his tone that was unexpected from someone so little.
Deku. At the time, the name didn’t mean anything out of the ordinary to Izuku. He was young and naive, seeing it as a term of endearment. A nickname between friends. Over time, Izuku understood what it really meant, not that it bothered him much once he did. If anyone else said it, Izuku might be offended. But it wasn’t anyone. It was Kacchan. And anyway, he still preferred it to Angel.
The net for children’s volleyball was usually only seven feet high for boys. Like most of his classmates, Izuku was somewhere around four feet tall. But Katsuki was 4 '6, towering over him even then. Over the years, Izuku had caught up to him for the most part. He was 5’10 now, which was taller than most of the setters he knew. The majority of his teammates had a couple of inches on him, but he wasn’t short outside of the world of volleyball. Katsuki, however, won the genetic lottery for their sport, standing at 6’3. For Japanese teams, that height was like a gift from God.
“Kacchan, of course I can’t!” Izuku sputtered, holding onto the volleyball with shaking arms, green eyes wide with disbelief. “I’ve never played before!”
Katsuki rolled his eyes, narrow and crimson—a stark contrast to Izuku’s childish gaze. “You follow me around anyway, you should be useful and learn something.”
For as cruel as Katsuki’s words could be, Izuku hung on every syllable like he would fall if he didn't. Everything that came out of the taller’s mouth was like liquid gold to him, and if Katsuki wanted him to serve that ball, he would. In a heartbeat.
“Okay,” Izuku muttered, doing his best to channel the confidence he’d observed in his friend so many times during his practices. He tightened his grip on the ball, arms continuing to tremble as he approached the net. It looked like a mountain from where he stood. He didn’t know the technique. He had no idea how he was supposed to jump or how much of his hand was supposed to make contact with the ball. He didn’t know anything, really. But he threw it up anyway—too low, too far forward—and smacked it with an open palm.
It went straight to the bottom of the net with hardly any force, bouncing back to the ground with a pathetic thud that he long expected before he heard it.
“I knew it, Deku! That was worse than I thought it’d be,” Katsuki laughed unforgivingly, clutching his stomach. Izuku flushed, childish frustration building within him at the teasing. He wanted to cry. He wanted to cry so bad, but he bit his lip instead, as hard as he could without drawing blood. He wasn’t going to be pathetic in the way he had let himself be for so many years. Not now. Not when he had a chance.
He looked away from Katsuki with a determined smile, trudging over to the ball with heavy footsteps and picking it up. “I’ll keep trying.”
Katsuki stopped laughing abruptly, looking at Izuku with a confused stare. “Huh?”
Izuku stepped back, throwing the ball into the air and raising his arms to the sky, his fingers making the softest contact with the leather as the wind blew against his shirt. Katsuki watched him with something that looked almost like awe, which quickly morphed into anger. He scoffed as the ball slammed into the net again.
“Nerd, you’ll never get it over like that,” he grumbled, snatching the ball off the ground and serving it over with ease, his little arm extending just the right amount. Izuku watched that serve with the widest, cheesiest smile on his face, praising Katsuki to no end over his form.
They played like that until the sun dipped behind the trees, knees bruised and forearms red. Izuku didn’t get his serve over the net once that day. But he tried again the next week. Then, the week after that. Soon, he was going back to that little court every day, even without Katsuki asking him to. Even without Katsuki there at all.
Because somewhere between that first serve and the hundredth, Izuku realized that he liked volleyball. Not because Katsuki did, or because he had something to prove, but because for a moment—it was just him and the ball. Nothing else mattered. Not the expectations placed on him to be forgiving, not even Katsuki’s sharp words in his ears.
Over the years, those teasing words and playful jabs started to have more venom. And really, they probably always did. But Izuku, it his sheltered naivety, liked to think that change happened later.
Katsuki got meaner. He improved his skills past the point of needing Izuku to play volleyball, and apparently, from needing him in his life at all. He started calling him Deku in front of other people, and to Izuku’s horror, it earned quite a few laughs at the time. But the laughter wasn’t innocent anymore. It wasn’t teasing moments between young boys, too stubborn to understand empathy. It stung.
“You’ll never make a team,” Katsuki had said one unforgiving summer afternoon, in front of a group of older players at that little volleyball court they spent hours at all those years ago. “You’re not built for it. You’re too damn soft, Deku.”
Izuku smiled that same plastered smile that he always did, because he didn’t quite know what else to do. Then he went home and cried until his throat was raw, letting that pathetic feeling slip through the cracks. But he didn’t quit. He joined the volleyball club anyway. Trained by himself until his fingers bled and became a setter. It wasn't flashy or anything, and it certainly didn't rival Kacchan's position. But the reality was, Kacchan was right; he was soft. But that didn’t make him less of a player. And as painful as it was, deep down, some part of him still wanted Kacchan to look at him and say, "Damn. You proved me wrong."
Now, as he stood in that dingy gymnasium with a flickering broken light, Izuku knew he had to set to Katsuki—even though it really killed him.
Izuku made the call within a fraction of a second, and the set left his hands smooth and tight. He felt power pushing up from his shoulders, allowing the tiniest portion of it to extend to his fingers as they hit the leather. For just a moment, as it always did, the ball became weightless. Suspended in the air. Izuku didn’t waste time analyzing his teammates once he made the set. His eyes were back on the ball.
He watched as it flew to heights he'd never reach, mesmerized. It couldn’t have been more than a second, but it felt like an eternity. Sweat cemented his jersey to his back, green strands of hair falling into his vision. All that cheering had seemed to die down once his set was in the air, the anticipation looming over everyone in that gymnasium like a haze.
As he predicted, Kacchan rose into the air so high that Izuku swore he was the angel, and slammed the ball crosscourt.
Point. 25—24.
The team roared, high on adrenaline and swarming Katsuki with praise and pats on the shoulder, but Izuku couldn’t celebrate. His back was already turned, tired limbs jogging off toward the ref’s stand in an attempt to reset. Set point still loomed.
He felt Katsuki’s eyes on him. He knew good and well that Izuku hated setting to him. But he was too good a player not to make the best call.
Match point. And it was their serve.
The gym was so loud it felt like his skull might split open. Izuku wiped the sweat from his brow, knowing he was more worked up than was necessary. It was a habit, curated from long nights studying his teammates and opponents. Anything to be number one. He breathed deep and low, settling into position. The serve went up.
Everything was moving too fast—even for Izuku. It wasn’t often that their games were this close. Typically, their team dominated no matter what. The ball snapped off the server’s hand and screamed over the net, barely clearing the tape. Nathan Wesley, their opposite hitter, dove for it with a grunt—skidding into a low receive that nearly hit his chest. He shouldn’t have been diving, really, but they were desperate.
Nathan was an American kid from Chicago. Why he would ever want to come to Tenshi, Izuku didn’t know. Nobody ever asked. Or, maybe they did, but Nathan must not have given an answer, because nobody knew. He was part Japanese, but he never said so. Izuku could only tell because of his eyes and nose.
He was almost as incredible a player as Katsuki was, if you can believe it. 6’1, shaggy auburn hair and soft eyes—unlike anyone Izuku had ever seen in real life. Those slender eyes were green, with far more yellow in them than Izuku's. He liked watching him play. He was a good teammate—always looking out for his opposites, knowing exactly how to assist his friends, but he wasn’t Kacchan. He didn’t soar like Kacchan did. No one could.
Nathan was Izuku’s right side, and Kacchan was Izuku’s left. It made sense, really. They were total opposites, but somehow, they both seemed to shine in ways that Izuku could never understand.
Kacchan never liked him, though Izuku never really understood why. He considered that it was simply the fact that he was so bright and shiny. Like a doll or a movie star. He knew Kacchan didn't like people like that. Fake people. Izuku didn't see Nathan as fake as much as he was just unrivaled in charm. It was a lot for him, but he couldn't resist it anyway.
The ball went up unstable. The spin was too intense; it was hardly off the ground. Izuku knew it was going to fall. He sprinted for it, pivoting abruptly, eyes locked on the ball like it was the only thing that existed. He didn’t think—just moved.
He set it. It wasn’t perfect. It didn’t have to be. Because Katsuki was already in the air. And this time, to Izuku’s surprise, he didn’t go for that power that he usually loved to exercise whenever he had the chance.
Through all the blur and fog, Izuku’s mind didn’t narrow to silence—but sound. The sound of Katsuki shouting for the ball. The sound of his teammates’ footsteps syncing with his. The sound of breath and hope and pressure slamming through his bloodstream like lightning and Kacchan screaming, "Die!" as loud as he could.
He tipped it, shockingly. It was a single-fingered push, so subtle it felt like a purposeful insult to the other team, dropping the ball just behind the front line. It was a death sentence in slow motion that Izuku would surely have to take note of later. Nobody got to it, because of course they didn’t.
Match won.
26–24.
The gym exploded. Screams. Cheers. Groans from the other side. Their coach yelling louder than a middle-aged man ever should. Teammates dogpiling Nathan and Katsuki. But Izuku couldn’t see any of it, if he was being honest. The fog was lifting slightly, but there was one bright spot. Kacchan. Always Kacchan.
Izuku stayed frozen.
Then, laughter bubbled up in his throat—light and breathless and real. He laughed like someone had just let him live. His knees gave out and he dropped to a squat, forehead pressed to his arm, lungs heaving, and for some reason, for the first time in a long time, he felt proud to win. Maybe it was that they almost lost. It had been awhile since they got to fight for the win.
A shadow fell over him, and he dropped his arm from his face. He looked completely ridiculous crouched on the floor like that, and he knew it. He assumed it was Kaminari or Kirishima trying to drag him to their little celebration.
When he looked up, to his surprise, Katsuki stood there. Not celebrating with the others, which was not as surprising. Not smiling, also unsurprising.
What was surprising, was that he was just staring down at him with a look Izuku couldn’t name. Embarrassingly, he couldn’t remember the last time Kacchan had come up to him at all. Izuku opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
Katsuki scoffed, barely audible over the cheering. “You gonna get up or stay down there like a dumbass?”
When Izuku didn’t say anything, he turned to walk away.
Izuku’s fingers dug into his own knee. For some reason, he felt desperate for him to stay. That embarrassing tug in his chest whenever Kacchan was around came back. When would he have another chance to talk to him like this? “Wait.”
Katsuki paused. Not fully turning toward him. He towered above like he was waiting for something, not that Izuku had any clue what it was.
Izuku scrambled upright, awkward and wobbly. He bit his lip, knowing he just had to say something—anything. “My water bottle. You kicked it.”
Katsuki finally looked back, brow arching as if to say, seriously?
"Yeah, like a week ago,” he growled, his patience clearly thinning. “It was in my way.”
Izuku rushed the rest out before he could stop himself, clinging onto the sliver of a conversation he managed to start. “It had stickers. My dad gave them to me. I… want it back.”
It was stupid. It was so stupid and ridiculously out of left field. But Katsuki blinked.
"...The hell do I care about your stickers?”
“I didn’t say you should, Kacchan,” Izuku said, voice sharper than expected. He was loud, trying to be heard over the incessant noise. “I said I want it back.”
Kacchan stared at him for a long second, face hardened so Izuku couldn't read it. He looked almost calm at that moment. He was probably exhausted, sweat sticking to his pale skin, and his chest heaving more than usual. Izuku would like to lie and say that he didn’t notice, but he always did. Somehow, he still felt like he knew Katsuki better than anyone else, even if neither of them would ever admit that out loud.
He scoffed, tongue poking his cheek, then muttered, “Whatever. I didn’t throw it out.” He jerked his chin toward the lockers. “It’s probably still in there, shitty nerd.”
Izuku nodded, surprised by the rare display of tolerance. He was sure Kacchan would blow his fist at him the moment he spoke up. He didn’t know what he was doing—only that he was following Kacchan off the court, into the cool quiet of the hallway.
And for the first time in a long time, Katsuki was letting him.
It was strange, this silence. No barking insults, no fists flying. Izuku wondered if something was wrong. Something had to be wrong, right? Or maybe he was in a good mood because they won? That couldn’t be it. In the last ten years, there wasn’t a single moment that he could recall Kacchan even being semi-civil with him. Now they were just walking side-by-side like it was normal? For a water bottle? God, what was he thinking with the water bottle? He didn’t need to say anything to Kacchan. He could have gotten it himself. He knew it was there. But then again, Kacchan knew it was there too. So why was he walking with him? Could he have already been heading to the locker room? But then, why did he come up to Izuku in the first place?
“Stop your fucking mumbling, nerd. It pisses me off,” Katsuki growled, earning a startled gasp from Izuku, who hadn’t realized he had been speaking aloud. He stumbled slightly as they entered the locker room.
“S-Sorry,” he sputtered, doing his best to keep his eyes away from the taller. But how could he? This was just so surreal.
The second the locker room door shut behind them, it was like they entered a different universe. The rest of their teammates were still celebrating, so they were the only ones in there. It was so, so quiet. The small window near the ceiling opened just enough to let the early summer air in.
Izuku hesitated in the doorway. He felt like an intruder, though he was here almost every day. Kacchan, of course, didn’t wait. He made a beeline for the benches by the lockers, grabbed something from beneath one of them, and tossed it without warning.
Izuku flinched (horrifyingly), fumbling to catch the thing.
It was his water bottle. Scratched and dented, slightly dirty from lying underneath the disgusting lockers. One of the stickers—his favorite one—was half-peeled off like someone had picked at it.
“I told you it was in there,” Katsuki said flatly.
Izuku stared down at it with a frown. “You ripped the sticker.”
“I didn’t rip your fucking sticker,” Katsuki snapped, and for whatever reason, Izuku was almost grateful. This version of him—the angry, rash version—was at least one that Izuku could recognize.
“Well, someone did,” he muttered, sauntering over to his locker to get his day clothes.
“It was already like that,” Katsuki bit back, aggressively shoving his jersey into his bag. “Maybe don’t bring your baby shit to practice.”
Izuku flushed, shooting Katsuki a glare over his shoulder as he undressed. “It’s not— It’s not baby stuff.”
Katsuki snorted, stuffing his socks into his bag like that was an even outlet for his anger, like it would stop him from lashing out. Izuku found himself growing more grateful every day that Kacchan was holding himself back, though he didn't know what that said about his self-respect. “Sure. Stickers from your daddy. Real grown-up.”
Izuku’s throat burned, but he didn’t take the bait. Not this time. This time… felt different. They were older now, on an equal playing field. Izuku wasn’t the small, defenseless kid he used to be.
He turned back around, holding the water bottle up with both hands. It was childish, like some kind of peace offering. “You could’ve thrown it out.”
Katsuki didn’t look up, rage seeming to spill out of him and onto the floor. Izuku almost stepped back to avoid the imaginary flood, watching it crowd the floor with its depravity. “Didn’t care ‘nuff to.”
“But you knew it was mine. You always trash my stuff.”
There was a pause that sat with him. Anyone else wouldn’t have noticed, but Izuku did. The zipper of Katsuki’s bag stuttered as he stopped halfway. It was loud, just like everything else he did.
Izuku watched him carefully, his eyes narrowing to match the small streaks of crimson peaking through his lids. “You kicked it. You knew it was mine, and you didn’t throw it away.”
Katsuki finally met his eyes, the fire in them unwavering, but not as terrifying anymore. His voice picked up, sparking and biting. “You always leave your crap everywhere, Deku. You think I have time to fuck with your shit all day?”
Izuku blinked, pausing after sliding on his shirt.
Katsuki scowled like he hated the words as they left his mouth, slamming his locker door shut. “I didn’t save it for you, dumbass.”
“I didn’t say you did,” Izuku said, more of a challenge in his voice than before.
Another pause.
Then Katsuki broke the stare, shaking his head with a scoff that seemed more self-directed than anything. Izuku knew it was only a matter of time before he got fed up with him. In all honesty, Katsuki was tolerating him longer than he expected. “This is fucking stupid. You’re fucking stupid.”
He swung his bag over his shoulder and started toward the door, all tense and fuming like he always was. Izuku felt a panic in his chest, like he’d just thrown away the tiniest chance he had at a normal conversation. Suddenly, the imaginary flood lost its importance as he took a step toward the open door.
He swallowed, raising his arm like somehow he could stop the taller with his mind. “Kacchan—”
“Don’t fucking call me that.”
The door slammed behind him, the bang ringing in his ears. His shoulders shook, then slumped as he turned back to his locker.
Izuku stood there a long time, alone in the stale air, clutching the beat-up water bottle to his chest like it was something precious. Perhaps it could have meant something if he had held onto it tightly enough, squeezing the memory out of the dusted meta; so it sank into his skin, and he could keep that hope forever.
But he knew better than that.