Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One night, when the curtains are drawn and the room is tinted blue and the bed sheets are pulled up to their chests, so that Izuku can only just see the silhouette of the man she married, of that gleam in his eye and the charm in his smile, he asks her something she’ll think about for the rest of her life.

“Y’know, I can’t help but wonder, sometimes,” Yo murmurs, one arm around her neck and the other absently playing with a tightly curled ringlet of hair. “I look at you, and I look at the house, and the car, and… everything that we have, and I wonder-”

Then he cups her face in his hand. His thumb grazes over the layer of foundation, presses into the soft flesh of her hollowed out cheek, and he stares at her. Half of his face is hidden by the shadows, but his eyes are piercing. Izuku knows he can see her perfectly.

“Are you unhappy?” he asks quietly.

Izuku thinks of these things, too. They live in a picturesque suburban neighborhood, with polished lawns and white picket fences, and they live in a big house and they have a lovely blue Cadillac in the driveway, and every Saturday Izuku gets to have tea or host a dinner party with all the other housewives on the block. She wears expensive clothes and jewelry and gets her hair done at a high-end salon and entertains these people who are like her and nothing like her. But she doesn’t have to feel out of place, because she’s part of this beautiful, magazine perfect world. Her hair is perfect and her face is clean and unblemished and everything else can be covered up and everything else can be shoved under the rug because Izuku is beautiful. Yo loves her. Treats her well. And there’s still a good few years to have children. It’s not impossible.

She has it all, really. The looks, the house in the suburbs, the nice car, and the rich, handsome husband. What is there to want for?

“Of course I’m happy,” she says, but her smile is uneasy.

Chapter Text

Two things that are generally true about Shoto Todoroki: he doesn’t speak much, and he doesn’t drive often.

As it turns out, there are quite a few exceptions to this.

“It’s a good place,” Shoto says monotonously, carefully steering down the bumpy road. “Modest and peaceful, or so say Momo’s real-estate friends.”

For as much as he doesn’t do it, Shoto is a shockingly steady driver. Even now, with the roads covered in snow and the city streets busy with people, he drives carefully but not overly slowly, every turn and stop as natural and as easy as breathing.

(“I’m very good at driving in winter,” Shoto had once attempted to joke, back when his father was still desperately trying to get him to settle down. “Must’ve inherited it from my mother. She’s experienced with ice picks.”

When asked why that was, he’d replied, “Oh. She got a lobotomy.”

Ultimately, his joke had gotten him no laughs and, from what Shoto recalls, made that particular dinner with Momo’s parents incredibly uncomfortable. )

For most of the drive, he’d been the one to talk- about his day, about a new client or stuck-up co-worker, about his last visit to his mother’s hospice. In the wake of Izuku’s own silence, he seems to come out of his shell. Shoto had never been the social type, but it seems that deep down, he knows more or less how to keep a room alive. He’d been severely trained in this sort of etiquette, as a boy, and Izuku doesn’t know whether or not it’s right to feel grateful for it.

“Momo’s friends?” Izuku mutters. “I don’t mean any disrespect to her, but I’m not going to be able to live in a castle.”

“It’s an apartment,” Shoto replies. “Very cozy. I think you’ll like it.”

Cozy is universally rich-person speak for “small”. Paradoxically, “small” is rich-person speak for anything a few square feet short of a mansion. Shoto, at the very least, knows her well enough to know what kind of place she’d like, but his upbringing has isolated him a bit from what she can afford.

“How much is the rent?” Izuku asks, staring at the blur of people and snow outside the window. Money is a newer concern. It’s a lot harder to keep track of a simple inheritance when you’re divorced and single and also a woman, as it turns out.

She wrings her gloved hands, suppressing a familiar itch, but Shoto doesn’t like people smoking in his car- smoking at all, really. And after everything he’s done for her, the absolute least she can do is respect his wishes, as tempting as the box in her purse is.

Shoto gently slows down at a crosswalk, just as the light turns red. “Oh. Don’t worry about the rent.”

Izuku turns away from the window and frowns.

“Shoto.”

“Izuku.”

“You’re not going to pay my rent,” Izuku says.

“You don’t have a job yet.”

“I have my savings,” she insists.

It’s a weak argument. The inheritance from her father had been hefty- it’d paid for a good university and some of Mother’s bills - but what’s left now isn’t enough to live off of for even a year. Other than that, all she has are her own meager savings from selling her wedding ring and the divorce settlement, which wouldn’t leave her well off even if she didn’t refuse to touch it.

“Izuku, it’s pennies to me,” Shoto argues, brow furrowed slightly. “I want to. I don’t mind.”

“Well, I don’t want you to. I can pay my own rent.”

“With what money?” Shoto asks, blunt to the point of being unintentionally harsh, and Izuku’s mouth snaps shut.

As much as she hates to admit it, Shoto is right. Her savings could pay for maybe a year of rent in the cheapest apartment in the city, not even counting food and utilities. And job hunting won’t be of much help; all things considered, she’s not a promising applicant. She’s divorced, she’s awkward, she has almost none of the skills needed for any of the predominantly female professions, and it’s been too long since university to even consider something more. Who would even hire her? And if she did get hired, would it be enough to live somewhere safe and stable?

It makes her feel foolish, in a way. Izuku knew right off the bat that divorce wasn’t going to turn out well for her. She knew that life was going to be harder- that she’d have to pay for her own things and manage her own life and that she was going to have to do it by herself, but being faced with the actual reality of that is startling, somehow. Izuku wonders if being married really has softened her up all that much- if after five years, she’s grown so used to being coddled that the real world is now frightening for her. The thought makes her sick.

Shoto isn’t great with social cues, in his own words, but he must sense that he’s struck a nerve, because he goes dead silent. He opens his mouth to speak and promptly closes it when the light flashes green; they take off, whizzing past street signs and restaurants and fashion boutiques.

It’s quiet for a long while.

“I’m sorry,” Shoto says finally, and his eyes are still firmly fixed on the road, but his face and voice have softened. “It’s not out of pity.”

Izuku sighs, feeling the tension drain out of her like water in a sieve. “I know.”

“Then why?”

Why won’t you let me do this for you?

The apartments pass them by like a gentle breeze. Izuku sees neat brown bricks and flower boxes and balconies on some that are clearly more high-end - more spacious and modern and luxurious. Izuku thinks about what kind of salary a man would have to make to live in one. A big check at the end of every year, probably. Izuku had once resided in a house that cost more than any of these apartments’ yearly rent, and she’d never paid a cent to live in it.

And as long as she cooked well enough and cleaned up nicely and always looked and acted her best, things probably would have remained that way. For the rest of her life.

Her hands are trembling. She pulls off her gloves and folds them in her lap, scarred forearms on full display, and stares down at her hands.

“I have to do this on my own,” Izuku murmurs, tense.“That’s all it is.”

“… I want to help,” Shoto admits. “I. I have money of my own, now. I can be there for you.”

The way you were for me, goes unsaid.

Against her better judgment, Izuku feels herself soften.

“You have been there for me,” Izuku says gently. When her hands begin to feel less like static, she reaches out to touch his shoulder. “I’m grateful. I never- I’d never have gotten this far without you.”

Shoto snorts bitterly. “It’s partly my fault you’re in this situation to begin with.”

The car behind them honks loudly.

Izuku jumps slightly at the noise, her hand falling from his shoulder. Shoto doesn’t say anything, but he does very subtly roll his eyes and drives a little slower when turning, just to be petty.

They drive in silence for another minute or two, before slowing down and coming to a stop right beneath a looming apartment complex.

Izuku has to admit: even in spite of her worries about Momo’s expensive taste, the building is nice. Clean cut bricks and neat pathways, polished stairs and plenty of windows. Five stories high, and close enough to plenty of shops and offices. It’s not bad or unkempt or actively dangerous, and it’s not particularly luxurious, either.

The interior is just as nice. Shoto leads her down long, spacey halls carpeted with a reddish-brown carpet and cream colored walls, and then to a wooden door emblazoned with the number 41 in gilded lettering- her new apartment. She finds she likes this, too- cozy color scheme and a nice amount of room, and there’s not a stain in sight. It’s plain, and it’s simple, and Izuku has already begun to visualize where all her furniture’s going to go.

“Do you like it?” Shoto asks her.

“That depends on how much I’m going to have to pay for it,” Izuku says, half-teasing. Clean walls and carpeting in a medium, one-bedroom apartment in this part of the city- it won’t cost a fortune, but it won’t be cheap.

“But you do like it?” Shoto confirms, walking to the center of the room, below the ceiling fan. He’s wearing a deep blue suit instead of his usual pristine grey- she hadn’t picked up on that before. It makes him stand out in this room of neutrals, more than he already does with his handsome face and distinct hair.

“I do,” she replies. “It’s- it’s nice. It’s really nice.”

And she’s not going to be able to afford it.

He runs his tongue over his top lip - a habit he’d picked up from Natsuo, supposedly- lost in thought. Just when Izuku has begun to get fidgety herself, he speaks.

“It’s eighty-nine dollars,” Shoto says finally, and Izuku blinks. “The rent, I mean. I’ll pay the first two months, plus anything else you’ll need.”

His tone leaves no room for argument.

Izuku is a stubborn, stubborn woman. But Shoto is no pushover, and she can see from the sharp look in his eyes that he’s not going to budge.

Besides- it’s not like she’s in a position to argue, is she.

“Two months,” Izuku agrees. “No more.”

The small smile he gives her is enough to put her at ease. But only briefly.

Nothing much really happens in the first few hours of her moving in. It’s eleven in the morning on a Monday, and the snow is still piled high out, so everything naturally just seems slower.

Moving in is a tedious affair. It’s boring. It’s stressful. There are too many boxes. There aren’t enough. She’s afraid she accidentally packed this and didn’t pack that, that it’s too late to go back and that it’s not too late to go back, that Yo has found a box of her nicest clothes back in the house and- and given them away as one final middle finger to her and a gesture of goodwill to some younger woman who’s going to be his new wife and they’re going to have a spring wedding and everyone’s going to be gossiping about how much Izuku’s new life must suck-

Her fingers twitch, and Izuku sighs. She gently sets down a box of clothes, signals to Shoto that she’s stepping out, and grabs her cream-colored coat and purse.

She finds a spot outside the building near the parking garage, generally secluded and empty. Its cold outside- the kind of cold that makes your teeth chatter and your face feel like it’s being pricked with needles. Its also loud- cars honk and skid by on the roads, and the sound of people talking blends together with the atmosphere. It’s far from the most peaceful place to collect her thoughts, but it’ll do. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a box of Chesterfields, and then fumbles around for her lighter.

She has never liked smoking, in all honesty. She doesn’t like the smell, the taste, the way it stains her clothes or hands sometimes, the way it reminds her of him even with the brand switch from Luckies to Camels and then Chesterfields.

But when she puts the stick to her mouth and takes a long inhale, the endless white noise in her head goes fuzzy. Her headache eases, her anxieties seem to quiet- it takes the edge off like nothing else, and the feeling is enough to keep her reaching for them in spite of her distaste.

She pulls the cigarette away and blows out smoke. It mixes with the cold fog of her breath. It doesn’t warm her up in the slightest, and she takes a second drag.

By the time 5:30 rolls around, Izuku’s homely, empty void of an apartment is now a jungle of cardboard and junk, and it’s probably going to remain that way for quite some time- at least until she gets all the placements and such sorted out. Shoto promises to send someone over tomorrow to help, and she kisses him on the cheek and sends him off.

It’s not as quiet anymore, even now that Shoto's gone. Rush hour kicked in a good hour ago and it hasn’t slowed down yet- upstairs, Izuku hears footsteps and slamming doors and muffled voices (if she really strains her ears). It’s been a long time since she’s had a proper job, but she remembers reading in a magazine that a good wife would always have everything perfect on Monday afternoon to ease her husband’s stress from work, and she’d taken it to heart during her marriage. Not that it helped, but anyway.

It hadn’t helped, but anyway.

A loud thud from outside the apartment snaps Izuku out of her thoughts. It’s followed by a string of hissed swears and a deep sigh, and without thinking, Izuku motions towards the door.

If something’s wrong, it’d be good if Izuku could do something to help, right? Make a good impression? Introduce herself, maybe?

It’s important to be a good neighbor- even if she just got here.

Her hand hesitates on the doorknob.

Fresh start, she scolds herself. Fresh start.

Quietly, she opens the door.

A tall blonde woman stands by the door right next to Izuku’s apartment- room 42. She’s wearing a black trench coat and an orange scarf tied primly around her neck. Her purse is on the ground next to her snow-crusted boots. She doesn’t notice Izuku at first; she jiggles her key in the doorknob and huffs triumphantly (familiarly) when the lock clicks. The woman pulls off her scarf, and Izuku freezes.

Izuku doesn't make a sound. She's sure of it.

The woman notices her anyway.

There is a long moment where they just stare at each other. Izuku breaks the silence first.

“Oh. Hello,” she says with a practiced smile- eyes slightly crinkled, the barest bit of teeth peeking through her lips.

A pregnant pause. The woman just gapes. Izuku does not falter.

“Izuku Midoriya,” she says by way of introduction, smile never wavering. It feels plastic in its inauthenticity, and Izuku settles into it like a second skin. “I just moved in.”

It’s polite conversation between two strangers. Its been a long time since Izuku Midoriya has felt like her name.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the woman’s lost, conflicted expression settles into a blank, careful expression. Her eyes harden, and her mouth thins.

“Katsumi,” she says slowly.

Chapter Text

Mother, I’m fine. I just wanted to clarify the recipe, that’s all. Mm-hmm. No, you don’t have to come over. I’m not pregnant yet, ha. I’m sure. Yes. Everything’s perfect. It is, I promise. He treats me very well. He took me out to a nice dinner on Saturday. The restaurant with the- one with the lanterns out front? Upper Manhattan. It was lovely- very romantic. I’m very happy. Oh, uhm- speaking of dinner, I just realized, I left the- I have to get back to the- yes, I will tell him you called. Okay. I’ll call you soon. I love you. 

Izuku doesn’t have a lot of spare time these days. Between cleaning the house, making dinner, perfecting dinner, plating dinner, re-plating dinner, cleaning again, getting ready for dinner and just- all the waiting, well. There simply just isn’t much else to do.

She’s not sure if she’s doing too much. Or if she’s not doing enough. She doesn’t really talk about it much with the other housewives in their neighborhood, the never-ending stream of thoughts, the budding anxiety, the- the boredom. When she gets pregnant, that’ll probably subside.

But so long as it’s all perfect - as close to perfect as she can get- when it really matters, when Yo gets home, it’ll all be fine.

After a bit too much contemplation, she decides to swap out the tablecloth all together. The sunny yellow color of it clashes too much with the floral rim of the plates, which doesn’t fit well with the cutlery arrangement, or the flowers in the vase- oh, and the vase needs to be switched out, too, maybe-

She starts with the plates, stacking them and setting them on the counter. Then she can move the cups, and the cutlery, and then the roast beef, and the mashed potatoes, and the gravy, and then she can swap out the table cloth. She has time. He won’t get home for another hour, and she’s good at this.

She moves on to touching up her appearance, pulling out the little compact she’d left on the kitchen counter. As she gazes over her reflection in the mirror, she waits for her hands to stop shaking.

Izuku does a lot of that. A lot of waiting.

It’d taken months of practice and a few expensive appointments at the salon, but nowadays her curls are more neat; less like a bush and more like Elizabeth Taylor. Yo loves Elizabeth Taylor. He also likes yellow, so she’s wearing a nice yellow shirtwaist dress with the slightest bit of lace trim. She’d considered wearing gloves, but she only has one pair - reserved for special occasions, and it'd be a waste, anyway, to wear them at dinner. So long as she doesn’t move her arms too much, it’ll all be okay.

The plates go off. The cups and cutlery go off. The roast beef, the mashed potatoes, the gravy- and then the tablecloth.

It’s a little stressful. Making sure everything is perfect like this, day after day. It probably shouldn’t be this hard, but a part of Izuku likes that it is. It keeps her occupied and it makes her feel better. Like she’s really earning her keep.

The new tablecloth is a pale pink. It fits better. A lot better. She resets the roast beef and the mashed potatoes and the gravy and plates and cutlery and cups - would he want alcohol or tea? She puts some Earl Grey on the stove and brings out a bottle just in case he’s in the mood for either.

Izuku checks her hair. Tucks a stray curl behind her ear and secures it with a bobby pin. Touches up her lipstick - a tasteful, bright red - and then kisses a napkin until the color has stopped transferring. Smooths down her skirt. Fixes her wedding ring.

Then she smiles. Not too much teeth, just the right amount of crinkle to her eyes. Warm, pleasant, welcoming. She finds that smiling comes a lot easier now. There’s so much to be grateful for, after all.

He comes home around six. Izuku’s by the doorway before the words even leave his lips. She’s wearing a pastel yellow dress, and some make-up; foundation and mascara and blush and coral lipstick. Her curled bangs rest neatly on her forehead, and the matching, pastel yellow headband keeps the rest of it tucked behind her ears. Her apron, pure white and free of stains, is still tied around her waist. It’s a look straight out of a magazine. 

“Welcome home,” she says sweetly, her perfect smile in place. Then, almost on impulse, she leans in and presses her lips to his cheek. The lipstick doesn’t mark his cheek at all, and she’s proud.

For the briefest of moments, she swears his eyes widen in surprise.

But she must have imagined it, because his charming smile takes over his whole face, without an inch of doubt. He’s so handsome. Izuku’s the luckiest girl in the world.

He slides his hand to the back of her head to pull her in and kisses her, chaste and gentle, and she lets her hand rest on the lapel of his gray suit. He smells of cigarettes and the bitter whiskey he likes, and when he pulls away to look at her, his eyes sparkle like lit coal.

He doesn’t let go of her. He tucks that particular, loose curl behind her ear.

“Hey, doll,” he says fondly, beaming down at her. “It’s good to be home.”

Chapter Text

In the coming days, Izuku finds that life in the apartment complex is different from what she’s used to. Her neighbors are separated by only a few walls instead of the unspoken boundaries of property and white picket fences; there’s less space to put her stuff, even if her apartment is relatively good quality; and, of course, with apartment life comes city life , which is much, much different from house in the suburbs life.

In the city it’s loud, and busy, and everyone has somewhere to go. Cars and buses race down bumpy roads. Traffic lights flicker endlessly. On the streets, men in suits and women dressed to the nines walk down cracked sidewalks, past rows of shops like they own the place. It’s nothing like the slow days of living in the house, cleaning and cooking and just… waiting for something to happen.

In the city, there’s nothing to wait for- everything is always happening, and all that’s left to do is catch up.

The bus, with its putrid odor and general air of discomfort, has been Izuku’s only mode of transportation as of late. This is new to her, but she finds it preferable to constantly hailing taxis or hitching a ride with someone else, especially with all the snow.

Shoto has been talking about helping her get a car soon, once she’s more settled. She’s been thinking of getting him a gift whenever she manages to get her first paycheck. For now, a thank-you note will have to suffice- and maybe a nice brand of tea leaves to bring over the next time she has tea with Momo.

In some ways, this newfound independence is nice; Izuku doesn’t have to worry about asking for permission to go out, or preparing something she doesn’t want to, or being dependent on anyone else’s whims. On the other hand, she’s run into trouble with the startling realization that not only is she no longer a wife- she’s not a hostess anymore, either.

It seems like a silly realization. But sometimes, Izuku catches herself making extra portions of food- for two people, for four people- before realizing she only needs one.

Sometimes, Izuku stresses about matching the plates to the tablecloths and arranging meals in a pleasing way, before she remembers that nobody but her is going to see it.

Sometimes, Izuku automatically reaches for a yellow dress and panics before it occurs to her that she doesn’t need to; she pulls away and reaches for something else.

Sometimes, she looks at herself in the mirror, more aware than ever of the fact that her hair hasn’t been professionally styled in months and she’s out of pills and her freckles and scars are as present as ever without the ready supply of her usual expensive cosmetics- and in between the thoughts of shame, she feels briefly terrified of what he’s going to say, before she remembers-

It’s just Izuku in this apartment. There’s nobody to entertain or impress, and as much as playing hostess used to stress her out, she finds that she misses the order of it.

Half the time, she just doesn’t know what to wear or what to make or what to eat or where the burgundy lamp she got as a wedding present - and subsequently ‘won’ in the divorce - should go. Her redecorating crisis aside, she needs to find a job. She doesn’t want Shoto paying her rent for any longer than the two months, no matter how insistent he is about it. She also desperately needs something to do that isn’t job hunting or belatedly remembering to get groceries or cleaning or cooking and then overestimating how much to make and then needing more Tupperware to store all her leftovers.

The containers pile up in her fridge. She can hardly bring herself to touch any of it. 

Perhaps that’s why she’s here now, standing in front of her next door neighbor’s apartment door with an extra container in hand. The room number, 42 , gleams above her in the gilded lettering. Izuku, dressed in her a blue plaid shirtwaist dress, with her hair more frizzy than curled, feels exceptionally pathetic just standing in the hall. She’d knocked a few moments ago and is still contemplating whether or not it would be rude to try again. Or if it’s rude to offer leftovers at all, or-

“What the hell are you doing?”

The sudden voice makes Izuku jump, holding the Tupperware closer to her chest. She whirls around in place, eyes wide.

“Oh- Ka-Katsumi!” Izuku yelps. “You- uhm, you startled me.”

Katsumi is statuesque, sharp featured and blonde-haired-  taller than Izuku by at least five inches, graceful and elegant and intimidatingly beautiful. As far as Izuku knows, she’s unmarried, which is not a shock to her but probably would be to anyone else. Katsumi is one of those women- the kind that can stop a whole room in its tracks simply by walking into it, drawing the eyes of men and women alike with her beauty. Every outfit Izuku has seen her in has been mirrored in trending fashion magazines, not a hair out of place or a smudge of poorly-applied makeup. And perhaps everything would just be easier if Katsumi just was that sort of woman and Izuku’s neighbor and nothing more- but she isn’t.

Izuku’s known her before.

They’d been friends, once upon a time- Izuku-and-Kacchan . They’d met when they were young children, and when Katsumi was not a girl; when they’d spend hours in the forest playing make-believe and adventurers and simply existing together, thicker than thieves, the way children are. 

As they grew older, Izuku plain as ever and Katsumi a shining star, something changed. For as much as she’d admired Katsumi, for as much as she chased after Kacchan with stars in her eyes, she could admit that this admiration wasn’t returned. Katsumi hated her. Thought she was weird and ugly and creepy, and worth less than chewed gum on the sidewalk. And the torment began- the nicknames, the mockery, the stolen lunches and cruelty. This continued pervasively until their first year of high school, when-

(Don’t think about that. It’s the past.)

-When they had come to a tense, hesitant understanding . Then Katsumi had transferred to a prestigious all-boys school, and Izuku remained at their public high school. And then came university, and then Izuku’s marriage, and, well.

A lot had changed in the last twelve or so years, it seemed.

Their first proper reunion made that clear. They’d made eye contact, and for a startlingly brief moment, Katsumi’s face had just- dropped. And in that moment, Izuku knew that no , this wasn’t a look-alike or strange coincidence- it was Kacchan. Izuku had recovered- plastered on a careful smile and acted like nothing was wrong, like this genuinely was their first meeting. The age old housewife tradition of pretending everything was fine.

They were childhood friends. Then they had been bully and victim. And now they were nearly strangers. Izuku hasn’t forgotten the past, and she figures Katsumi isn’t stupid enough to think that Izuku hasn’t pieced together that past with the present. They both know.

But after everything, it seems easier to pretend that there never was an Izuku-and-Kacchan , or any kind of history between them. If Katsumi is a woman, then there’s no need to acknowledge the time when she wasn’t. No bad blood, no old grudges. A perfect, fresh start.

“This is my apartment,” Katsumi says, raising her eyebrow, mouth pursed like she’s resisting the urge to add on a dipshit to the end of her sentence. She crosses her arms, back straight, and everything about her is somehow, paradoxically, both incredibly familiar and strangely alien to Izuku.

“Oh. Right, of course,” Izuku says, feeling dumb. “I just. I didn’t realize you weren’t home.”

“Well, here I am,” says Katsumi, deadpan. “Whaddya want.”

Even after all those years of growing apart, it seems that Katsumi hasn’t lost her ability to make Izuku feel small without doing or saying much. Suddenly, Izuku feels ashamed of her divorced status and frumpy appearance. When she was young, she’d fantasized about growing up and becoming beautiful and getting married and being happy; about running into Katsumi at a luxury store or something, all calm and composed and perfect in contrast to Katsumi’s abrasiveness, her wedding ring gleaming proof that everyone had been wrong about her.

And now she’s here, divorced and alone, in an apartment she can only afford with someone else’s help, offering beautiful, female Katsumi Bakugo her crummy leftovers. Turns out they hadn’t been wrong, after all.

“… I just came by to ask if you wanted some casserole,” Izuku begins, holding out the small Tupperware. “I, um. I made a bit too much and thought I’d share.”

Katsumi squints down at the container, gaze scrutinizing, and Izuku resists the urge to shrink onto herself.

Fresh start, she reminds herself. You can’t be afraid anymore.

“What is it?” Katsumi asks, still eyeing the container, and maybe Izuku is going crazy but the furrow in her brow seems to have softened a little.

“Lemon- uh. It’s lemon chicken and rice.”

“Huh,” she says. After a few moments of agonizing, tense silence, where neither of them move and neither of them look at each other-

Katsumi takes the container. Her fingers are long and graceful and painted with red nail polish, and they brush over Izuku’s gloved fingers softly- briefly .

“Thanks,” Katsumi says gruffly, seeming awkward. Her face is impassive, unblemished and perfect, eyes just a little less sharp. It feels strange to see her like this, unguarded and not angry- not even scowling. Not smiling, of course, but it’s something Izuku has never really seen before. Something she struggles to connect with the image of Katsumi in her mind.

Katsumi clears her throat, and it occurs to Izuku that the silence has been sitting for too long, the atmosphere between them tense and awkward.

“Of course,” Izuku says belatedly, and she thinks back to an easy, generally welcoming phrase that Ochako had said to her when she’d first moved into that neighborhood. “That’s what neighbors are for, after all.”

She smiles for good measure.

Her neighbor does not smile. Abruptly the atmosphere goes tense again; her eyes harden, her mouth thins.

“Really,” she says.

“Of- of course,” fumbles Izuku, vaguely feeling like she’s missed something. “You know, it’s always important to be, uhm, hospitable, and…and, uhm…”

She trails off. 

“See you around, neighbor ,” Katsumi says, and it might just be Izuku’s imagination but she seems to spit the last word almost derisively, stalking towards her door.

Izuku wordlessly steps to the side, heading back to her own apartment with a practiced smile and nod in Katsumi’s direction.

Katsumi does not reciprocate. She acknowledges Izuku for maybe half a second and then slams the door shut behind her. 

She does eventually meet the rest of her neighbors. It was inevitable, really- Izuku’s almost always home, even on the days she spends drafting resumes and looking for places that are hiring. She hasn’t had much luck. 

The neighbors are nice, for the most part. 

There’s Mrs. Chiyo down the hall- a former army nurse who served during both wars. Izuku helps her with the groceries and chats with her about the more mundane qualities of life. She has one adult son who lives in Rye and pays her rent, and a tabby cat named Pudding (who Izuku loves dearly). Mrs. Chiyo, a widow herself, doesn’t seem to look down on Izuku for being a divorcee at all- it’s only come up in conversation once and then never again, and there haven’t been any comments about it.

It’s a surprise how normally most people treat her, especially since she still remembers what a scandal it was when a divorcee moved into her old neighborhood, and how people treated her mother when she was a child. Some are still standoffish around her - the wives in particular-, others pity her, but not as many as she expected. Perhaps it’s because it’s an apartment building full of singles and couples alike, and not a pristine suburb, but what does Izuku know?

A few doors down, there’s Mr. Shimano. He has two children and no wife, and perhaps that’s why Izuku receives such little attention for her own status. She hears a lot about him- pity and disdain from almost everyone. How hard it must be for him, how hard it must be for the kids, backhanded remarks about how much better it would be if he could just get remarried and give his children a mother…

Izuku feels bad for him, too. She can’t imagine it’s easy to not only have to balance being a father and working a nine-to-five and dealing with snide comments from neighbors. And she knows it weighs on him- Mr. Shimano is polite and cordial with her, with bags under his eyes and wrinkles on his forehead (even though he’s only a couple of years older than her), and is always either in a hurry to get to work or quietly making his way back to his apartment. He doesn’t seem to do much else. She’s only seen the children in passing- one boy and one girl, always together. They look so sweet. Izuku’s heart clenches a little whenever she sees them. 

Other than that, there’s a couple of other divorcees’ on the floor above her, a couple of beatniks, and one or two couples who make it abundantly clear this is a temporary living situation for them and that they’ll be purchasing a nice house soon. Izuku knows she should be happy for them, but she only feels strangely bitter. And then she feels ashamed, so she tries to avoid them as much as she can. 

The spot near the parking garage has become her go-to place to unwind- really, it’s just a place where she can smoke and think. She’s gotten used to the cars and horns, and even the cold is a little more tolerable. Her apartment has air conditioning and heat, which Shoto pays for, but the sooner she can get used to not having it, the easier it’ll be when she’ll have to start supporting herself. Yo had always complained about the prices of these things. 

A sudden gust of wind startles her as she’s fumbling with her Chesterfield box, and she drops her lighter in a pile of snow. 

“Shit,” she hisses, scrambling to pick it up. “Shit.” 

She wipes it down with the back of her glove, and tries to light her cigarette again. 

“Huh,” says a voice. “Well. Can’t say I was expecting company.”

Izuku jumps and turns around. 

Behind her stands a man- dark hair poorly slicked back in a mess of cowlicks, pale-skinned with heavy bags under his eyes; he’s dressed in a heavy dark gray trench coat and a mess of scarves that conceal the entire bottom half of his face. He strolls over to her, and she can see a pack of Marlboros in his hand. 

“Need a hand?” he asks, glancing at the lighter. Izuku, still gaping, absently hands it over to him. He’s not wearing gloves, and his hands are long and pale. The lighter sparks under the flick of his thumb, and Izuku presses her cigarette to the flame until it lights. He follows suit. 

She takes a drag and sighs, eyes fluttering shut. “Thank you.”

“Hitoshi Shinso,” the man introduces himself. His voice is raspy and deep, and he eyes her inquisitively. “I’ve seen you before.”

“Uhm, Izuku,” she replies after a beat. “And- I just moved in, so maybe-”

“No, I have seen you before,” Hitoshi insists. “At that- that country club party. Izuku Shindo, right?”

“It’s Midoriya,” Izuku says, voice clipped. Trying to keep the frown off her face, she adds, “I mean- it’s Midoriya, now.”

A beat.

“Oh,” Hitoshi muses. He takes another drag. “I see. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Izuku replies awkwardly. She blows out smoke, and they stand in silence for a while, neither of them knowing what to say. 

“Do you,” Izuku begins, pursing her lips. “Earlier, you said, uhm- do you come here often?”

He looks at her and shrugs. “I guess, yeah. It’s a good smoking spot. Ambient. Empty, most of the time.”

Izuku flushes. “Sorry.”

He waves her off. “You’re all good. So long as you don’t go telling everybody about this place. Then we might have some problems.”

Here he smiles a little bit, as if reassuring her that he isn’t serious. It’s a simple, almost charming, slight quirk of the lips. Now that his scarf is a little lower on his face, she can see the way the cold bites his cheeks a bright red. 

“I won’t,” Izuku promises. “I just… I came out here for some quiet.”

“I get it,” Hitoshi says, dusting some ash off his coat. “Need to get away from the neighbors, right?”

She hides a smile. “They’re all very nice. Interesting.”

“Interesting is one way to put it. They’re all misfits. Unforgettable, really.”

Izuku takes a long inhale of her cigarette, smile dimming. She thinks of shiny blonde hair and flawless red lips and that fierce, familiar scowl. She thinks of a cruel sneer and cigarette smoke and pain. Unforgettable. Unforgettable, and right there.  

How could she ever forget?

“Is something wrong?” Hitoshi asks. His voice sounds vaguely distant.

“No,” Izuku says after a moment. “No, everything’s fine.”

Chapter Text

…I’m settling in well. The neighbors are all lovely. I think I’ve made some friends. Yes, Yo’s well. What about you? How is everything? Good, that’s good. I’m sorry I can’t visit more… 

“...and honestly, the nerve of her,” Ochako complains, sliding over her teacup. Izuku pours slowly and carefully, but it still splashes slightly over the rim and onto the saucer. Izuku frowns, but Ochako doesn’t notice. “Who does she think she is? If this was my home town, we’d’ve wrenched that silver spoon out of her mouth ages ago.”

“She’s very opinionated,” Izuku agrees, taking a sip of tea. Kumi Hiroshi made snide, passive aggressive comments about everything from the positioning of the tableware to the color of Izuku’s dress on the night of their housewarming party and Izuku has never really liked her much since. 

Ochako snorts. “That’s one way of putting it. ‘Oh, Ochako, you know I worry. I can’t imagine your troubled upbringing would be a good way to raise children in this neighborhood’ . Hmph. I bet she’d be a lot less opinionated if she actually had to raise her kids.”

“ Ochako! ” Izuku scolds, but she hides a smile. 

“She has a maid , Izuku,” Ochako says. “A maid. A real life maid.”

Ochako, like Izuku, was not born into wealth. In her own words, they both got lucky and now live in a comfy, upper-class suburb where almost everyone has some sort of hired help and multiple floors. Perhaps it’s one of the reasons they get along so well. Izuku likes how bright and genuine Ochako is; it’s a breath of fresh air in a neighborhood that’s starting to feel more plastic the longer Izuku lives in it. She’s the only person who’s looked at Izuku’s ungloved hands and hasn’t gawked or grimaced at the scarring.

Sometimes Izuku gets the impression that this town is its own world, a perfectly preserved photograph, and anything out of the norm is a dark, ugly stain upon it. It’s an ultimatum as unspoken as it is ancient: assimilate or be ostracized. 

“I used to know someone who was raised with three maids,” Izuku says, and Ochako’s jaw drops. 

“You’re kidding .”

“One nanny, one housekeeper, one driver.”

“Was your friend the Prince, by any chance?” Ochako asks, and Izuku giggles. “You know, Tenya’s been talking about getting a maid. He says it’s just until the baby comes, but I don’t know. I don’t like that thought.”

“It won’t be the end of the world to have a little help,” Izuku says diplomatically. “If you can afford it, and if it’ll help at all, I mean.”

“I guess so,” Ochako says. She doesn’t look pleased, but she doesn’t look upset either. She most certainly doesn’t like the idea of being coddled all that much, but seems to struggle with accepting the fact that she’s been advised to rest for her pregnancy. 

“Oh,”Izuku remembers after a while. “Uhm, I found out who’s moving into the house down the street.” 

Her friend pipes up with interest. “Really?”

The house on the end of the street has been empty since before Izuku moved in, and it’s in nice enough shape that no one’s ever thought of taking it down. For the longest time it had been more of a landmark, with no one really knowing who currently owned the place or if anyone lived there or what had happened to the previous residents. Until a couple of months ago, that is, when a moving truck was spotted outside of it. It’d caused a bit of a stir amongst all the people who were incredibly used to nothing changing. Izuku had run into Sakura Himura at a shop the other day, and she apparently knew more about the new neighbor than anybody else.

“Mmh-hmm. It’s a woman. Her name- uhm, her name is Shino Sosaki.”

“Old lady?”

Izuku shakes her head, and Ochako’s mouth forms an ‘o’ shape.

“She’s a little older than us, I think. She has a- a little six year old boy.” 

“Is she divorced?”

“I don’t know. I think so.”

“Oh, no,” Ochako says quietly. “Oh, that’s awful.” 

“I know,” Izuku says, because it is awful. Izuku still remembers how everybody treated her mother when she was a child- as a pity, a shame, a constant source of mockery and gossip. A stark outsider, even in the poorer parts; a single woman and her daughter surrounded by tight-knit families. And then there were all the money troubles, which certainly didn’t make anything better.

Izuku thinks about that little boy, all alone at home for hours on end, with nothing but a few comics and homework assignments and the stale quiet of the house to keep him company-

“We should stop by, sometime,” Ochako declares suddenly, snapping Izuku out of her thoughts. “Bring some of your famous lemon-chicken casserole.”

“It'd be good if someone got some use out of it,” Izuku muses. Yo won’t say so, but he’s probably getting tired of lemon-chicken casserole. There’s still so much left in the fridge. And Mariko has been gushing about this new lasagna recipe…

“It’s important to be neighborly, especially when you’re in the same boat, you know? She’ll need somebody in her corner, and you never know,” Ochako’s eyes take on a mean glint. “I hear Kumi’s husband has a thing for single older women.”

Izuku spits out her tea, and Ochako cackles. 

-

At the bottom of Izuku’s closet, under old bags and beside her good shoes, is a box. 

It’s old and worn, large with slightly squashed corners, but it still has its shape. It does not belong in the neat array of dry cleaning bags full of silks and minks and carefully embellished clothes, a sea of delicate pastels and the occasional deep blue. Hours after Ochako leaves and a few hours before Yo’s set to come home, Izuku stops by to stare at it. 

She still has her apron on, and her rubber cleaning gloves are wet with soapy water. The dishes are only half done. 

The thought of worrying about that, for once, doesn’t cross Izuku’s mind. She’s driven by instinct, and she slowly pulls the box out. 

Izuku holds it delicately, with the utmost care. She can see the brightly colored cover through the top flaps- vibrant reds, blues, and yellows. She knows the contents of this box like the back of her hand.

Carefully, she opens the flaps. Inside rest a stack of books- the first few, on top, are the All Might comics. Many of them, particularly the earliest copies, aren’t as pristine as she’d like- some of the pages are wrinkled and the corners chuffed. They’re well read and well loved, and they’ve been kept in Izuku’s closet since she and Yo moved in. 

She was supposed to have given these away a long time ago. It’s the ultimate sign of the past- a silly, childish past. Of ruffled, old skirts and late nights and wild games in the woods, fantasies and conversations whisper-yelled in the way only a child can tell a secret. It’s all of these things, but ultimately, Izuku knows it’s just a box of comics. 

What woman has use for cartoons, anyway? It’d do more good in the hands of Shino’s little boy. It’s not right for her to keep this box. 

She should throw it all away. 

Izuku stares down at the cover of All Might, all sharp lines and defined contours staring back at her. 

She sits in silence for a while. 

Then she closes the flaps. She puts the box back in the closet and returns to the dishes like nothing ever happened. 

Chapter Text

Izuku’s mundane, relatively quiet morning is interrupted like this: a muffled crescendo of childish laughter, a sudden thud , and shouting.

Startled, she sets down her tea, puts out her cigarette in the ashtray, and walks over to the door, opening it slightly. She peeks through the crack and spots two small figures in the hallway, clutching each other. 

In front of them is a fuming, ranting Katsumi. 

“-body ever tell you not to watch where you’re going?” she snaps, dusting off the lapels of her coat. Her bag is on the floor, along with a myriad of other things, and Izuku puts the pieces together in a second. “The hell are you running for at seven in the morning? You got places to be? Is that it?”

“We’re sorry,” says one of them quietly. Katsumi sneers, picking up stray papers and items and shoving them haphazardly into her bag. 

“Oh, I bet you are-” 

And look: she’s not sure what it is, whether it’s instinct or memory or some kind of anxious spiraling of what could happen, but-

“Katsumi,” Izuku blurts out. They all swivel to look at her, and Izuku takes a short breath before stepping into the hallway, just in front of the kids. “K-Katsumi, come on. They’re only children. It was an accident.” 

A myriad of emotions crosses Katsumi’s face, and she eventually (unsurprisingly) settles on anger. “They’re fu- they’re brats , is what they are. First it’s the screaming, then it’s the- releasing bugs everywhere, now it’s racing through the halls and knocking into people like bowling balls-”

“We said we were sorry,” huffs one of them- she’s a little girl with pigtails, slightly taller than the other one, who seems to be her brother. Katsumi turns to her with a snarl, and the girl shrinks in on herself, gripping onto Izuku’s skirt. 

“Don’t get snippy with me, you little-”

“K-Katsumi!” Izuku protests, grabbing her arm. “That’s enough-”

“What the hell are you- fu- let go!”

“I’m sure it was an accident-”

“Like hell it was, let go of -”

“Katsumi-”

“You- Hey! I’m not finished with you, don’t- goddammit.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she spots the two of them disappear around the corner. Katsumi huffs, picking her bag up off the ground. 

“Somebody better tell Shimano to put a leash on those fucking hellions,” Katsumi grumbles. “Goddamn inconsiderate little… brats.”

She glances over at Izuku, and too late does Izuku realize she’s still clutching onto Katsumi’s sleeve.

“Oh.” Izuku drops Katsumi’s arm and takes a step back. “Sorry.”

“‘S whatever.”

The atmosphere shifts, tense and awkward. Katsumi makes her way towards the elevator, then stops, her back to Izuku. 

“I wasn’t gonna do anything,” Katsumi says, and Izuku looks at her, puzzled. 

“What?”

“I wasn’t gonna- hell, you know,” Katsumi motions with her hand, closing her purse and looking everywhere but at Izuku. “They piss me off. Causing trouble since they moved in. And I know- I know that you don’t- I mean. Look, I just. I wasn’t gonna fucking- hit ‘em, or anything like that.”

It’s not strange, or unwarranted, for anyone to discipline an unruly child. Izuku knows that. She knows from the parenting guides that getting hit is necessary for disciplinary development, that it builds character, on and on and on. But Izuku was a rare case in that her mother had never laid a hand on her, even when she acted out or cried or even when she broke a cup from her mother’s prized tea set, and so Izuku has always felt squeamish about it. Sensitive about silly things. It’s different when it concerns her.

It’s different when it concerns Katsumi.

“Of course not,” Izuku says after a moment. Of course not. 

She barely knows this woman. 

Her fridge is almost empty. 

There’s only a quarter-cup of milk, two eggs, a near empty Tupperware of leftover casserole (which has just enough for two servings and, upon a quick check, isn't rotten yet).

It hasn’t been this empty in a long time. Usually she’d be off at the store well before the fridge would begin to clear out, and that was back when she was cooking for two or more people. Honestly, with the meager meals she’s been eating and the amount she’s been storing away, she’s surprised that this happened so quickly. 

The anxiety kicks in, something ugly churning in her stomach. She runs to her bed and pulls off her pillows, her blanket and bedsheets-

There’s a leather briefcase nestled in between the wood planks of her bed frame. Inside is, well, money. Lots of it. About a quarter of everything Shoto has sent her in the past month. The key is buried in the dirt of a potted plant (the one with three big leaves, not four), and so when she goes to unlock it there’s dirt under her fingernails. When it clicks open, she pulls out an acceptable wad of cash and puts it in her purse- a leather envelope-style bag she’s had since her time at Shield University. It’s still in one piece, which is a surprise, but Izuku has never really thought about replacing it despite its age and lack of style. She’s had many purses over the years, but they were never anything more than accessories, tossed aside when they didn’t match her dress or jewels. This one she has always kept. 

The rest of the outfit is less practical. A grayish shirtwaist dress with warm black tights, and a cream cashmere coat (the one with the huge buttons) over top; her winter boots, though simple in design, are well-insulated (and, as she remembers, were rather pricey). Her hair’s been a mess recently, so she pushes it all back with a white headband (she makes sure to keep her bangs, just to cover her forehead) and fastens a pair of pearl studs to her ears. And, of course, her gloves. 

It’s a classic, elegant look. Izuku used to study magazines for hours thinking up combinations like this, back in 1954. She doesn’t need to stick to those combinations anymore, but finds herself picking them out of instinct. 

Izuku still has all her clothes- the taffeta and silk dresses, the minks, the beautiful jewels and shoes. It’s all thanks to Shoto that she has what she has. Otherwise she’d have sold it all long ago. 

She leaves the apartment as a sad, divorced once-beauty, and yet she still looks like a proper, well-to-do wife from a suburb. 

She wonders if she knows how to look like anything else anymore. 

By the time she’s finished reloading her fridge, she runs into a different problem: she’s not sure what to make. She can’t stomach the thought of more casserole and all the elaborate dinner recipes she once specialized in are of no use to her now. In addition, she’s out of practice in making frozen and cheap meals. During her marriage, Izuku had been home all by herself, all day, every day, and she’d been convinced it’d be disgraceful if she didn’t put as much effort as possible into a good meal. As it turns out, it hadn’t mattered to begin with.

Pensive, she lights a cigarette. She’s got about half a pack of Chesterfields left, so she might head to the convenience store tomorrow to get more- plus, she saw an ad for a typist position in the window on her way home. It’s worth a shot, even if she’s been struggling on the job hunting front. 

The problem is: it’s more difficult than she expected to get a job. She’s always been skittish and awkward, especially when she’s expected to speak for herself and not to adorn someone else, and the fact that there are always more put-together, prettier faces just around the block is of no help. Any positive first glance is almost immediately soured by her disposition. It’s a nightmare, especially since she knows she’d be good for any typist position. 

The other problem is this: there’s no real issue or pushback if she’s not able to get a job. Shoto’s made it clear he genuinely would not mind paying for her, for the rest of their lives.

But that’s not the point.

The point is that she can’t keep relying on others to survive. That giving it all up for someone else nearly left her broke and destitute, and would have if she hadn’t had help. She needs to be able to do this on her own. To be in charge. To be responsible for no one else. 

And it’s just after she’s affirmed this to herself that somebody bangs on her door. 

The apartment is eerily quiet, save for the sound of Izuku’s house slippers tapping against the hardwood. This isn’t unusual. 

What is unusual is that she isn’t alone. 

“Alright,” Izuku says, once the panic in her chest has finally dissipated, and the two children from earlier- Mahoro and Katsuma, as they unceremoniously introduced themselves- have quieted down from where they sit across the table from her. “From the beginning. What happened?”

“Kyoko locked us out,” Mahoro says simply. Her eyes are slightly red-rimmed. “Her boyfriend came over - even though Dad said he’s not s’posed to! - and then she told us to wait outside and- and then when we tried to open the door again it was locked !” 

Next to her, Katsuma sniffles loudly. His cheeks are flushed and stained with tears, and he rubs at his eyes. 

“And Kyoko is… your babysitter, correct?”

“Obviously,” Mahoro huffs. “She’s a no-good beatnik . If it wasn’t for her stupid ugly boyfriend we wouldn’t have to be here.”

“‘Moro, that’s mean ,” Katsuma protests, voice warbly. 

“I’m not being mean,” Mahoro argues. “It’s the truth! I-”

“It’s alright,” Izuku says placatingly, holding up her hands. “It’s good that you came to me. It’s not safe for you to wander around by yourself, and-”

“Don’t get it twisted! We only came to you because Katsuma thinks you’re nice,” Mahoro interrupts, leaning forward at the table. Her face is scrunched in a pout that’s likely meant to be menacing, and Izuku bites back a smile. “And we don’t know anybody else, other than Mr. Shinso and the lady next door, so it had to be you! Mr. Shinso kills people and the lady next door is a witch .”

“Wha- Mahoro!” Izuku splutters, expression dropping. “What- that’s an awful thing to say about someone! Who- who told you that?”

“My Dad,” Mahoro says matter of factly, while Katsuma at least has the grace to shrink in his seat. Izuku’s eye twitches a little. 

“Well. It’s- It’s not nice of your Dad to say things about people he doesn’t know. That’s a cruel, awful thing to do. Mr. Shinso and Miss Bakugo are perfectly- uhm, nice people-”

“Miss Bakugo isn’t nice, Miss Midoriya,” Katsuma pipes up. “She’s always yelling at us.”

Mahoro bobs her head in agreement. 

Izuku holds back a sigh, eyes closing. “Right. But it’s also true that you haven’t been very nice to her either, isn’t it? Didn’t she say you’ve been- that you’ve been leaving bugs around the apartment? That’s not a very nice thing to do.”

Honestly, it makes a lot of sense now that she thinks about it. She’d found a beetle in her bathtub the other night and nearly passed out from shock. And on her last smoke break with Hitoshi, he’d admitted to seeing some crawlers around too; she thought there was an infestation going around. 

“But that was funny, ” Mahoro insists. Izuku crosses her arms and gives her a look , and the girl huffs, shrinking into her seat.

“Maybe if you apologize to her for… all that, she’ll apologize to you for yelling,” Izuku says, basically lying through her teeth. She has no idea if that’ll work. The Katsumi she knew wouldn’t have apologized for anything even if held at gunpoint. Of course, there are a lot of differences between that Katsumi and this Katsumi, but she doubts that much has changed, name nonwithstanding. “And- and don’t be mean to Mr. Shinso. He’s a nice man.” 

The two are quiet for a while. 

“Maybe,” Mahoro says, picking at the hem of her dress. 

“At the very least,” she concedes, “You were both very brave today. Your father will be proud of how well you handled this.”

They say nothing, but Katsuma smiles a little, and Mahoro puffs up her chest.

Izuku stands up. 

“It’s getting late,” she says. “I’ll call your father. Would you like to eat?”

“Yes please,” Katsuma says, rubbing his eyes with his fist. Izuku dabs at his face with a napkin to clean off the tears and snot, and he’s surprisingly complacent. For Mahoro, she slides over the tissue box. She scoffs, but blows her nose when she thinks Izuku isn’t looking. 

The evening is quiet. She calls Mr. Shimano, who alternates between cursing out the babysitter and thanking her profusely. He tells her he’ll be home in about an hour, and then after a couple of pleasantries, he hangs up. 

She puts on the TV, and Mahoro and Katsuma, by habit, make their way over to the couch and fiddle with the channels a bit. They settle on the latest episode of Sugarfoot. 

Izuku, meanwhile, fumbles with a pack of cigarettes and lights up another cigarette. Chesterfields. She runs her gloved fingers through her bangs and makes sure they’re covering up the top of her forehead. 

By habit, she pulls out the lemon-chicken casserole from the fridge.

Chapter Text

Izuku? Izuku! Izuku, are you alright? Answer me, answer-

…Oh, God. Oh, my baby. Please, please, stay with me, I’m sorry, shh, I know, it’s okay, it’s going to be-

Sweetheart, listen to me. I need to go away for a little while, okay? It’s for work. I’m not gonna be living here for a while. But you can’t tell your mother. It’s our secret, alright? I’m going to be back before you know it, okay? It’s all going to be-

You’re a dummy, Izuku. But I’ll protect you. So stop crying. It’s gonna be-

Izuku was seven years old when it finally began to sink in.

Lying in the grass, split-lipped face to the clear blue sky, with a new tear in her worn haphazardly sewn dress, snot and tears and a bit of blood on her cheeks. The boy she’d been defending was long gone, and here, with nearly every muscle in her body aching, it all suddenly clicks into place. A glimpse into the rest of her life.

It was in this split second that she acknowledged that her days as Izuku, named after either her great aunt on her father’s side or her great grandmother on her mother’s side, were over. Her potential had been stifled. That the ugly, rotten part of her that had been growing and festering inside of her had started to spread to the outside like mold. And everyone could see it now. Soft and spoiled. Ugly and scarred and worthless and weak. Defenseless Izuku. Deku .

Before, she did not understand. She didn’t see the rot, and wouldn’t fully understand it for a couple more years, and for years and years she would never be able to articulate it. But in this moment she understood it- that there was a divide, now, between her and everyone else. That there was a difference - an acceptable difference- between hitting girls and hitting Deku. Between boys roughhousing on the playground and Deku roughhousing in the playground. Because Deku was different from the other girls: scarred and ugly, pitiable instead of precious, poor instead of pretty, gross instead of cherished.

Someday someone would tell it to her straight: that she will try everything. She’ll try so hard to be more than what she is. She’ll give away bits and pieces over and over until there’s nothing left, and it won’t matter. She’s Deku, and there’s no cure for that.

But that would not be for years. She sat up after a while, shakily brushing off the dirt on her dress, wiping her eyes with her arm. And a couple feet in front of her was the marker of this divide- the realization. The reason for the grass stains in her stained clothes and the coppery red on her lip.

A little less than a yard in front of her was someone who was going to be great. Someone who was going to be good looking and rich and worth more than a thousand of her. She looked at the back of her once-friend. Of the smartest kid in their class. Of the fastest, the strongest, the best. A firecracker of potential.

Warbly, Izuku whispers:

Chapter Text

Katsumi keeps a photo album in her nightstand drawer, and it’s the saddest fucking thing anyone’s ever seen.

It’s got a spiraling wire for a spine and a glossy red cover, with‘PHOTOGRAPHS’ engraved in gold lettering in the bottom right corner. It’s big, too. Poor sucker over the counter probably thought he was selling it to a nice young woman who dreamed of having a huge family in a nice house in the countryside.

As it stands, there’s barely enough photographs for a full spread. There’s one or two from her time with Jeanist, one of her and Eijiro in a seedy old bar downtown, and-

This last one always makes Katsumi pause.

It’s an old, old photo of two kids- one blond boy and one dark-haired girl, whose freckles are visible even in the harsh black and white. They’re both lively looking kids, beaming bright and wide with gap-toothed smiles and sparkling eyes. 

Katsumi pulls back the corner to reveal the writing on the back - ‘Kacchan and Deku, 1937’, in her father’s neat scrawl. Behind the photograph itself is something else.

A little trading card, pristine and almost new-looking. All Might’s beaming face stares at her. She stares, and stares for a long time.

Eventually she puts the album back in its place.

The rest of her routine goes normally. She eats breakfast. She fixes her hair. Slips into a black dress- the one with alternating orange and black stripes on top, and a pitch black pencil skirt on the bottom - and pairs it with her favorite necklace and some clunky orange earrings. Does her makeup. Packs her things, checks her hair a final time.

She turns off the lights, locks up the apartment. And when her gloved fingers rest over the handle, her eyes wander to the room next door. Only out of instinct. Not for long.

From the building, to her car, to Eijiro’s little brownstone to the office.

She can’t get it out of her mind.

Katsumi’s biggest concern, as of right now, in the office, is that Hina Sarusabe is a fucking idiot.

Kirishima whirls around in his dumb little swivel chair, munching on a bologna sandwich. “Aw, c’mon, Kats. She seems nice.”

“She can seem nice and still be an idiot,” Katsumi says, not so subtly looking over at Kirishima. He pouts. “And she’s definitely an idiot, or a drunk, because this correspondence is garbage.

“I mean, just look at this,” she hisses, furiously leafing through the papers. “She spelt ‘Terre Haute’ with one ‘r’ and missed the fuckin’ ‘a’ and ‘e’ entirely. For fuck’s sake. And- oh, you’ve got to be fucking- there’s two ‘l’s in Gillette! Two! They came by yesterday for a meeting! You’d have to fuck that up on purpose. You’d have to.”

“Maybe she was drunk,” Kirishima says, “She went out with Sero and the gang at lunch, I think. And in her defense, it- aw, don’t look at me like that. I’m just saying. I know I probably couldn’t spell ‘Terre Hot’.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not paid to spell things correctly,” Katsumi sneers. “Goddamn. Every man in this office thinks I’m being too hard on every pretty girl they say ‘hi’ to. It’s like she’s got your dicks wrapped around her finger. Also, it’s Terre Haute. And- close your fucking mouth when you chew, moron, you look like a clapping seal.”

“She doesn’t have my dick wrapped around her finger,” he says, grinning toothily. “Oh- Do you think I could do that thing that the seal trainers do, where they- where they throw the fish in the air and the seal catches it in it’s mouth?”

She looks at him like he’s sprouted a second head. “What?”

“You know, where they-”

“I know what you’re talking about, asshole, I just have no idea what you mean.” But really, does she ever?

“I’m gonna try and catch my sandwich in my mouth.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m gonna try it.”

“Whatever.” She turns back to the correspondence, marking yet another spelling error with her pencil, scowling. “See, if she was capable of doing good work, we wouldn’t have this problem! But no, it seems all Hina likes to do is sit around and- wait for the birds to do her paperwork, after they do her fuckin’ hair. Tch. Somebody should give her an earful- somebody other than me, because God knows it’s not gonna stick if I do it.”

“She’ll probably fix it if you ask nicely,” Kirishima says, pensively sticking out his tongue and trying to figure out the best angle to toss his sandwich. “You never know. It pays to be nice, sometimes.”

“I wouldn’t get half as much shit done if I was nice,” Katsumi scoffs, and Kirishima tosses it in the air.

The door opens.

“Why hello, Kat- Kirishima, what the hell are you doing in my office?” Mineta sputters.

Kirishima abruptly snaps his mouth shut. His sandwich hits his cheek and falls to the floor, and he makes a noise like air leaving a balloon when it hits the ground, face crumpling in agony. Katsumi smirks.

It’s not really Mineta’s office. He shares it with Kaminari, which is either the best or worst decision this company has ever made.

The best because, as much as she hates to admit it, they’re both competent at their jobs in the radio department. Charge-Dolt is a genuine master with this sort of stuff, and Mineta did come up with that successful juice advertisement (though it did result in the entire department plus Katsumi nicknaming him ‘Grapes’). The worst because they’re insufferable, pathetic perverts who fuel each other’s most primitive instincts and even the thought of them existing in the same room together gives her a headache.

Now, Sparky isn’t so bad. He seems to understand that Katsumi is not under any circumstance, ever, going to give him a chance, and he’s learned to behave, most of the time. Mineta, however-

“You look good today, Katsumi,” Mineta says, eyeing her up and down, and the sound of his grating voice makes the amusement slip off Katsumi’s face like water.

Katsumi ignores him, because it’s the second best thing she can do outside of cursing him out and crushing his head with a printer.

“Coming on a little too strong there, buddy,” Kirishima pipes up. Mineta crosses his arms.

“What are you doing here, again?”

“I’m on break,” Kirishima explains, looking sadly at the sad mess of bread and bologna and cheese on the floor. “And, uh. Apparently Denks never handed in some reports, I dunno.”

Oh, shit. Right. That. Should be on the desk, if Sparkplug did what she asked him to do.

“He did look out of it, yesterday,” Mineta says, then shrugs. “Watery eyes. A big sniffly Rudolph-Red nose. Said it wasn’t anything serious.”

Tuning out their conversation, Katsumi makes her way over to Kaminari’s desk, which is in an awkward, almost authoritative position on the wall opposite to the door, with too much junk going on either side. There’s a mess of paper that he clearly hasn’t bothered with, and her eye twitches.

“Man, I hope it’s not serious,” Kirishima frets. “Didn’t he mention his neighbor coming down with pneumonia, or something?”

“Tis the season.”

“Come on, man. Be serious.”

Katsumi looms over the desk, turning her back to the two men. She plops the faulty correspondence in a neat pile to the side, and filtering through the garbage- actual paperwork, misplaced client notes, and a shocking number of actual doodles on scrap paper. She bends slightly to shove some of it out of the way, grinning triumphantly when she finds it (all together, thankfully)-

“I am serious,” Mineta says, sounding impish. “And grateful.”

“I- what?”

His next words are hushed, but still audible. “We’ve got his pneumonia to thank for the view, am I right?”

Kirishima doesn’t respond.

It takes a minute for it to register in Katsumi’s brain what view he’s referring to.

It’s like a bubble pops. Katsumi’s eyes bug out in fury, body straightening as she whirls around, clenching the papers tightly in her hands.

Confirming her suspicion, Mineta immediately looks up and then away, this weird glint in his beady little eyes. Eijiro looks between them with his brow furrowed, like he still doesn’t get it.

A vein pops in her forehead. Katsumi clenches her jaw so tight her teeth grind to stubs.

Why, you grimy little-

She counts to ten.

Katsumi likes working. She likes her job. She likes enforcing order and the thrill of a completed task and the nice paycheck- she likes knowing that everyone who matters knows that she’s the one who keeps this place running. It’s all the power she has.

That power, in the grand scope of things, however, is very little in comparison to the potential influence a worm like Mineta has in his everyday life. If too many higher-ups start to genuinely think she’s an uncooperative, sensitive bitch, she’s not gonna keep her job. Her career depends on keeping a tightly-run ship and being a hot piece of ass, and one of those more than the other. 

And even the fact that her career depends on those things depends on nobody fucking knowing about her situation. If anyone so much as suspected, being out of a job would be the least of her problems.  If safety means toning it down, she'll tone it down. 

So she inhales sharply through her nose, exhales through her mouth. Plasters on her most professional smile.

“That’ll be all,” she says through her teeth. She crinkles her eyes a little- Tsuyu has a smile that crinkles her eyes and she’d overheard some of the peanut gallery saying that it looked cute, charming. Mineta shrinks on himself a little. “So sorry to have bothered you.”

He trips over his words. “Oh, uh, it’s-”

“It’s time for us to go,” she says smoothly, shooting a single glance at Eijiro. He stands immediately, and Katsumi stares back at Mineta, as nicely as she can. “Your copy for today’s debriefing finished?”

“Well-”

“If the next words outta’ your mouth aren’t ‘Yes, Katsumi’, then I suggest you get to it before Mic finds out, huh?”

Mineta’s eyes bulge out of his head. “Oh, no, that won’t be- uh. Yes, Katsumi-”

She leaves the office (with Sparky’s paperwork) before he can even finish. Kirishima follows after her like an obedient puppy.

“You’re kinda terrifying,” he tells her cheerfully, as they stroll down the hallway.

Katsumi ignores him and grins, genuinely this time.

“Well, whaddya’ know?” she beams. “Maybe it does pay to be nice.”

It does not, in fact, pay to be nice.

“Hina.”

The girl in question looks up, batting her eyelashes in what is undoubtedly supposed to be an impression of an innocent, helpless doe. To Katsumi it looks more like she has something in her eye.

“Is something wrong?”

“As a matter of fact, there is.” Katsumi plops the stack of papers onto her desk, and Hina straightens, startled.

“These letters are filled with so many errors I genuinely don’t know where to start,” she says bluntly. “Fix them.”

Hina’s face takes on an apologetic tone, but it’s too practiced and sweet-looking to be genuine. “I’m so sorry, Katsumi. I was just-”

“That doesn’t concern me,” Katsumi interrupts. “If you can’t write proper correspondence after drinking with the junior account boys, then don’t go drinking with the junior account boys. Fix it now.”

And this would normally be the end of it. It’s not the first time Katsumi’s dealt with people like Hina- pretty twenty-somethings who think that a low cut neckline and charming smile will get them whatever they want because it’s never failed before. And then they run into her, and it does fail, and they quietly correct their mistakes and move on and Katsumi doesn’t have to worry about it anymore.

Hina does neither of those things. Her sweet expression drops entirely, and and she sneers. “What is wrong with you?”

There’s not much that can throw Katsumi off her game. She’s seen it all: guys who think they’re hot and have never been told ‘no’ before, girls who think that just because they’re looking for husbands it’s acceptable to do nothing, entitled assholes who think that Daddy’s money fixes everything and that they can just do whatever the hell they want forever-

But this throws her off her game. Katsumi’s jaw drops. “With me?”

“Are you the only one who’s allowed to have fun around here?” Hina huffs.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Katsumi hisses.

“Oh, please,” Hina crosses her arms, lifting her chin in defiance. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

“I’d think carefully about my next words if I were you,” Katsumi says evenly.

“I see how you dress,” Hina bulldozes on, tilting her head in a vaguely smug, condescending way. “How you walk around the office. We all do. Who are you to judge? You’re not my mother, and I don’t need you to be.”

And then she lifts her chin, defiant.

A beat passes.

When Katsumi speaks next, she’s terrifyingly calm. “Get your things.”

Hina’s confident expression slips right off. She blinks, baffled. “What?”

“You heard me,” Katsumi sneers, clenching her jaw. “Get your fucking things.”

“You- you can’t be serious,” Hina stutters, eyes darting around. “What about-”

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” Katsumi says, leaning close enough that her necklace dangles over the desk- Hina flinches back. “You wanna have this conversation in front of Aizawa? I don’t waste my time with worthless little worms like you, and neither will he. Get your things, and then get out of here, because it ain't gonna be pretty if one of us has to drag you out.”

She doesn’t bother sticking around to see how Hina’s face has changed; she spins on her heel towards the break room and decides to get Kirishima a new sandwich.

But even after that, Katsumi’s biggest concern, as of right now, in the office, is still that Hina Sarusabe is a fucking idiot.

“Look,” says Aizawa tiredly. Understandable. The man goes through secretaries like a typewriter goes through paper, but even he seems to be mildly surprised at Hina’s mere week-long employment. “I understand your reasons. But I’m going to need a new secretary, and you and I both know there’s no time to look for one.”

Katsumi had promised him a new one by next week, Monday. In the meantime, she’ll be temporarily filling in, which is just fucking great. More paperwork. Hooray.

But it’s better than if Hina had continued working. That girl has no idea how lucky she is that Katsumi read the correspondence to “Gilett” before the Gillette executives did. The whole company would have looked amateurish, and Aizawa wouldn’t have been even a tenth as nice as Katsumi was.

And Hina deserved to get fired. The thought of Katsumi trying to shack up with any of these sad sacks of shit is laughable, and nobody who’s ever accused her of it has had their job for longer than two weeks. Although that mostly just applies to the women. The men, she just makes life a living hell for. Whatever.

Another negative to the whole situation is that she ends up being the one who has to fix Hina’s correspondence, which means she ends up staying late, which means her bad mood has gone from bad to worse.

Because the second Katsumi steps out of that office and into the elevator, her biggest problem is not that Hina Sarusabe is a fucking idiot.

“Hey,” Katsumi says. Kirishima blinks and points to himself, confused.

“No, I was actually talking to Mr. Nedzu over here- yes, you, moron. Look. I need to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Am I. I mean,” Katsumi runs her tongue over her front teeth. “Would you say I’m approachable?”

“…No. Not at all. I would never say that about you. Why?”

Katsumi huffs, borderline petulant. “You and the... the Idiot Squad approached me.”

“Yeah, well. We’re the Idiot Squad,” Kirishima says, and Katsumi begrudgingly admits that he makes a fair point.

"But hey," he says, nudging her shoulder. "You may be kinda intimidating, but you're- y'know, you're cool. Confident and bold and a lot of people find that attractive, y'know? I mean- I don't know how to explain it, but it's like... you're not approachable, but you're definitely magnetic."

"Huh," Katsumi murmurs.

“Is something wrong?” he asks. “Like. Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” she says after a while. "Thanks. But no."

The elevator dings, and they step off together, past the near-empty lobby, to the garage, to the discreet spot where Katsumi’s 1958 red Lincoln Continental is parked.

Her biggest problem is that her ex-childhood friend probably thinks she’s still a pathetic bully. A pathetic boy. 

Her biggest problem is that she's- she's at risk, now, isn't she? One word from Deku to anyone and- that'd be it. She'd lose everything in the blink of an eye. And what's worse is that Deku has every incentive to make that happen, and yet-

Her biggest problem is that her ex-childhood friend, who has good reason to think she’s still a pathetic bully and a pathetic boy-just. Doesn't. 

Deku has no reason to call her Katsumi, or treat her and refer to her like a woman. No one who's ever known (outside of a select few) ever has. Is it some sort of- of joke? A pity thing? Is it some new, fucked up way to look down on her, tell her she's not real the way Deku is real, every day, for the rest of their lives?

But that's the other big problem, isn't it. Deku would never do that. Deku would never mock Katsumi for all the ways she falls short the way Katsumi would, if the roles were reversed.

The Deku she knew, who was always too rowdy and passionate and awkward, gangly and freckled and wild, kind and good and true-

When she closes her eyes, she thinks of the Deku she'd seen in the apartment hallway, that day. Perfectly combed hair. Soft-spoken, barely used voice. A straight smile and dead, empty eyes. Red lipstick. More of a magazine than a woman.

That's an interesting thought, huh.

Maybe this Deku's not real, either. 

It’s late by the time she drops Kirishima off at his apartment, and it’s even later by the time she gets back to her own. She stretches a little and her back cracks.

Her ears are still bright red from the cold. Whenever winter rolls around, her whole face goes red and she needs to take five minutes in the Ladies Room to get her skin back to normal. She hates it because it looks silly, and because whenever Kirishima sees her he throws his arm around her and goes “we match!” as he points to his shocking head of red hair.

But she’s tired. Her fingers are cramping and she’s in the mood to just fall asleep the second she sets foot in her apartment, and she’s not really expecting anything new.

Which is really her mistake.

“-can’t thank you enough,” says Shimano, to- Deku? He’s standing outside her apartment door, his two little hellions in tow, and Deku is just standing there with that awful plastic smile reassuring him that it’s ‘no trouble at all’, politely declining the wad of cash that he keeps trying to give her with a wave of her hand.

She really does look nothing like what Katsumi remembers- not as in the obvious changes that occurred with age, but just. In general. She’s still sickly thin. Her hair’s too neat and side-swept (even if her bangs are a little frizzy), she’s wearing one of those housewife-y gray shirtwaist dresses (a color Katsumi’s never seen on Deku before), and there’s a whole layer of makeup on her face- there must be, because her fucking freckles are gone.

She’s not sure why the sight makes her pause. Maybe its because a close-up of this picture-perfect Deku makes her stomach turn. Maybe it’s that she doesn’t really like Shimano; he’s clearly got his hang-ups about her, and even if his kids are brats, it’s not their fault their father’s almost never home. Maybe it’s because they haven’t noticed her yet- they as in Deku and Shimano, because the same can’t be said for the brats in question.

The little boy lets his eyes wander, and they widen comically when he spots her. He nudges his sister, who’s expression morphs into a look that Katsumi can’t place.

She feels out of her depth, suddenly. It doesn’t matter if she knows that she wouldn’t have hit them- Deku thought she would have, which means these kids definitely thought she would have, and it rubs Katsumi the wrong way. As awful as she was and as much as she knows she deserves it, she doesn’t want to be known as someone who hits innocent people. Someone who picks on people who can’t fight back.

But she’s surprised again when the boy - whom Katsumi mentally refers to as Blue - suddenly starts marching over to her. The girl- dubbed Pigtails - hurriedly follows, gripping onto his hand, and she meets Katsumi’s confused stare.

“Oh, Miss Bakugou,” Shimano says. “Er- Mahoro, Katsuma-”

“We’re sorry,” says Blue, and Katsumi blinks. “We’re really, really, really sorry for bumping into you."

“Even though it was an accident,” Pigtails adds.

“And for putting bugs everywhere.”

“Even if we didn’t mean for them to get out.”

“And calling you a witch.”

“Even if it is a little true.”

“Mahoro!” Deku interjects, scandalized.

The girl pouts. “We’re sorry, okay! Do you forgive us or not?”

“Now, Mahoro,” Shimano begins sternly, but Katsumi cuts him off.

“It’s fine,” she says to him, before fixing her gaze onto the brats. They shrink back.

“Look,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “I’m not mad anymore. I’m… glad you apologized. And, uh. I’m sorry for scaring you. That was shi- uh, that wasn’t nice of me.”

“I wasn’t scared,” Pigtails says arrogantly, but she seems pleased. Blue similarly looks relieved.

Shimano ushers them away without much fanfare, with Blue sneaking one last wave to Deku.

And suddenly it’s just the two of them. Deku looks down, fiddling with her gloves. Katsumi heads to her door, not expecting much, but really, by this point she should have learned to stop making that mistake.

“Wait.”

Katsumi looks back.

“Uhm,” Deku begins. She takes a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut. “Thank you.”

She frowns. “For what?”

“Well. You know,” she waves her hand. “For apologizing, I suppose. That was nice of you.”

Katsumi bristles. “I’m plenty nice.”

She kind of regrets the words the second she says them, especially considering who she’s just said them to . But Deku huffs out a small laugh, smiles a little- a slight quirk of the lips, eyes slightly shy and sweet, and Katsumi is briefly stunned, reminded of endless fields and four leaf clovers and butterfly nets and laughter. Deku and Kacchan. Them against the world.

“Come get coffee with me,” Katsumi says, without really thinking about it. Deku blinks in surprise, and before she can lose steam, she continues, “You know that new bakery on 26th street? Sato’s. ‘S ten minutes from here and I’ve got an hour for lunch.”

Deku opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

And before Katsumi can awkwardly tell her to forget it, Deku takes a deep breath. Squares her shoulders.

“At lunch, right?” she says. “Okay, Ka- Katsumi. I’ll be there.”

Katsumi grins.

O

Chapter Text

“Go on,” says Mama excitedly. “Open it.”

The box in her hands is wrapped perfectly in Christmas wrapping paper- they don’t have the regular kind- with a ribbon on top. She knows what’s in it before she even opens it- a stack of new All Might comic books and a candy bar.

Mama doesn’t know that Izuku saw her shopping bag by accident when she went to the store a few weeks ago.

Izuku is excited, because she’s been wanting these issues for so long; but part of her is sad, because Mama clearly wants to surprise her. To give her this sudden, unexpected moment of joy- because maybe if it’s enough of a surprise, all the bad will momentarily melt away.

But it’s not a surprise.

Still, she takes her time opening the carefully wrapped paper, as if in anticipation, and she still squeals with delight and jumps around the kitchen when she gets the comics. She holds them delicately, so as not to crumple them, and sets them on the table before giving her mother the tightest hug she can. Mama beams.

Izuku realizes that life is much more predictable than everyone says it is.

Mama packs her a peanut butter sandwich and an apple for lunch before she leaves for work.

“I love you, baby,” she says, pressing a sweet kiss to Izuku’s forehead, and it’s what she always says, but Mama has this way of speaking that makes everything sound brand new and special- like it means something more, like it’s just for her; like no one before has ever told their child that they were loved. “Have a good day at school.”

She leaves in a whirlwind of old perfume, the sounds of her swishing purse and the jingling of her keys, and Izuku always takes a moment to stare intently as she gets in the car- it’s relatively nice, but it’s old and beat up, a relic from when her Father still lived with them- and her eyes never leave it, even as mother pulls out of the driveway, even as the hunk of metal rattles down the road.

Izuku steps out onto the porch, lunch pail in hand, and watches her drive off and slowly disappear into the horizon; the same sinking feeling happens in her gut as it does every morning, because all she knows how to anticipate for is the worst.

The walk to school is a tiresome one. Not tiresome as in long or tedious, per se; tiresome as in repetitive. A slow, slog of the familiar, to a place where it all gets worse; and the torment, the whispers, the cruel laughter and pigtail pulling- none of it is nearly as bad as the dread.

The sidewalk is clean and kept, as are most of the driveways and houses; it’s a good neighborhood. Her father had been an affluent man, from what she hears, which is the only reason they live here to begin with. When he left, Mama sold just about everything to keep the house because they’d have been homeless otherwise, and if it weren’t for Mama’s jobs they probably would be right now.

And because of this, she stands out, here. The other housewives snicker about her mother and the men feel sorry her; Izuku gets the best of both worlds, an even mix of pity and disdain. That poor Midoriya girl- she comes from a broken home. That poor Midoriya girl, with the giant scars across her arms-

Either way; she doesn’t belong.

The birds flutter about on the telephone wires, chirping happily. The trees are bright green, leafy and lush. The sun shines over every pristine house, every road and sidewalk, over this beautiful world that Izuku’s not part of.

And of course, less than a yard ahead, is Kacchan.

He’s got his hands in the pockets of his uniform, and his posture is straight, confident. Powerful. He’s really started growing into himself, recently; taller, faster, stronger. The girls giggle when he walks by and the boys run themselves ragged for his approval like starving dogs.

Izuku doesn’t quite know where she lies on the scale- even if there isn’t anybody Kacchan hates as much as her.

Kacchan only lives a couple of houses down from her, and he always walks to school - like she does - but Izuku knows better than to walk near him. The last time she’d tried- years and years and years ago-

“Quit following me,” he’d snapped, shoving harshly at her shoulder. “It’s annoying.”

She’d sputtered out something, like we live on the same street or something along those lines, voice warbly and pathetic-

And she’d seen his eyes- full of contempt, of disgust, of brimming anger. She doesn’t remember what he’d said after, but-

She’d known before that Kacchan didn’t like her, that he wasn’t her friend anymore- but that look in his eyes almost made her sick. She’d bowed her head and scurried back, meek and afraid, and ever since then she’s made sure to keep her distance.

So now, every morning, she always walks behind him, her face to his back, separated by a couple of feet of space. He doesn’t get upset so long as she’s far away enough, and even if they’re both independently going to the same place, Izuku still feels like she’s a little girl chasing after him, following him. It’s an icky feeling.

But he stops in his tracks at the end of the sidewalk, when a car begins to slowly turn the corner, and Izuku freezes in place by instinct.

There’s a gust of wind. Chills run down Izuku’s spine.

Kacchan glances back.

She’s not sure if he sensed her presence, or if she’d made a sound, or if he’d just glanced around out of habit- but for a moment, for the briefest of moments- their eyes meet.

His eyes widen.

She’s not sure why this catches her off guard. Maybe it’s because whenever she looks at Kacchan she always expects him to look past her, like she’s a ghost, or look away as fast as he can, as if she could turn him to stone with a single look. The kids at school always do that, except for when they’re teasing her.

But Kacchan stares.

He stares, and he gets this furrow in his brow, mouth parting slightly, and Izuku can’t place the look on his face. Just that it’s always directed towards her, like she’s the mystery.

Izuku gapes a little. A voice in her head, one that sounds an awful lot like Katsuki’s mom, says Close your mouth, you’ll catch flies. Her mouth snaps shut.

Kacchan is good at basketball. One day he’d come into school claiming he liked soccer best. One day he’ll talk about the All Might series and the next day it’s like he’s never seen them before in his life. Some days he’s cruel to Izuku- pulling her hair hard enough for her to fall out of her seat, calling her names, grabbing at her uniform; other days he ignores her, like she’s less than the dirt beneath his shoe. The truth is, in a lot of ways, Kacchan is actually a very inconsistent person.

He has a few constants, though: he wants to be a movie star, like All Might, and he likes spicy food, and whenever they’re alone, without anything else between them, he looks at her like this.

It still surprises her every time. She doesn’t know why.

Eventually the car drives off, and the moment is over. Kacchan’s face works back into a familiar scowl, and he turns away at a speed that might cause whiplash, his back to her. He storms off down the road, and after a beat, Izuku follows.

She can’t help but wonder how many more scowls and sneers and taunts it will take before the next time he looks at her with the closest thing he has to civility. She will be surprised, because Kacchan is not consistent like the passing of time or the summer birds on the telephone wires or the lunch Mama packs her. She keeps looking at him, seeing him, the way he powers through anything that dares to get in his way, and she’s so sure that one day he’ll change. One day he will see her. One day everything will be different.

But then the cycle will continue, and then she’ll wonder if he’s more consistent than she thinks.

In the morning classes, someone throws spitballs at the back of her head, because when it happened in elementary, she’d burst into tears in front of the whole class and there seems to be this subtle, underlying obsession with making her cry like that again. Her English teacher calls her stupid when she spells a word wrong and everyone laughs. One of Kacchan’s friends leers at her when she passes him in the halls- in that joking, ugly way that says he doesn’t mean it, that if ever faced with the choice, he’d rather kiss a pig.

But that’s all. For the most part everyone acts like she doesn’t exist. She doesn’t know if she prefers it that way.

Once, early on in the year, she’d written a series of polite, sophisticated answers to what she percieved to be frequently asked questions on a notepad and memorized them, so that the next time someone asked her something, she’d respond perfectly, without the faintest trace of a stutter. Mama had even helped her, and they’d practiced it all throughout the winter break. So, as a precaution, she’d hidden the notepad in her bag with all her other stuff, and when she arrived back to school everyone seemed almost impressed that she wasn’t stuttering much anymore. Her teacher complimented her on her improvement.

Kacchan hadn’t been happy. And somehow, when she hadn’t been looking and had her back turned, he found the notebook.

You can guess how that turned out.

It feels wasteful that she gets to sit in a chair and write on a desk and live in a house in a neighborhood full of people who aren’t like that- who aren’t useless like her. Who are going to grow up good, upstanding citizens. Every side glance, every hidden snicker, every step and every word and everything they do-

It’s clear she doesn’t belong.

She doesn’t know why she tries.

She eats her lunch in an empty janitor’s closet.

The janitor’s closet wasn’t her first pick. At first she tried eating lunch in the cafeteria. Kacchan went from glaring at her to shoving her to dumping a bowl of soup on her head in front of everyone, and she never went back. Then was the washrooms, where a group of girls tried to dunk her head in a toilet, and now she feels a weird sense of dread every time she sets foot in there. When she tried to eat outside, she got scolded and caned by a teacher.

So the janitor’s closet it is.

Mr. Sarusabe is a kindly old man, and he lets her do so as long as she doesn’t make a mess. She can hear chatter from outside the classroom- laughter and smiles. A wonderful world.

One Izuku’s not part of. But that’s no surprise, either.

She opens her lunch pail, pulls her knees to her chest.

Inside is a peanut butter sandwich and an apple.

Like always.

O

Chapter Text

Shoto's out of the house, and she doesn't want to bother him at work, so Izuku switches tactics entirely. 

“Yaoyorozu Momo speaking,” says a honey-sweet voice.

Izuku puffs out a stream of smoke and wets her lips.

“Hi, Momo,” she says, phone tucked in the junction between her ear and her shoulder. She waves the hand that holds the cigarette a little, resisting the urge to fidget. “How are you?”

“Oh, Izuku,” Momo greets, slightly surprised. Izuku doesn’t usually call this early. “I’m very well, thank you. Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine,” Izuku says automatically, and then a beat passes and she says, “No. No, that was a lie. I’m- I’m conflicted. I- May I ask you for advice?”

She and Momo have known each other for years now, going back to Izuku's days at Shield- but they’re not close way she and Shoto are. Which makes sense. They don’t have a tenth of the history. Their interactions have mostly been limited to afternoon tea and civil, moderately surface-level conversations about the things they’ve been into recently; but Momo seems to like Izuku, and they both seem to have an understanding about what they mean to each other; and Izuku values any input Momo gives her. She’s just distant enough to be unbiased and close enough to think about what would be best. Of course Izuku would treasure her advice.

“Of course,” Momo says, sounding an even mix of amused and concerned, the way she usually sounds around Izuku. “Nothing’s… wrong, is it?”

“No, no,” Izuku reassures her. “It’s not- it’s nothing bad.”

That’s the simplest way to phrase it, right? Nothing bad really happened. Not really.

“Well?”

“Uhm. Well- it’s just,” Izuku waves her hand a little more, animated, and a bit of cigarette ash falls to the floor. “Say that you ran into an old acquaintance, and, uhm, in the past you didn’t- you didn’t get along. At all. But you run into this acquaintance, and they’re- different, now. Incredibly different. Almost nothing like they once were. And- and say that they invited you to have lunch. With them. On their lunch break. And you’ve already agreed to go because you panicked but you’re- you’re still not sure how to feel about this person, or- whoever they may be now. And-”

The realization that she’s muttering hits her like a brick to the forehead- God, when was the last time she let her motor-mouth get away from her like that? She huffs on her cigarette, trying to calm down; the nicotine scratches an itch, but her shoulders are still tense. “Oh, God. Oh, God, Momo, what do I do?”

“Breathe,” says Momo. “Before anything else- just, breathe.”

Izuku does- a childishly long inhale and exhale. Her eyes close, open, readjust to the warm lights of her apartment. Her heart is still pounding like a jackrabbit, but it’s more steady. She smokes a little more of her cigarette and then gives up on it, snuffing it out into the ashtray nearby. Izuku stretches her ungloved fingers- the scarred texture and knobby quality of her hands feels alien and uncomfortably familiar all at once.

“Now what?”

“Well, now you think,” Momo says, bemused. “Do you want to go to lunch with this person?”

Well. Would she?

Izuku thinks of Katsumi- her immaculate, almost spiky-looking up-dos, her beautiful sharp features, her tall stature, her piercing eyes…

On the one hand, they really do not have the best track record. They barely spoke to each other in school, and when they did speak to each other it was never pleasant. Izuku doesn’t want to go if it means it’ll end in some sort of fight.

On the other hand, the Katsumi from her childhood and the Katsumi from- well, now, are vastly different (in more ways than one), and she did already say yes to the invitation. It’d be rude not to show up, and Katsumi lives right next door and knows full well that Izuku has no other plans.

And it would be nice, she thinks, to catch up. To catch up with Katsumi Bakugo, period; if she’d gotten this opportunity in middle school, she would have taken it in a heartbeat, overjoyed at the chance to get her friend back. It’s been a long time since then, but it seems that Katsumi is the one thing Izuku struggles to fully leave in the past.

" I suppose,” she says finally.

“Then you know what to do,” says Momo kindly. “Wear a nice dress, style your hair, be cordial. And if you change your mind, just say you’re ill and can’t make it.”

Some of the tension drains out of Izuku, her shoulders slumping.

Momo’s advice is sound and simple- it grounds her almost immediately. There’s no point in panicking- it’s just lunch, after all. All Izuku has to do is be polite. And if she embarrasses herself she can just… avoid Katsumi forever, probably. She’ll figure something out.

“Yeah,” she says. “That- that’s right. You’re right. Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Momo says, and after a few more pleasantries and well-wishes, Izuku hangs up.

Sato’s is the very pinnacle of small town, quaint cafe- even if it is in the middle of the city. Wood-print walls with chocolate brown accents and pink flooring; blue gingham trim over the blinds on the windows, cute signs on the walls and on top of the large glass counter, and a gumball machine near the door. The whole place smells vaguely of coffee beans and warm brown sugar, with warm toned ceiling lights, and the vast array of treats on display - cakes, cookies, brownies- makes Izuku’s stomach clench with a strange, sudden hunger.

Beneath her tightly buttoned-up cream-colored coat (with the advice of both Momo and Uwabami magazine) Izuku had settled on a white day dress, speckled with orange flowers and green leaves and buds. She matches it with pearl earrings, a simple pearl necklace, her frame handbag and white gloves. She runs her fingers through the excessive curl of her bangs before she fully steps in; her bangs have been unruly as of late, and she’d given up on them by the time eleven a.m. had rolled around- and any progress she had made was immediately undone the second she stepped outside into the harsh February air.

Izuku glances around the shop- at the passing people with their suits and day dresses and coiffed hair- and even after all this time, Izuku’s eyes still find her immediately.

Katsumi’s sitting at a two-person table, staring intently at a pamphlet in her hands. Her black coat is unbuttoned, unlike Izuku’s own coat, and this allows for Izuku to see the tight fitting orange blouse and black skirt she has on- paired with green button earrings and what looks like a pen necklace. She’s got her hair in a kept up-do- stray hairs poke out and it makes her hair look almost spiky. Like a dandelion.

The thought makes her smile a little.

“Katsumi,” she says, and Katsumi’s head snaps up, eyes widening minutely. Izuku fidgets with the handle of her purse a little. “Uhm. Hi.”

“Hey,” she says, voice a bit rough. It always got that way during the colder months, back when they were kids.

Mentally, Izuku wonders why she remembers that.

“You can… sit, if you want.”

“Oh,” she blinks, snapped out of her stupor. “Oh, of course, of course…”

She pulls out the chair and takes a seat, right across from Katsumi, who sets down her pamphlet. Her face is all sharp angles and contours- well lived in, but still youthful and bright. She looks almost exactly like Auntie Mitsuki now, Izuku realizes. She’s never been this close to her before in such a civil setting.

“So,” she begins, hesitantly. “How are you?”

Katsumi looks at her strangely, but answers anyway. “I’ve been, uh. I’ve been good. …You?”

“I’ve been well,” Izuku says, albeit awkwardly. “Just… finishing up some things.”

“You’re still unpacking?”

“No. Well,” Izuku says, thinking about the remaining boxes under her bed. “I suppose there’s still a bit to do. I’ve mostly been preoccupied with… well, everything.”

“Quit being vague, D-Izuku,” Katsumi says, borderline teasing, and if she’s aware of the near slip-up she doesn’t acknowledge it. “C’mon. What is it exactly that’s got you so busy? You seeing somebody?”

It’s the most likely and obvious conclusion to draw about any mid-twenties woman who doesn’t leave her apartment for work in the morning and still goes out consistently. Husband-shopping, as one of the housewives in the suburbs used to call it. The reminder makes Izuku’s stomach curdle.

Her slight smile dies, and she purses her lips. “No. I’m not- no. I’m- divorced, actually.”

She regrets it the second she says it.

Nice going, Izuku, she thinks miserably. Just go ahead and tell your ex-childhood best friend/former tormentor/current stranger-neighbor just exactly how pathetic you are.

In response, Katsumi stiffens a little. She’s quiet for a moment, an unreadable look passing through her eyes before she settles on something more neutral.

“…Sorry to hear that,” she says gruffly, but she doesn’t seem perturbed or uncomfortable. She looks- intrigued, almost.

“I shouldn’t have sprung that on you,” Izuku blurts out. “I’m sorry. That was- it was inappropriate.”

“Forget it,” Katsumi says. “You want a drink? Something to eat?”

“Oh, well-” she stutters a bit, then gives up. She is taking up Katsumi’s lunch break, after all. “Sure.”

Katsumi waves over a server and orders peppermint tea and a sandwich. Izuku, floundering in this unfamiliar environment, just orders the same thing (only her sandwich has no tomatoes).

“So. What do you do, then?” Katsumi asks, once the server has disappeared into the back. Her nails are bright red and perfectly manicured, fingers long and elegant, and she taps them onto the hardwood of the table. Izuku has never noticed that before.

“…Job hunting, I suppose,” Izuku shrugs, wishing she had something to do with her hands. The box in her purse is a tempting offer, but she doesn’t want to smoke in front of Katsumi, even if the itch is killing her. “It’s… more difficult than I thought it’d be.”

“Yeah, well,” Katsumi rests her face in the palm of her hand. “Holidays are just about over, and all the businesses on our street are tiny. Mom-n’-pop shops. You’re better off looking further into the city.”

The server returns with their food, and Izuku smiles at her, while Katsumi nods, digging in almost immediately. Izuku stirs her tea with a spoon, unwilling to remove her gloves just yet.

“That reminds me,” she says, and Katsumi glances up. There’s a crumb on the corner of her mouth, and Izuku resists the urge to brush it away. “This is your lunch break, right? What do you do?”

“Office manager,” Katsumi says, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand. “At UA.”

Izuku’s eyes widen.

“UA Advertising,” she repeats incredulously. “Oh, my. Katsumi, that’s- that’s wonderful.”

“Yeah,” she says, and there’s the hint of a genuine smile on her lips. “Lots to manage. Tons of rich assholes. But it’s good work, and the closest I can get to being the boss, so.”

“I can imagine,” Izuku says, taking a sip. The steaming temperature and mild tang of peppermint is rich on her tongue. “UA’s good. One of the best in the country, right?”

“It’s the best, in my book,” Katsumi says, and then she tilts her head curiously. “Surprised you know about it, though.”

“My- uh, former husband was an ad man,” Izuku explains. “Not- not at UA, though. Uhm. He works at Ketsubutsu.”

“Huh,” says Katsumi, surprised. She takes a bite of her sandwich. “Ketsubutsu, huh. They’re not completely shit. So you know a thing or two about advertising, then.”

“Oh, no,” Izuku waves her hands. “No, he never- he never really told me anything at all about what he did.” Her voice comes out a bit more bitter than she’d intended, but Katsumi doesn’t acknowledge it.

“But- well. UA’s a rival of Ketsubutsu, right?” Izuku inquires, unbuttoning her coat. Something about the peppermint tea and the cafe heater (and the intensity of Katsumi’s stare) have warmed her up enough. “I know that much.”

“You could say that,” Katsumi leans back in her seat, eyeing Izuku intently. Her necklace glints in the light- it’s not a pen, Izuku realizes, breath hitching. It’s a grenade pin. “Advertising’s a very competitive business. Only the best succeed, and all that.”

“Well,” Izuku swallows. “It makes sense that you’d be involved with it, then.”

As much as things have changed, it’s nice to see that this hasn’t- that Katsumi is still soaring, high in the sky- a shining star of power. The thought nearly distracts her from the face Katsumi’s making- partly puzzled, partly hopeful. She opens her mouth like she’s going to say something, and then thinks better of it.

“Your sandwich is getting cold.”

“Oh, right…”

She reaches for her gloves, and then hesitates. Katsumi cocks a confused brow at her, and Izuku remembers- oh, right.

She may be starting fresh here, but there’s no need to pretend for some things. Katsumi knows about the scars on Izuku’s hands. Everybody at their school knew about the scars on Izuku’s hands. There’s no surprise here. It’s as routine as opening up your lunch pail for school.

So she pulls them off and sets them to the side, pushing down a momentary paranoia that anyone else is staring at her, and takes a bite of her sandwich. True to word, it’s gone cold. Izuku eats it anyway.

“It’s good,” she says after swallowing, only half meaning it. “This is… it’s a nice place. Do you come here often?”

“No,” Katsumi says, still looking at her. “I don’t go out during lunch all that much. Gives a lot of men the wrong idea.”

Izuku finishes her tea and meets Katsumi’s eyes. “And what would that idea be?”

“That I’d wanna go out to lunch with them,” she snorts, waving her hands mockingly. “ ‘Oh, Miss Bakugo, let me buy you coffee.’ ‘Oh, Miss Bakugo, let me take you for a drive.’ They can say what they want about me, but I’m not gonna sack up with just any sad fucker who begs for it.”

“I suppose I should be flattered,” Izuku says, trying not to smile.

There’s a long silence, and Izuku wonders briefly if she’s said the wrong thing again.

“You said you were looking for a job, right?” Katsumi asks.

The sudden change of topic confuses her. “…Yes, why?”

“Got a higher education?”

“Yes?” Izuku says, and it feels like an understatement considering what she went through and what she ended up doing.

“You familiar with typewriting? They offer courses like that at the college you went to?”

“University,” Izuku corrects, and then, thinking back, “I-I did take a typist course, at some point. After I graduated, a-and before I got married.”

Katsumi takes the pamphlet in her hands, pulls a pen out of her coat pocket and begins scribbling on it, glancing at Izuku every now and again.

“Can you remember things?”

Izuku frowns. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Katsumi says, although there’s something hard in her gaze. “‘M not insinuating anything. Can you remember faces and shit? If you met some guy, you’d be able to put a name to a face if he showed up, say, two weeks later?”

“Yes.”

“What if he changed his hair?” Katsumi inquires, and her tone sounds sharper, now. “The way he dresses? Would you remember then?”

She doesn’t know why Katsumi is pushing for this, to be honest. Subtle hints, intense glances- Katsumi has infinitely more of a reason to pretend she has no idea who Izuku is, and yet.

And yet every time Izuku denies (however implicitly) ever knowing her before, Katsumi always looks like she doesn’t understand. Like this newly found civility between them shouldn’t have come as easy as it did- like it should have gone down like pulling teeth; blood and elbow grease and pain and tears. As if she’s aware of this unsettling role reversal, and at every moment she’s waiting for Izuku to angrily confront her about their past- to play the most logical, sensible role. As if she wasn’t expecting Izuku to give in so easily.

Izuku is more than comfortable pretending that chapter of their lives never happened, so this resistance is strange. Really, it’s best for both of them.

“Yes,” says Izuku evenly, maintaining eye-contact with Katsumi all the while. “Yes I would.”

They stare at each other for what seems like forever. Then Katsumi huffs, seeming frustrated, before running her eyes over the pamphlet, scribbling down one more line, and then handing it over to Izuku. “Here.”

Hesitantly, Izuku takes it- and her eyes widen when she sees what it is. “Wait- wait, are you-”

“One of our creative directors gave his secretary the boot yesterday,” Katsumi says, shrugging. She pulls out a wad of cash and leaves it on the table, and begins buttoning up her coat. “Couldn’t find a replacement in the office. Just fill the rest out and give it back to me when I get back from work today, or tomorrow morning, or never. I don’t give a shit.”

Izuku gapes. “You’re- you’re leaving?”

Katsumi shrugs again, standing up- her eyes are cold, and it’s sad that this is what Izuku finds familiarity in. “Break’s over. I need to head out.”

A pause, and then, “…You, uh. You want me to walk you to your car, or some shit?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Izuku says. She’s not technically lying; it would be unnecessary for Katsumi to walk her to her car, because Izuku doesn’t have one. She took the bus to get here.

She plasters on a smile. “Thank you for the invitation. Lunch was lovely.”

“Get back to me with that pamphlet,” Katsumi says, as way of goodbye. “Don’t put it off.”

When she gets to the door, she looks back at Izuku once more. Katsumi nods once, an almost-smile on her face, and leaves.

Izuku stares after her, the breath caught in her throat. She should probably start heading out soon, too. Her bus will be coming soon, and she buttons her coat back up to the neck.

And then. And then what?

She's just been offered a job.

A beat passes, and suddenly she’s reaching for her cigarette case and lighting up. The first inhale of nicotine eases out all the harsh edges, fogs up her brain, clouds out the stress of the week.

She thinks of those sharp eyes, and her eyes flutter shut at her next inhale.

When she gets back to the apartment, she looks over the pamphlet again.

It’s a list of requirements- necessary documents, skill sets, on and on. On the last page there’s a checklist about the required personality traits for a secretarial position, and what Izuku assumes is Katsumi’s phone number. Some of the questions have already been marked off as ‘yes’. The questions ‘Am I dependable’ and ‘Am I a good listener’ and ‘Am I sincere in all I do?’ fall into that category, as do most of the others, and Izuku feels vaguely flattered.

Some have been left blank, though.

Izuku stares at those questions and sits on the edge of the bed, cigarette hanging out of her mouth. Among the blank questions, the ones that stand out the most to her:

Have I a good memory for names and faces?

Do I feel at ease in a group of people of whom I have just met?

She’s interrupted by the sound of the phone ringing. Hastily, she sets the pamphlet down and makes her way over to the counter, picking up on the fifth ring.

“Izuku Midoriya speaking.”

“It’s me,” says Shoto, and a bit of tension releases from her shoulders. And then, as if to clarify, “Shoto Todoroki.”

She suppresses a smile. She doubts there’s any other Shoto Todoroki running around Musutafu- probably a habit he’s picked up from being head of his company, which by this point, has been run by at least three Todoroki men.

“Shoto! Hi,” Izuku says. “Is- Is something wrong?”

“No,” Shoto says. Shuffling on the other end. Is he still in his office, perhaps? “Sorry, it’s late. Moe said you called the house this morning and I just wanted to check up on you. ”

“Oh,” Izuku says belatedly, furrowing her brow. “That’s right, I- I called Momo instead. I'm sorry to have been a bother, it really wasn't a big deal, in hindsight-"

“You’re not a bother,” Shoto says firmly but gently. She almost doesn’t hear him, from the speed which he’d interrupted, and she jolts a bit. He’s always been like that- slow to talk until it really matters. “ You’re my friend.”

After all these years of business, and he’s still as blunt as a shovel. Izuku laughs a little, heart warm at the reminder. “I'm really lucky to have you.”

“You know,” Shoto says, and his voice has taken on a tone that’s almost coy. “Momo also called me earlier.”

A beat passes, and then he clarifies, “Lunch, huh?”

Izuku groans, burying her face into her hand. “Shoto…”

“I, for one, am very happy you’re putting yourself out there,” he says kindly, and if they were face to face she’d be able to see that he was smiling a little.

“It wasn’t like that,” she insists. “Honestly. It was a friendly meet-up.”

“It’d be fine if it wasn’t, is all I’m saying,” Shoto says. “So long as he treats you right.”

“Well,” Izuku says, stomach souring at the reminder. “It’s a she, Shoto.”

A beat.

“Oh. Well.” Shoto takes a moment. “So long as she treats you right-”

“Shoto!” she squawks, face burning. “I- I told you, I’m not- I mean, I don’t-”

He laughs on the other end. It’s a quiet, breathy sound- a rare one, too. It makes Izuku’s heart flutter a little.

“Alright, alright,” he snickers. “I know.”

There’s another pause, and then, “…Well. Does she?” and before Izuku can protest again, he quickly adds, “In a strictly platonic sense, of course.”

Izuku sighs, twirling the phone cord around her finger. “I suppose. I don’t- I don’t know her well enough."

And then, almost like an afterthought she’s barely processed- “She might have gotten me a job, though.”

“Really?” Shoto sounds incredibly interested now.

“Maybe. Maybe,” Izuku repeats. “I just have to fill out a form, and- and then- and then we see if I’m fit for it.”

“I think you will be,” Shoto says encouragingly. “This is great. I’m very proud.”

His voice is monotone, but genuine. Izuku feels a little lighter, and the weight gets a little heavier, suddenly- she’s been spending his money trying to get hired. She can’t screw this up.

“I’m happy, but,” she wets her lip, and drums her fingers on the counter top. Her pink nail polish has started chipping off; it looks unsightly, paired with the scars on her hands- monstrous, almost.“I don’t know. I’m nervous, I suppose. I don’t really know if she likes me or not.”

A couple of years ago, she would have known the answer- a firm, definitive no. Now it’s less clear, and she’s not really sure what to do with that.

“You have the advantage,” he tells her. “You got an in-person interview before anyone else, and you know her better. Fuyumi says that if you’re face-to-face with someone enough you build a subconscious bond, or something.”

Maybe that’s the reason, she thinks. Their relationship is less antagonistic because they’re starting fresh- because Katsumi doesn’t have to acknowledge the past and neither does she. Because they’re at a point when Izuku can look her in the eyes after a lifetime spent looking at Katsumi’s back- even if they’re not acknowledging that part.

“I suppose,” she says, but something doesn’t feel right.

O

Chapter Text

“Izuku, hold still, please.”

Mama drags the comb through a rough tangle, and Izuku winces.“I can’t help it.”

“Help it for a few moments, then,” Mama says. “Not for long.”

Izuku acquiesces, trying to keep her upper body straight, feet perched on the spindle of the chair. Her fingers dig into the seat, absently playing with the frayed edges of a tear- cotton peeks through, and pulling at it scratches an itch in her brain.

Mama tugs and tugs, and finally, Izuku’s wild bush of hair seems to have been properly combed through. Izuku breathes a slight sigh of relief, and Mama begins to section and braid.

It’s a more relaxing sensation than the brush. Mama’s hands are gentle but worn, and every now and then her fingers brush over the baby hairs on the nape of Izuku’s neck, sending shivers down her spine; Mama is patient and slow, taking the utmost care in Izuku’s hair.

They usually never have the time to do this in the mornings. But Christmas and New Year’s have come and gone, and now it’s six am- about an hour and a half before Izuku’s set to leave the house for her first day back at school after the winter break.

Mama, who had worked a few shifts over the winter break to earn some extra cash, has today off. Which meant she had time to be particularly invested in pulling out all the stops- ironing and cleaning Izuku’s uniform, buying a new perfume, pulling Izuku’s hair into neat, girlish braids instead of her usual bushy twin ponytails, et cetera.

“Let’s make a nice impression,” Mama had said. “A fresh start, okay?”

Izuku had nodded, only half interested and still a bit drowsy with sleep. She resists the urge to touch her face (upon Mama’s instruction), which feels bright and smooth and soft. Mama had gotten a couple of containers of Ponds Cold Cream as a gift from a co-worker, and she had spent a lot of time scrubbing it into Izuku’s skin. She’d even washed it out with one of the nice face towels (usually locked away in the bathroom cupboard in case they ever have guests). Izuku’s face, for the first time in a long time, doesn’t feel dry.

Mama braids her hair neatly- one strand over the other, again and again and again, and when she’s finished, she ties off the ends with yellow ribbon- shiny and new- and then tucks the messy ends of the braids into Izuku’s hair, and secures it with bobby pins.

“Don’t move,” Mama warns, before un-clipping the rollers from Izuku’s forehead- her bangs bounce high up on her forehead in a genuine, perfect set of curls.

The result is a pair of loop pigtails, without a single strand out of place, and cute but stylish Barbara Stanwyck-style bangs. Mama secures the whole thing with a generous helping of hairspray, which makes Izuku cough and sputter.

And then it’s a bit of a blur. She puts on her new ironed uniform and the new stockings she’d gotten for Christmas and dabs a bit of perfume on her collar bones and on her wrists- it smells floral and elegant and very grown-up. Izuku sniffs the container just once, enjoying the smell.

Then Mama sits her in front of the dresser again, holding a small black tube. The word TANGEE is stamped on in all caps, and when Mama opens it, Izuku’s jaw nearly drops at the color- a vibrant, tangerine orange.

“I wore this a lot when I was pregnant with you,” Mama explains, fond. “It’s a color-changing lipstick. Orange in the stick and a- a lovely, natural blush on the lips. I think it’d be perfect.”

“You said I couldn’t wear makeup yet,” Izuku reminds her, still transfixed by the tube. Color-changing? There’s no way.

“I think this is a special exception.”

Mama motions for her to look up and lift her head a little, and Izuku follows suit. “You’re a growing girl. You’ll be a woman, soon. You’ll start getting attention from boys-”

Izuku grimaces, and Mama lightly, scoldingly, pats her cheek. “Part your lips. I’m being serious, you know. You’re like a blooming flower. People are going to really see you.”

The Tangee glides onto her lips like butter, and sure enough, it’s not a bright orange at all- rather, her lips look dewy and blushed. Izuku smacks her lips a couple of times, and Mama blots out some of the color and cleans up the edges with a tissue.

“See me?” Izuku wonders aloud.

“Yes,” Mama says, holding her shoulders. “As a strong, beautiful, capable young woman. And when you’re old enough- and when you’re ready- you’ll find a good man.”

Mama steps to the side and motions for Izuku to look at herself in the mirror.

It feels a bit like looking into another world. The person in the mirror doesn’t look entirely like her. Her hair is neat-cute, even. Her round, freckled face and bug eyes seem to suit her, for once, and even her bushy eyebrows seem to have some charm to them. Her lips stun her most of all- a soft, dewy red-pink color.

She looks- she feels- nice. Beautiful. Like a woman.

“But don’t you worry about boys just yet,” Mama says quickly, before digging her fingers into Izuku’s sides, and Izuku squeals. “You’re still my little girl, you understand?”

“Y-Yes, Mama.”

Something feels different.

Everything feels different.

Maybe it’s the warm, red coat that Auntie Mitsuki had gotten her for Christmas, or the yellow ribbons in her neat hair, or the way the cold bites against her soft skin, but everything feels different, now. Like she’s just stepped into Oz, out of her mundane Sepia existence.

It’s the new year, after all. Everything’s going to change.

She feels like she could float, pigtails bouncing with every step, lips twitching to suppress a sudden, random smile. The only thing that grounds her- literally and metaphorically - is the weight of her backpack and the crunch of her boots against the freshly fallen snow.

At one point, she runs into another set of footprints- coming down the driveway from Kacchan’s big, beautiful house. He always leaves his house early when winter comes- half because he’s very serious about upholding the ideals of discipline his Mother and Father had instilled in him, and half because Izuku knows his whole face goes redder than a tomato when he’s exposed to the cold, and he doesn’t want anyone to see. Once she’d also walked to school earlier, and she’d spotted him in a giant scarf that obscured half of his face, his eyes peeking out ever so slightly- probably a way to hide the redness, with the added downside of making him look utterly ridiculous.

He’d looked like an All Might villain- particularly from the earliest episodes, when the series seemed to be undergoing some budget cuts and growing pains - and it was the one time that Izuku actually had to do her best not to laugh. The straight edges of the scarf, paired with the bright spikes of his blonde hair; she’d genuinely meant no offense. It’s just looked so… silly.

He had noticed anyway, and said some unkind words in typical Kacchan-fashion, and when she’d gotten to school later that day the scarf was nowhere to be seen.

And then she thinks about her current outfit- for once, not oversized or ill-fitting or disheveled, and she lets her mind wander.

She thinks about what Mama said- about how people were going to see her. She hadn’t thought much of it before, but now she pictures it: her, with her hair swept up in a glamorous movie-star ‘do, her face unblemished and clean, dressed in an elegant paisley dress, pressed against some rugged old nightclub owner, in the height of a dangerous situation…

The fantasy, oddly enough, doesn’t captivate her the way watching the scene did. She does feel a bit silly, a bit embarrassed- but the thought doesn’t give her any sort of rush.

But then she imagines it from the other side- her, a cool, no-nonsense barkeep, strong and silent and smart as a whip, effortlessly saying things like ‘Go ahead and shoot… you'll be doing me a favor'-

She feels even sillier, thinking of that, but she can’t deny the thrill it ignites in her. To be someone reliable, trustworthy, strong… someone who does good no matter what- like All Might.

She shakes her head, careful not to rattle her braids too much, and erases that thought from her mind as quickly as it comes. Now that’s a silly thought- her? Like All Might?

It’d be better for her to be more of an All Might girl (as the one-off love interests in the multiple movies and series were dubbed by fans). Maybe Sakura, the charming girl-next-door; or Kiyoko, the serious secretary who ran the office where All Might worked when he was out of costume; or maybe Haruka, the crazy villainous girl who made life wild and exciting.

And maybe then she’d catch the attention of her very own All Might, and they’d- live happily ever after, doing- whatever it is couples in love do.

Izuku wrinkles her nose.

She finds pretending to be content with this fantasy is a bit trickier than she’d thought.

None of that matters when she steps into Aldera.

It’s like she’s stepping into a whole new school. Suddenly the lighting feels different, and the walls and floors seem brighter, somehow, and the air feels warmer and cleaner-

She finds herself filled with a bizarre appreciation for the place in spite of all the painful memories. It’s like her new coat is a suit of armor, protecting her from all the bad things of the world and opening her up to new possibilities- a world where she always looks like this, put together and maybe even a little cute.

She hangs up her coat in her locker, and changes into her regular Mary Janes (brown and worn, well loved)- and finds that the elated feeling persists; she still feels alive, vibrant, joyous, and a million other synonyms.

For once she feels excited- maybe some of the girls at school will compliment her on her new braids, like they had when Kumiko had gotten her hair cut. Maybe they’ll ask her about how she got her lips so naturally red; she imagines standing by her locker, cool and suave like- like Lauren Bacall, effortlessly saying something like yes, I use Tangee in a sultry, captivating voice to a crowd-

It’s another silly fantasy, but it brings a smile to her face. As if she’d ever be able to act like that!

Izuku pays special attention to it all- the art work on the walls, the colored tiles on the floors, the rows and rows of lockers- as if in a new light. A whole new school. A fresh start.

And then-

Kacchan looks more or less the same. Same clean face and spiky hair, same boyish good looks and crisp uniform. He grabs onto the handle of their classroom door, pulls it open and goes to step inside.

And for a second she’s sure he won’t notice her- but her shoes squeak against the floor tiles when she steps forward and-

He turns his head. Stops. Stares.

The expression on his face is completely unreadable- brow knitted and eyes focused and mouth slightly parted, and he looks at her like she’s a puzzle piece he doesn’t know where to place. Like he’s taking in the ribbons in her hair, and the clean loop of her braids and rosebud-red lips, and is struggling to tie it with his perception of worthless Deku.

Obviously, it’s self-centered to think that way, but Izuku dares to hope. It’s nice to believe he’s acknowledging her, even if it’s not as an equal, but in the way a man acknowledges a woman. Even if he does do everything in his power to make her life miserable, but still.

Steve acknowledges Slim this way. Rick acknowledges Ilsa this way. It’s something, better than nothing, right?

He’s still holding the door, almost frozen, and in a moment of sheer boldness, she smiles at him and steps past him, into the classroom; she doesn’t catch whatever expression he makes next. Her classmates all stare at her, mostly neutral, with small elements of surprise. One of the girls even gives her a small smile and approving nod.

Izuku smiles brightly, chest swelling with hope.

It really is a fresh start, isn’t it? Mama was right. It’s like they’re seeing her, really seeing her- as more than just ugly, poor Deku. As a blossoming flower, a real girl.

In another moment of new year’s fueled boldness, she takes her seat in one of the empty seats closer to the front- not too close, of course, but in the middle. Kacchan comes in a few moments later, face inscrutable, and plops down in his seat behind her. He doesn’t protest, or even scowl.

It’s almost unthinkable, really. If someone had told her only a few months ago that Kacchan would willingly sit near her, let alone behind her, she’d have laughed. It’s unthinkable.

But then again, maybe not.

Maybe- maybe the new year really has changed everything. Maybe she really is prettier, and maybe Kacchan really is nicer, and maybe her classroom really is brighter and newer and fresher.

Maybe she really has blossomed. Maybe Mama was right: everything is going to change.

And then something grabs onto her pigtails.

Someone.

It doesn’t register at first. The grip tightens.

Kacchan pulls.

She gasps. His grip is violently strong, and when he tugs, he pulls Izuku’s whole body with her hair; she tilts, and tilts, until her chair creaks, starting to balance on it’s hind legs-

For the briefest of seconds, as she begins to lean over, she spots upside-down Kacchan’s smirking face.

I’m an idiot, Izuku thinks belatedly to herself, and then she goes toppling onto the floor.

Chapter Text

Monday

They pull up in front of a small brownstone apartment building around eight-thirty- they being Izuku and Katsumi, in Katsumi’s stylish, shiny red car. But the second they do stop, Katsumi rolls down her window and shoots Izuku with a pointed look.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” she begins, “but I’m gonna say this once and only once: there’s nothing going on between me and Eijiro.”

If anything can be said about Katsumi Bakugo- she’s very direct. Izuku doesn’t even know who Eijiro is. She’d woken up this morning knowing two things: that she had a job, and that she’d have to get up early for said job because Katsumi had insisted on driving her, alongside another co-worker.

Eijiro must be the co-worker, then.

“I- I wasn’t going to say anything,” Izuku protests, and Katsumi rolls her eyes.

“Fuckin’ spare me. I know what everyone thinks. He’s my friend, got it? My friend. Not my gentleman caller, not my boyfriend, not someone I fancy or romantically like. So I don’t wanna hear a single word about it, from you or anyone else. Are we clear?”

Her eyes are piercing- sharpened with a dark eye shadow and eye-liner, and framed by her striking brows; she’s a remarkably beautiful woman. The kind of man any man would be lucky to have.

But the tips of her ears, despite the warmth of the car, are still a bright red; the last parts of her face to warm up.

Izuku shrinks a little in her seat. “We’re clear.”

Katsumi nods a little, seemingly satisfied, and then blares her horn so loudly that Izuku jumps.

A few minutes later, a man- at least six feet tall and built like a tank - races out, uniform partially concealed by a giant black coat, a lunch pail swinging in his grip. Izuku’s eyebrows raise a little at the sight of him.

She has to admit, if Katsumi hadn’t made things abundantly clear, she likely would have assumed there was something going on from the half-annoyed/half-fond look on Katsumi’s face, and the bright, blinding smile the man gives them.

“Kats, you’re not gonna believe- oh hey!” The man- Eijiro, Izuku’s mind supplies - beams at her, revealing rows of shiny, pointy teeth. He wriggles into the backseat of Katsumi’s car and sticks out a hand. “Eijiro Kirishima. You’re Izuku, right?”

The seat is in the way, so she turns around, sits up on her knees and shakes his hand politely, oddly charmed by his boyish face and shocking head of red hair. “Yes. Uhm. It’s very nice to meet you.”

“Same here! Man, Katsumi’s told me so much about you-”

“I will leave you on the fucking curb!” Katsumi shouts, but the threat is clearly empty, and Eijiro laughs.

The drive is nice- chaotic, but nice. Eijiro takes great care to make her feel welcome, and Katsumi is a quiet and efficient driver, outside of the occasional explosive bouts of road rage. What surprises Izuku most of all is the banter between Katsumi and Eijiro- casual and light-hearted, and ultimately friendly. Katsumi even laughs at a joke Eijiro makes.

Inexplicably, something bitter twinges in her chest at the sight of them. She pushes the it down, because what right does she have to feel that way?

It’s a short drive; they arrive at a sleek, towering glass skyscraper, right in the heart of the city- in about twenty minutes. Katsumi comes to a stop near a bakery opposite to the building, and Eijiro jumps out, lunch pail in hand.

“Thanks for the ride, Kats! Nice meeting you, Izuku!”

“Just get inside without slipping, moron,” Katsumi calls back, and Izuku meekly waves goodbye. “Fuckin’- ice everywhere.”

She got a lobotomy, she recalls Shoto saying, and she muffles a snort. Okay. Maybe it is a little funny.

But Katsumi shoots her a weird look, and then she thinks that perhaps Shoto’s social ineptitude has transcended time and space. She flashes an apologetic smile, and Katsumi rolls her eyes and drives towards the parking lot.

-

The inside of UA is about as impressive as the outside. Elegantly modern design and layout, but at the cost of appearing incredibly cold and harsh- dull silver door and window frames, alternating dark gray and brown woodprint walls, and neat marble floor tiles. Izuku’s inexperience with the place must be visible, awkwardly following Katsumi like a lost duckling through the revolving doors, down the lobby and to the elevator- where there’s both a pop of color and a familiar face.

Eijiro, Izuku thinks, relieved. Katsumi did mention he’d worked as an elevator operator.

Before Izuku can wave to him, Katsumi elbows her.

“First piece of advice,” she mutters, quiet enough that only Izuku can hear her. “You’re the new girl. You don’t know anybody ‘cept me, because there’s no getting around that, got it? Stay quiet.”

Then she stalks off to the elevator before Izuku can even think to formulate a response, not sparing a second glance to the suits around her- even the ones that have turned to stare. Izuku hurries to catch up, clutching her purse.

Eijiro nods at the two of them with his signature bright smile, ushering them in. There are already three young men crowding the back of the elevator, exchanging glances and looking almost amused by something.

“Must be my lucky day,” one of them quips, and he gets nudged by his friend. Izuku frowns a little, out of the loop.

“Uh- twenty-three, right?” Eijiro asks, and the man closest to him nods his head. The other two stare at Katsumi, and then glance over to Izuku, and she averts her eyes, suddenly self-conscious.

It’s been a while since she’s set foot in an elevator like this. It only happened a couple of times, back when she’d visit Yo at work, and it’s no less nerve wracking now that she’s actually working here. The feeling of wondering if you’re overdressed, under-dressed, whether you blend in, whether you stick out like a sore thumb-

The doors close, and Katsumi imperceptibly squares her shoulders. Izuku, who is standing right next to her (for the first time in a long time), straightens a little, too.

It hits Izuku then- this is really happening. She has a job. A pretty good one, too, for someone with such a gap in her resume. UA is a good advertising agency, even if it is a little small, and if she gets fired in a week then she’ll at least have something new to put on her resume.

“Hey, pal,” says one of the men to Eijiro. “You mind taking the long way up? I’m, uh, really enjoying the view.”

His friend snickers. Eijiro says nothing.

Izuku is confused until she sees one of the men smirking at her out of the corner of her eye. Katsumi’s jaw clenches, and Eijiro bites his lip, looking away-

-And Izuku is struck with the realization that they’re talking about her. Her and Katsumi. That’s why they keep looking at each other, why they seem so amused. They’re- ogling them. She’s being ogled.

Izuku has been a trophy wife before, and when she’s looked her best, she has been stared at- but this feels different. She’s not on anyone’s arm. It feels more like she’s a- a stray piece of beef jerky on the sidewalk, surrounded by hungry dogs.

She sneaks a glance at Katsumi, who is completely emotionless. Unbothered. She probably has to deal with attention like this all the time- men caught in the trap of her perfect hair and striking face and smoky eyes.

Katsumi glances back at her, almost unprompted. The message in her eyes is clear.

Stay quiet.

Izuku purses her lips, and bows her head.

The rest of her office tour goes by in a blur. The next thing she knows, she’s carrying a cardboard box full of supplies and following Katsumi through a sea of desks and office workers; women in colorful wiggle dresses, and men in sharp, dark suits.

“This is the executive floor,” Katsumi says, waving a hand at the modern furniture and open offices. “It’s all mixed up, so we’ve got creative execs, account execs-”

Izuku tilts her head. “What’s the difference?”

Katsumi snorts. “No idea. All you need to know is that they’re all equally obnoxious, and if you wanna get ahead, you’re gonna have to avoid some obvious mistakes.”

“Hello, Katsumi,” says a man as he walks past- his hair shines with gel, and his suit is mildly rumpled.

“Like that one,” Katsumi mutters, and Izuku hides a smile.

It really is a nice office; sleek and colorful, with alternating wood print, slate blue and frosted glass wall panels (the frosted glass seems reserved for the open offices, Izuku notes) and dark grey carpeting. There’s the occasional decorative plant or colorful chair every now and then, or a sudden modern-art-esque panel, but overall it’s a very cohesive office- bold and unique, and ultimately striking. Yo’s office had been similar, from what she recalls- only it had been much less colorful. More… serious, in a way.

Katsumi leads her through another set of double doors, past another set of open offices and desks- the whole room is filled with the clicking of typewriters, the ringing of telephones, and muted chatter. It’s almost overwhelming.

Finally, they stop at an empty desk, just in front of an office that has the name Shota Aizawa emboldened on the door.

“You’ll be here,” says Katsumi, arms crossed. “Across the aisle from me. We’re both gonna be looking after Mr. Aizawa for now. Invest in some bandaids-”

Izuku quickly pulls out a notepad and and pen.

“-aspirin, a needle and thread- and keep some Murine eye drops handy. Murine, got it? No other brand. Don’t  overdo it on the perfume- he can’t stand strong smells, so apply whatever you need in advance. Also, he likes rye. That’s not the same as bourbon. Don’t make that mistake.”

Izuku looks over the small list she’s scrawled down and gulps. Demanding.

“A lot of people will try and tell you that he isn’t as harsh as he seems,” Katsumi says bluntly. “I’m not gonna tell you that, because I ain’t gonna lie to you. Most of the time, when people ask for secretaries, they’re looking for something between a mommy and a waitress.”

“…And the rest of the time?” Izuku asks.

Katsumi raises her brow- gives her a look that could almost be described as pitying, if Katsumi Bakugo pitied people, and the sudden realization hits Izuku like a brick.

“Right,” she swallows. She thinks back to Yo’s office, full of beautiful women with perfect hair and bright smiles- she, of all people, should know it’s no unspoken secret about what men do with their secretaries. “Right.”

A little dazed, she looks down at the desk- her desk. There’s a two-button intercom, a rotary telephone, and, beneath it’s protective black cover, an electric typewriter.

“It looks more complicated than it is,” Katsumi says. “You’ll figure it out.”

“I sure hope so.”

Katsumi moves to turn, then stops. “Oh, and at lunch-” she snatches the pen and notepad from Izuku, scribbles something, and then hands it back. “-pick this stuff up from the store. I’ll explain later.”

Izuku takes the notepad from her hands and reviews it: a box of chocolates, a dozen carnations, bath salts, it reads. She is briefly stunned by Katsumi’s neat handwriting; when they were in middle school, the few times she’d seen it, Kacchan’s handwriting had been nearly illegible.

Mentally, she smacks herself for the comparison.

You’re starting fresh, remember?

“You know, I,” Izuku bows her head a little. “K- Miss Bakugo-”

Katsumi scowls immediately. “It’s Katsumi.”

“…Katsumi,” Izuku corrects. “I just… really can’t thank you enough for- all of this.”

Where would she be now, if not for Katsumi? Just a- a sad divorcee, draining money from another man like a leech- living in an empty, expensive apartment, all by herself, far from the beautiful suburban fantasy that any woman would kill to belong to. That she gave up, and that she must try and go back to.

She has a way of supporting herself, now. If- when- she goes looking for a new man, she won’t be a complete burden.

Besides, Izuku thinks somewhat bitterly. If her own experience with the matter is correct, there’s no better place than an office to find a husband.

Katsumi looks at her, as if she’s going to say something- but then suddenly her eyes widen, and she turns around and straightens.

Alarmed, Izuku follows her gaze; it lands on a middle aged man with tired looking eyes, hair that seems a tad messier than most of his slicked-back contemporaries, and five-o’clock shadow. From face alone, he looks a bit like a mess.

Other than that, he looks almost exactly like every other man in the office- reasonably handsome face, sharp black suit, and a brown overcoat and hat.

Izuku would normally believe him to be just another normal office worker, but from the stern, commanding look in his eyes- from the way he seems to have everyone’s attention simply from stepping in a room- from how Katsumi acknowledges him before he’s ever said a word-

A shiver runs down Izuku’s spine. Ah.

This must be-

“Good morning, Mr. Aizawa,” Katsumi says professionally. Izuku straightens immediately, smiling politely- she hopes her eyes don’t give away her panic, or the way her hands have become clammy beneath her gloves.

He nods once with a grunt, acknowledging Izuku for just half a second, and then automatically handing Katsumi his hat and coat. He shuts the door behind him, and after a few moments pass, Izuku untenses. Out of the corner of her eye, though the movement is minuscule, Katsumi does as well.

“Expect to see a shit ton of loud blondes coming by,” Katsumi tells her, puzzlingly, and then, just before leaving, “good luck.”

It sounds almost teasing.

Katsumi is, of course, right- Izuku spends most of the hours leading up to lunch paging in and paging out some variant of blonde- from the charming but intense Mr. Hisashi Yamada (one of the main execs), to the stern and put-together Miss Saiko Intelli (from the research department), and eventually-

“Hi, there, honey,” he’d said, half-smirking in a way that made Izuku feel like shrinking in on herself. “Is Mr. Aizawa available?”

She steps inside the office- windows with blinds, dark mahogany desk, side tables, and chair frames (the actual seats and cushioning are a cream color), with the occasional lamp and decorative plant - and finds her new boss sprawled out across a (frankly, hideous) bright yellow couch.

“Mr. Aizawa?” Izuku asks, voice quiet. She feels very out of place, here. When he doesn’t stir, she shifts the glass and aspirin bottle into her other hand and shakes him slightly. “Mr. Aizawa?”

After a few moments, his eyes flutter awake- he stares at her, somewhat dazed.

“Excuse me,” she begins. Her fingers twitch with anxiety. “Uhm. I’m- I’m so sorry to wake you, but- Mr. Monoma is outside.”

Neito Monoma- another one of the junior account boys. From first impressions alone, he’s loud, arrogant, and condescendingly smug- with an almost hidden, burning desire for approval. He sort of reminds her of Kacchan, in all the worst ways.

Aizawa squints at her. “He doesn’t know I’m sleeping in here, does he?”

Izuku shakes her head, her short waves bouncing with the movement. “No, sir.”

“Good.” He sits up, cracking his back, and then looks up at her blearily, squinting further. “…Who are you?”

“Izuku Midoriya,” she answers. “Uhm. The new girl.”

He nods, but he’s clearly still out of it- almost like he doesn’t understand her. He stretches, grimaces, and then gets off the couch and stalks towards his desk.

Izuku fidgets, unsure of what to do- until she notices the cart full of various alcohol types, and remembers- “oh, uhm, I brought you some aspirin.”

She hands him the glass and pill, and he takes it with the slightest nod of thanks. He really does look so incredibly tired. According to Katsumi, he’s apparently one of the best creative directors the agency has ever had-

“-so it’s important you don’t fuck it up,” she’d told her. No pressure at all.

He hands her back the glass and waves a hand, pulling out a box of Marlboros and a lighter. “Send him in.”

Aizawa must have a similar opinion of Monoma, then- he hadn’t asked her to entertain him, like she’d expected to have to do.

But before Izuku can even think to move, the door opens with impossibly perfect timing, and a man- slicked back blonde hair, blue eyes, royal blue suit- the very image of an upper-class elite- steps in.

“Well,” grins Neito Monoma- was his hearing really that good? - “don’t you look like a hundred bucks.”

He’s not talking to Izuku.

Aizawa fixes him with a flat look, puffing out a thin trail of smoke. “Neito. Do you need something?”

“Just wanted to check in before the meeting ,” Neito says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Speaking of which-”

He glances over and juts a thumb out at Izuku. “Who’s she?”

“The new girl,” Aizawa says offhandedly, dusting off his suit jacket.

“The new- aw, you always get the new girl,” Neito says in faux-exasperation (although izuku gets the feeling it’s not exactly as performative as he’s pretending it is), and he shakes his head. “Just another… perk of being in management, I suppose. Where are you from, honey?”

Belatedly, she realizes that this time, Neito is talking to Izuku. He looks her up and down, and she feels rather self-conscious in her grey popover dress and white gloves.

“Uhm- Takoba,” Izuku squeaks. And then, to clarify, “it’s… a little village about an hour north of here.”

It’s a half lie- Izuku was born and raised in Aldera. But she’d spent the last five or so years in Takoba, which is really all that matters.

Actually, it doesn't really matter at all— it’s not like Neito is going to personally check the registry. But she’s surprised at how quickly the lie slips out.

This never happened, says a voice in her mind. Remember that.

She shakes her head slightly, trying to rid herself of the memory.

“I’m familiar,” Neito says, suddenly looking curious. “That quaint little suburbia? Odd. Is your husband struggling?”

Aizawa releases a bone-deep sigh, and Izuku goes as stiff as a rod.

“Oh, no,” she sputters. “No- no, not at all. I’m-”

It wouldn’t exactly be the smartest thing to admit you’re divorced on your first day at work, now, would it.

“…single,” Izuku blurts out, and immediately resists the urge to slap her forehead.

Neito smirks. “Are you, now?”

“Is that all, Mr. Aizawa?” Izuku turns, trying to hide her embarrassment.

“Hey-”

“That’ll be all,” he responds, clearly taking pity on her. “Izuku, right?”

“Yes,” she confirms, and then, suddenly remembering- “also, uhm. I just wanted to remind you, it’s nearly time for your eleven o’clock meeting.”

And then, as dignified as she can, she leaves the office and shuts the door behind her.

It takes every ounce of power in her being not to immediately collapse onto her desk and scream.

After that, the day goes by pretty uneventfully. Aizawa comes back in a bad mood after his meeting with UA’s newest potential client- Midnight’s, as the schedule says- but he doesn’t say anything to Izuku. Neito doesn’t come back at all. She can’t help but feel grateful for that.

But she knows she shouldn’t. If nobody at all is visiting Mr. Aizawa right away, then they must be trying to give him space, which means the Midnight’s meeting must have gone terribly.

Regardless. Lunch rolls around, and Izuku finds a Creati-Mart nearby- what perfect luck - and after a bit of browsing, she nears the checkout line with a bouquet of flowers, bath salts, and a box of chocolates (all on sale because of the upcoming Valentine’s Day).

There’s no real rush - she has at least twenty minutes before she’s expected to be back in office, and nearly an hour before she’s supposed to be working again, so Izuku takes a few moments to window shop a little. She eyes jewelry, and colorful clothes, and briefly glances at the cute display of valentine’s candy, and-

She blinks.

Jarringly, nestled between carefully arranged boxes on the display, is a notebook. Izuku glances at the distance between the display and the checkout line; someone must have changed their mind at the last minute.

Curiously, she shifts the bouquet, chocolates and bath salts into one arm and reaches for it with a gloved hand. She holds it up to eye level and inspects it; it’s brown with a black spine, roughly a hundred and twenty pages, the logo printed onto the front.

Campos, the brand reads.

Unexpectedly, Izuku’s heart clenches a little. She’s familiar with this brand of notebooks; she’d used them all throughout middle school, high school, and university. They’d been a staple of her childhood and a frequent buy-again due to the relatively good quality, cheap price and hefty page count. She’s surprised to see they haven’t changed much at all in the past few years- no sudden redesign or ceased production. It’s like finding a perfectly preserved dinosaur fossil; an unchanged, relic of the past.

She turns it over- no wrinkled pages, no bent corners, no abused spine; it’s perfectly new.

After a bit of contemplation, she takes it with her to the checkout line.

“So,” Izuku says, trying to find the most comfortable way to balance the items in her hands (except for the notebook, which she’d left on her desk). “Uhm. I know you said you’d explain, but, uhm… what exactly is all this for?”

She stumbles a little, following Katsumi down the corridor. The woman in question remains a steady few strides in front of her- posture straight and every movement controlled. It feels familiar to her, but she can’t place why.

“Calm down,” Katsumi says, and Izuku can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “I’m showing you.”

They walk past a few more desks, a decorative plant, and several men who shoot them long, uncomfortable, lingering looks - mostly at Katsumi, but a few keep their eyes on Izuku too. She keeps her eyes on Katsumi’s back, and very pointedly does not acknowledge them.

Finally they stop at a door. It’s surrounded by other secretary desks, the sound of typewriters and stray voices swarming the area like a barrier. This door, Izuku notes, is painted a charming shade of yellow.

“Look,” Katsumi says, face serious, and Izuku tenses up immediately.

“This- okay, first of all, quit freaking out. You’re fine. This,” she continues, gesturing to the door, “is the nerve center of the office. Where all the calls get directed and redirected. Now, this is is important, so listen up: the three people behind this door? You and your boss depend on them more than anyone else.

“So whatever you do,” Katsumi reiterates, leaning close. “Don’t be rude. Don’t yell or snap. And look- you’re not me, and I doubt this’ll ever be a problem for you, but if you don’t have the cheerful and willing cooperation of these three employees, you will never get a call through, and you will be gone in a week. Understand?”

Izuku frantically nods her head. Katsumi hums, satisfied, then opens the door.

The inside of the room briefly takes Izuku’s breath away. In essence, it’s very simple- cream walls, a bulletin board covered in papers on one end, a coat rack, a side table.

But in the middle of the room, it’s beating heart, is a telephone switchboard. A marvel of engineering and innovation- Izuku has only ever seen one up close maybe twice in her life, and she watches with rapt attention as three women in headsets plug and unplug into a wall of holes, wires, and blinking lights, the phrases ‘Good afternoon, UA, please hold’ and ‘UA. Thank you for holding, how may I help you?’ repeating and looping non-stop until it sounds more like the buzzing of a bee than actual words.

Izuku is transfixed.

“Oi. We’ve got a new one,” Katsumi calls. Then, turning to Izuku, she points them out.

“This is Mina,” pointing to a dark-skinned woman with curly black hair and gold button earrings; “Tooru,” in reference to a fair skinned woman with giant blonde waves and big cat-eye glasses; “-and Kyoka,” regarding a pale-skinned woman with a short, straight bob of black hair and long ball-chain earrings.

Mina quickly flashes her a smile; Tooru waves; Kyoka nods- but after a moment or two they all quickly return to their work.

Katsumi elbows her, and Izuku suddenly remembers the items in her hands.

“I, uhm,” Izuku clears her throat, trying to be heard over the overwhelming amounts of noise. “I got some things. Uhm. I guess it’s a bit of a ‘getting to know you’ gift.”

All at once the noise seems to stop. In unison, the three turn to look at her.

“Really?”  Tooru presses a hand to her chest, touched.

“Well aren’t you the sweetest,” Mina gushes, batting her eyelashes- she has on a light blue eye shadow that matches her sleeveless wiggle dress, and her lips are a soft purple-pink. “If I know Katsumi, the candy’s for me.”

“I thought you were swearing off sweets,” Kyoka says bluntly, lighting a cigarette. Her earrings dangle with the motion, and Mina hushes her.

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say anything. Oh, and by the way, honey- the flowers are for our little closet romantic here.”

“Wh- shut up,” Kyoka says, cheeks burning, but she accepts the flowers with a shy, grateful smile.

“Feel free to stop by anytime,” chirps Tooru, setting the bath salts down on the desk. Behind her glasses, her eyes are bright and blue. Then she turns to Katsumi and points. “Who does she work for?”

“Shota Aizawa,” Katsumi says, leaning against the door frame with her arms crossed. Mina gapes.

“Wait, really?”

“What happened to the other one?” Kyoka asks. “Rina, right?”

Katsumi shrugs. “She wasn’t cut out for it, I guess.”

A beat.

Tooru humphs. “Serves her right. Rude little thing.”

“She couldn’t get a call through,” Mina says smugly, and Kyoka snickers a little.

Suddenly, even though she hadn’t had any doubts before, Izuku is fully aware of the importance of having Mina, Kyoka and Tooru on her side.

“Well, we won’t keep you,” Katsumi says, motioning Izuku towards the door. “See you ‘round.”

“It- It was nice meeting you!”

The three send them off, pleased by the gifts, and then return to work. The door closes.

“Breathe,” Katsumi says, and Izuku lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “You’re in the clear.”

“Thank you,” Izuku blurts out. “Th-thank you, so much, I wouldn’t- I never would’ve thought to- and you really didn’t have to-”

“Of course I had to,” Katsumi interrupts with a snort. “You’re my hire. If you fuck up, you wanna know who gets the flack for it?”

“Me?”

“Try again.”

“…You?”

“Bingo.”

She moves away from the door, skirt swishing with the movement. It’s looseness and conservative length is a stark difference from her tight, cool-toned red sweater; short-sleeved, with a v-neckline that stops just beneath her sharp collarbones.

Once Izuku notices that, she can’t help but pay attention to the other features of Katsumi’s outfit- a gold brooch above her left breast (it looks more like a cartoon explosion than a flower), a black belt cinching her small waist, and the gold grenade pin necklace from their lunch together.

Paired with her piercing eyes and cherry-red lipstick (the same color as her sweater, Izuku can’t help but note) and perfectly styled hair-

Her fingers twitch, and she gnaws a little at her lip.

Katsumi is disturbingly beautiful, Izuku thinks, not for the first time. The kind of beauty that should be on a politician’s arm, or on the big screen. It’s intimidating to walk with her in the office- let alone work with her, knowing she basically runs this place.

“Oi,” Katsumi snaps, waving a hand in front of Izuku’s face. “Quit spacing out.”

Izuku blinks rapidly, and shakes her head a little. “Sorry, Kacch- Katsumi.”

Another strange look crosses Katsumi’s face, but it’s gone as quickly as it comes.

“‘S fine. Have you eaten anything?”

“Oh. Oh! N-no.”

“Well, I’d get to it,” Katsumi says, glancing at the clock. “You’ve got ten minutes.”

Katsumi is, once again, right about the technology. It looks complicated, but Izuku picks it up fairly quickly- though, granted, there isn’t a great amount of opportunities to do so. It’s a slow, slow day.

Near the end, about twenty minutes before five o’clock, Izuku knocks twice on the door.

“Mr. Aizawa?” she calls.

“Come in,” he says, after a while- voice muffled through the door.

Yo always came home in a bad mood whenever his meetings went poorly- and it always soured further if Izuku was as cheery and overbearing as she usually tried to be. Keeping this in mind, she steps in carefully, head held low- submissively.

Sure enough, Mr. Aizawa is standing in front of his desk, looking at a spread of papers. There’s a cigarette in his mouth, and a half-finished glass of rye whiskey on the side of the table. He’s not wearing his suit jacket.

He looks up when she enters- his brow is perpetually furrowed, and his whole face carries a sense of bone-deep exhaustion.

“I brought your eye drops,” Izuku says, keeping her voice soft. She holds out the bottle - Murine- in her gloved hand, and he takes it from her hand without a word.

When he notices she hasn’t left yet, he raises an eyebrow. Izuku clears her throat.

“Uhm. I hate to bother you, I just,” Izuku says, clasping her hands together to lessen the trembling. “I, I wanted to thank you. F-For such a great first day.”

He stares at her.

Izuku plasters on a smile.

“Have a good night,” he says tiredly- almost dismissively. He hands her the bottle, and moves to put on his suit jacket.

“Right. Y-You as well.”

A beat, and then-

“Oh- and before you go,” Aizawa calls suddenly, and Izuku turns around.

“I need you to place a call.”

Unlike the ride to UA, the ride home is much, much quieter.

Eijiro’s sprawled out against Katsumi’s backseat, burnt out from the endless casual conversation. Katsumi’s shoulders have lost some of their tension, even if her brow is perpetually furrowed, and Izuku finds herself staring out the window, lost in thought.

She stares at the sky- already a deep, night-time blue, speckled with stars and city lights; the ground covered in a blanket of footprint encrusted snow. It’s as February as a night can get.

Her mind keeps looping back to the phone call she’d had with Miss Nemuri Kayama. The Midnight’s representative.

“So what does he want, exactly?”

Izuku had kept her eyes on her notepad, taking care to memorize the details. When she’d spoken, by some miracle, her voice did not waver or stutter, or indicate in any way how intimidated she truly was. “He’d like to speak to you personally, over dinner.”

“He’s grovelling already?” Miss Kayama had said, voice seductive and sultry and really, rather amused. “That’s new.”

Izuku hadn’t known what to say in response. Luckily, Miss Kayama had accepted the offer- Izuku had rattled off the address and time, exchanged some well-wishes, and then the call had come to an end. Ultimately, it’d left her more confused than anything- had the meeting gone poorly because of Aizawa, then? That would explain why he had her place the call- and the woman’s general attitude about the whole thing.

They stop by Eijiro’s brownstone apartment- some of the windows are already covered with curtains, but most reveal the orange lights and bustling people inside. Eijiro steps out of the car with a stretch.

“Hope you had a nice first day, Izuku,” he says kindly, before blowing a theatrical kiss at Katsumi. She rolls her eyes, and he walks away, whistling some merry little tune.

Katsumi hits the gas, and they speed off.

It’s just them, now.

Nearly a foot of space between them. The silence is deafening.

“He’s really nice,” Izuku comments idly. “Eijiro, I mean. I see why you get along with him.”

“He’s a pain in my ass, is what he is,” Katsumi says, but her voice is slightly fond. “Little shitty-haired bastard.”

She clearly loves him a lot- not in the romantic sense, she’s made that clear- but in the way she goes out of her way to pick him up and drop him off (his apartment is a slight detour on the fastest route to the UA office), in the way she banters with him, in the way he seems so comfortable poking fun at her and doesn’t seem hurt when she bites back.

They’re friends. Real, genuine friends.

Kacchan had been surrounded with friends in their youth- but none were like Eijiro.

Not even her.

The sour feeling returns, and Izuku presses her forehead to the window. She takes a deep, deep breath.

“...You good?”

Izuku jolts a little. “What? Oh. Oh, no, I’m fine. ”

“If you vomit in my car-”

“I won’t,” Izuku promises, and then she thinks, it’s not just Eijiro Katsumi goes out of her way for, is it?

“It’s just,” she finds herself saying. “I- I really can’t thank you enough for this job.”

That seems to take the other woman aback. She blinks, opens and closes her mouth a couple of times.

“I-“ Katsumi swallows. “Look, Izuku, it’s not a big-”

“No, I-” Izuku purses her lips and looks away. “I don’t think you understand… how much it means to me. Without this, I-”

Her voice becomes oddly choked, and she trails off.

“…I don’t even know what I’d do.”

She doesn’t mean to say that last sentence. It feels too vulnerable- too personal. A hairball of feelings even she can’t even begin to understand. The silence drags on for a while, and the hairball is left to sit between them.

“Yeah, yeah,” Katsumi says finally, albeit awkwardly. The tops of her ears, despite the warmth of the car, are red, and she looks away from Izuku. “I mean- look, it just… worked out, alright? I needed to find a secretary, you needed a job. Nothing more. Just… don’t fuck it up.”

She doesn’t say it with as much emphasis as she usually would. But Izuku can’t even bring herself to respond, because she’d never fuck this up. She’d sooner cut off her own limbs.

What she has now is a golden opportunity. She might never get something like it again.

A job in the heart of the city, hours away from her old house. Almost no one from that old town knows she lives here, and most wouldn’t bother to check. She has a job, now, and by all accounts it’s not difficult work. Izuku’s not a burden anymore.

People don’t think of her as his wife. Or as a pity. Or as a failure.

She knows no one, and no one knows her.

This never happened. Remember that.

It’s a new chapter.

A fresh start.

O

Chapter Text

Her eyes find him immediately.

The theater foyer is filled with warm light and cool air (sweet, sweet air conditioning- more of a blessing in summertime than now) and swarms of people exiting and entering for their respective movies. It’s very easy to get lost in theaters like this (for Izuku, at least, and Mama has never let her forget it), which is pretty much why Kacchan’s here to begin with- leaning against the wall opposite to the washroom doors, looking bored.

For any other tall-ish kid with a black coat and platinum blonde hair, the risk of blending with the current of people- many of whom are platinum blonde and wearing black coats- in is a very real one.

But that’s just Kacchan, Izuku supposes. He always stands out.

Izuku steps out of the washroom, wipes her already-dry hands on her coat, and maneuvers her way through the stream of people, all chattering about the movie- whatever movie they watched; the sound feels like the buzzing of a bee in her ears, and with the same one track mind, she pushes through (with numerous, squeaky apologies, for all those who haven’t seen her- which is most of them. Izuku is good at going unnoticed, her and her plain face.)

Kacchan is still good at recognizing her, though- years and years of her trailing behind him, of living near him, of sharing the same homeroom for at least three grades in a row, has etched her forgettable face into his mind, most likely. He spots her and gives her the slightest nod of recognition; his scowl never lessens.

He’s smoking. Fog swirls in front of him in wispy strands- like clouds passing by the moon. He looks so cool doing it- not like some of the other boys in their grade, who try too hard to make it look like second nature when it clearly isn’t- something awkward in the way they hold their cigars, the eagerness in which they inhale- none of it’s there with Kacchan. He looks like a movie star.

“Took you long enough,” he mutters, before abruptly turning and walking away- Izuku scrambles to catch up, nearly tripping over her own feet- the soles of her winter shoes have been coming apart for a while now. She hopes it’s not too noticeable- they’re her nicest pair, even with the damage, and the only ones she’s got.

“S-Sorry, Kacchan.”

“Whatever.”

He inhales again, and the smoke drifts over into Izuku’s face. She coughs, nearly bumps into a passing woman. The woman frowns at her, and Izuku musters out an apology, then speeds up to be beside Kacchan again.

“Thank you for accompanying me,” Izuku says politely.

“Not like I had a choice,” he huffs- which is true. Mama has always been a tad overprotective, and since it was so late, and the movie was still running, she’d wanted Izuku to not be alone when she went to the washroom. Mama and Auntie Mitsuki were in the row above them, surrounded on either side by people who would make it a hassle to get through- so they couldn’t accompany her. Before anyone could even say anything, Uncle Masaru- not Auntie Mitsuki, surprisingly- had volunteered Kacchan for the job, and that was that.

“Still.”

“Tch.”

Once they start getting out of the foyer and towards the corridors leading to the screening rooms, the steady stream of people begins to disperse. Kacchan puts out his stub of a cigarette in a nearby ashtray and stops, rummaging through his coat pockets. Izuku tilts her head in confusion, and goes unnoticed. He pulls out a box of Sen-Sen and tosses the mint into his mouth, chews, and swallows.

Then he pulls off his glove and breathes on his hand- a steady, open-mouthed hahhhh. He holds his hand up to his nose, grimaces, and then sticks it out in front of Izuku.

“Sniff,” he instructs.

“What?” Izuku asks, aghast.

“Don’t be a baby. I snagged the old lady’s Luckies and she’ll skin me if she smells it on me,” he says, like it should be obvious. Izuku recalls Auntie Mitsuki complaining about missing two of her cigarettes and gulps. That explains a lot, then- she’d brought a fresh case to the outing. And she’ll be very upset to know that Kacchan’s smoking already- stealing from her, no less. Izuku couldn’t imagine it. Mama had already sat her down and told her on no uncertain terms that-

“Quit muttering,” he snaps, and Izuku yelps out an apology, clapping a hand over her mouth. He breathes onto his hand again (as if the scent would wear off) and holds it up- directly in front of Izuku’s face, now. “Just sniff.”

Hesitantly, Izuku does. She leans in and smells cologne— a musky, sweet smelling cologne that Izuku figures belongs to Uncle— that Kacchan likes to spritz everywhere. And a strong licorice-mint scent. And smoke.

“Maybe- maybe take another one,” she says, pulling her head back- still a bit weirded out. He nods, perhaps the most civil she’s ever seen him be with her, and does so.

It’s awful strange, she thinks, to know that he can be civil sometimes.

And because Izuku apparently loves messing everything up, she blurts out, “What do you think of the movie?”

“Stupid romance crap,” Kacchan answers bluntly. He motions with his hand, and they both start walking. “Dunno why everyone’s been tripping all over themselves.”

“Well, everyone- everyone likes Shinji Nishiya,” Izuku says, somewhat in awe of the fact that Kacchan is willingly talking to her. Kacchan, in turn, rolls his eyes to show that he doesn’t like Shinji Nishiya. “And- and the new actress with him is very- very pretty.”

A bit of an understatement, really. The new actress —Yu Takeyama— is one of the most beautiful women Izuku has ever seen. It makes a lot of things— from the somewhat lackluster plot to her (admittedly, at times) wooden acting in some scenes— easy to watch simply by virtue of who it is she’s watching. Those sharp, angular features— those full lips— those piercing eyes— that sultry voice—

At this, a strange, unfamiliar look crosses Kacchan’s face- not anger, not annoyance, not confidence. She’d almost describe it as curiosity. Intrigue, maybe.

After all, nearly every time she’d appeared, Kacchan hadn’t taken his eyes off the screen for even a second.

“I guess,” Kacchan says, and even if it makes perfect sense, Izuku’s jaw almost drops at the confession.

It’s normal, really. Kacchan, as strange as it seems, must have desires beyond being the best, beyond being rich and famous. And a woman as beautiful as Yu Takeyama…

It makes perfect sense. A boy like him, a girl like that…

“She has a- a beautiful voice,” Izuku says, blatantly fishing for some sort of- typical boyish reaction. “It’s deep, for a girl, but- but nice.”

Kacchan doesn’t give it to her. “Sure, whatever.”

“It makes sense that- that they’d want her to- to sing at that diner, don’t you think?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh, I wonder what she’ll do,” Izuku murmurs- referring to where they’d left off in the movie- Slim singing by the piano, the look she’d sent Steve— “She came back for him… now what?”

“Now we watch the rest of the movie, moron.”

With a sudden burst of bravery, Izuku rolls her eyes. “That’s not what I meant, Kacchan. I was just wondering.”

He scoffs. “What’s there to wonder about? She’ll ditch the diner job, they’ll get married n’ move into a big house and have a buncha’ brats. The end.”

Izuku frowns, perturbed by his bluntness. “You really think so?”

“Duh. That’s how all these sappy movies end.”

“I just,” Izuku looks down, scrunches her brow. “I don’t know. Slim doesn’t seem the type.”

“There’s no type for this shit, Deku,” he sneers, but something about it is half-hearted. “That’s what all girls do. They find a guy and do whatever he says, or they die old and alone, and that’s the end of it.”

He doesn’t say it in the same way that other people do- in that all-knowing, condescending way, in the way that makes it seem like this is somehow a good thing- like the Aldera guidance counselor, for one. He sounds like he’s reassuring himself of something, and whatever that something is, it’s very much not a good thing.

But Izuku’s mind wanders to something else.

Izuku knows how the other housewives in their neighborhood look at her mother- at her, sometimes. Filled with pity, with mockery- two miserable girls, all alone in their nice house- the only remaining relic of when they lived normally. It’s the only thing that was fully paid off when Papa left. Everything else, they had to make do with.

Mama rarely talks about him- about Papa- and Izuku has only a few, vague memories- but from what she can piece together, he was practically perfect. Loving, attentive, wealthy- from the photographs that Mama refuses to throw away, Izuku can tell he was handsome, too. Izuku doesn’t see any resemblance between her and such an imposing man- but Mama says they have the same eyes. And that he’d had freckles like she does- but his were more subtle.

(Lucky guy, she thinks somewhat bitterly. Her freckles are very prominent. One of Kacchan’s former friends used to call her Spots.)

It had come as a surprise when he’d left. Like breaking a vase- smiling faces and sunshine, reduced to fragments. It had been devastating for Mama, and a well of gossip for the neighbors, but Izuku was too young to remember much, except for that one day he was there, lifting her high in the sky and spinning her around because she was his Princess, and then the next, he was gone, and everything was ruined.

Getting married is supposed to be the safest, best thing for a girl.

Izuku’s not like Kacchan. She doesn’t live comfortably. She’s not talented or beautiful or attractive. She’s not built for great things. She needs that security, doesn’t she?

“Do you think I’d do that?” Izuku wonders aloud.

“A nerd like you?” he mutters. It sounds so weird- not vitriolic or cruel. Less rough around the edges. “No way.”

From anyone else, it would probably hurt- but from Kacchan, for some reason, it doesn’t.

“Oh,” she says.

“There’s no way anyone would ever wanna shack up with you.”

“Oh.” she says again, flatly. There he is.

In a final gesture of goodwill, he opens the door for her as they get back to the screening room. Izuku thanks him, and he says nothing.

They watch the rest of the movie in silence.

And even when Slim and Steve head back to the boat by the end, the film concluding with an air of mystery, Izuku sees the looks the actors exchange on that silver screen, and gets the feeling she knows how their story ends.

Chapter Text

Tuesday

Izuku wakes up to the sound of the telephone ringing.

'Wake up'  is perhaps a poor choice of words- it implies something more active, more sudden; more quick to jump into routine. It’d used to be like that, back when it mattered- back when she’d get up at the crack of dawn to put her makeup on, to brush her teeth, to get everything nice and perfect.

But there’s no reason to be like that anymore, so instead Izuku’s eyes- accustomed to opening around this time, but not to the darkness of the room- blink open. And for a moment she just- lies there, cheek pressed against the pillow, eyes lidded, staring at a spot on the wall while the telephone rings. And rings, and rings.

After a few moments, she sits up, swings her legs onto the side of the bed, and gets in her slippers. She’s overcome with a sudden dizziness when she stands, but powers through, feet lightly tap tap tapping against the carpeted floor.

The phone is still ringing.

Real persistent caller, huh, Izuku thinks to herself.

She picks up.

“Shindo residence,” she mumbles.

There’s a long pause.

“…What?”

Izuku blinks rapidly at the sound of that voice- deep, slightly raspy, and familiar, even after all these years- and nearly drops the phone when she realizes what she’d just said.

“Ka-Katsumi!” she sputters. She presses the speaker to her ear and clears her throat. “I’m- I’m so sorry about that. Uhm. Is- is something wrong?” Come to think of it- she glances at their shared wall- why is her next door neighbor calling her? 

“ We’ve got work today, ” Katsumi says, like that explains anything. “Gotta be up bright and fuckin’ early.” 

Izuku rubs at her eyes- her skin feels absurdly dry without the cold cream. “I thought work started at nine.” They hadn't been up this early yesterday. 

“If you like getting held up by traffic and falling behind, then yeah, work starts at nine. Get dressed and eat something. I'll be in the hall.”

Izuku lights a cigarette, puts on a beige day dress, and finishes her typically painstaking morning routine in  what feels like record time. 

Cold cream. Foundation. Rouge. A few strokes of her eye pencil. Powder. Mascara. Lipstick. 

Her hair is due for a reset; it'll be fine for today, but she'll need to put it in pin curls the second she gets off work. She teases it a little, attempting to return it to shape. Her bangs are beginning to return to their usual, frizzy state, and no amounts of Satin Set or meticulous curling seems to be doing the trick. 

Regardless. She puts out her cigarette on an ashtray. 

Izuku double checks her purse. Glances at the bed, and then at the potted plant (three leaves, not four), and then at the apartment. She's only been here for about a month, and it shows; there are boxes in the corner, and the curtains don’t match the carpet- and she still has no idea where to put that damn lamp. It had blended into the background back in the house, but it stands out garishly in her apartment; it makes everything else look not-quite-right, messy and cluttered and never even coming close to what she envisions. Something’s always off.

It’s not forever, she reminds herself. She turns to the door, her back to the rest of the apartment and places her hand on the knob. It’s not forever.

There’s time to fix it. She’s starting fresh, after all. 

Endearingly, Eijiro doesn’t adjust as well to the time change. 

“I thought we weren’t gonna do it like this anymore,” he mutters glumly, from where he’s sprawled dramatically across the backseat. His uniform is rumpled, like he’d put it on in a frantic rush at the doorway, and a few strands of his cowlicked hair are a bit flat. “It’s so cruel. Giving me a taste of getting up at a normal hour… then tearing it away…”

Katsumi snorts. “If you wanna walk to work during rush hour, be my guest.”

“You’d never do that to me,” Eijiro sits up a little, leaning over the seat, and nudges Izuku’s shoulder cheekily- like he’s letting her in on the joke. “You like me too much.” 

“Eat shit and die, bastard.”

Izuku hides her smile behind her hand. 

“Aw, gee, Kats. See, I’d love to, but I’m integral ,” here he delves into excessive theatrics, pressing a hand to his chest, “to the image of this institution . And some of our esteemed guests can’t operate their own elevators, you see.”

The sudden turn Katsumi makes feels a little too purposeful; Izuku nearly bumps into her and scrambles away apologetically.

“You’re spending too much time with Bird-Brain, the hell are you-” Katsumi pauses. “Oh, shit. Yeah.”

Izuku frowns, straightening a little. “What’s going on?”

“Marlboro account,” Katsumi explains, unhelpfully. 

“Marlboro is UA’s biggest client,” Eijiro elaborates, helpfully. “Some reps are comin’ by on Friday. Tryna’ figure out how they’re gonna sell something everybody and their mother is calling cancer in a stick.”

Izuku knows what they're talking about. Going from ads about all the perks of this cigarette and easy-on-the-throat qualities of that cigarette, to the sudden influx of claims that all cigarettes cause cancer , apparently. It’d been all anyone could talk about for a little while, even back in the suburbs. Hadn’t really amounted to anything, of course. Except for maybe one or two people in her neighborhood quitting cold turkey.

“I see,” Izuku says. “Well, you know. I’m sure Mr. Aizawa and the other executives will figure something out.”

“Gonna have to be one hell of an asspull,” Katsumi snorts. “They’re already making their lives harder by switching up the market. No clue how they’re gonna make an ad that’s both manly and health-conscious.”

“ I’m manly and health-conscious,” Eijiro sniffs.

“Manly, sure. Quit eating garbage and then we can start talking health-conscious.”

Eijiro, childishly, sticks out his tongue at her. Katsumi flips him the bird and then hurries to get her hands on the wheel for the next turn. 

Izuku’s not well-versed in advertising, but she understands the root problem- vaguely. When she was a child, Marlboros were for glamorous, elegant, beautiful women. Posters, newspaper spreads, flyers- all with lovely women in silk and furs, perfectly curled hair, and perfect lips. 

And then the anti-smoking articles started pouring in, and suddenly Marlboro ads about elegant women all but disappeared.

Suddenly, all their ads on the TV and the radio were all about construction workers, and- and men in suits. In one of the rare times Yo did speak about his job, he confirmed it- Marlboro was a man’s cigarette now. 

“Well. They’re trying to be,” he’d scoffed. “Guess I should be grateful they’re finally concerned about the integrity of my lips.”

“Well,” Izuku says, frankly. “That’s certainly a problem.”

“Not really our problem,” says Katsumi. “All we do is make everything leading up to the meeting run smoothly. Then we watch them try not to fuck it up. At best, UA and the client regroup.”

“...And at worst?” Izuku inquires. 

“At worst,” Katsumi says, “it’s the messiest divorce of the century.” 

Unsurprisingly, Katsumi’s decision to get to work early has paid off; they easily find parking, there’s less traffic, and when Izuku walks through the lobby and to the elevator, it’s just her and Katsumi and Eijiro- no lingering, uncomfortable stares. 

By the time people have begun swarming into the office like bees in a hive, Izuku has already gotten ahead in her correspondence and outlined three mini meetings in her notes. She stands when Aizawa enters the room (after a prompting look from Katsumi), and takes his coat automatically. She smiles and wishes him a good morning. He gives her a slight nod, his eyes seeming more tired than usual. 

(This win is undercut by the fact that she has to ask Katsumi where the coat room is again, but still). 

For what is apparently such an important week, it’s rather slow- people do stop by her desk, but not many, and most just breeze past, occupied with their own tasks. Mr. Monoma stops by to say hi a couple of times- but that’s mostly to try and get unprompted and unplanned meetings in with Mr. Aizawa. 

Her hands start twitching in the middle of a new correspondence letter, so Izuku turns in her chair (so she’s away from the paper), lights up her cigarette, and takes a long inhale. She turns back to position, the smoke following her like a halo. 

“Chesterfields, huh?”

Izuku blinks, startled, and looks up from the hand that has suddenly landed on the edge of her desk.

A lanky man with slicked-back brown hair looks down at her, an easy-going look on his face. His suit is rumpled and slightly ill-fitting- just a tad too big for him.

“Guess I should be glad all our hard work is paying off,” Rody grins. “An endorsement from a girl like you is the last thing we need.”

Izuku only gapes, confused. The man falters, then quickly recovers.

“Uh. Sorry. Bad joke. Uh- Rody Soul,” he points to himself, then looks Izuku up and down. “You’re the new girl?”

Izuku snaps out of her stupor, then nods, a bit shy. “Uh, Izuku- M-Midoriya. It’s nice to meet you.”

She’s proud of herself for not slipping up this time. 

Rody grins, and it’s bright and almost sleazy. “Hey. Likewise. Always nice to see a fresh face around here. Speaking of fresh faces , uh,” he waves around a manila folder, then juts his chin towards Aizawa’s office door, an almost playful glint in his eyes. “Is the big guy busy right now?”

Izuku smiles a little, lips pursed- and then blinks with the realization. Abruptly, she pulls out the notepad with the rough schedule Katsumi had helped her draft, and sure enough- 11 am, meeting with Art Director is scrawled in Izuku’s somewhat messy penmanship. She’d typed up a copy of it for Mr. Aizawa before he arrived.

“Oh, of course,” Izuku says, somewhat dumbly. She shakes her head- must be the morning fatigue. “Uhm- I’ll page you in right away.”

A beat. Rody looks patient, and Izuku awkwardly taps the intercom. “Uhm, Mr. Aizawa? R- Mr. Soul is here to see you.”

There’s another beat of silence. Rody seems slightly amused by her. Cheeks warm, she avoids eye-contact.

She’d felt out of place when she used to go visit Yo at work, too- a frilly little housewife standing out like a sore thumb in a sea of suits and pencil skirts. The feeling hasn’t left, it seems.

“Send him in,” Mr. Aizawa’s voice calls. Izuku sends Rody one more awkward, reassuring smile, and he gives her a lazy salute before sauntering into the office. 

Izuku’s day is pretty standard- nerve-wracking and anxiety inducing. For once she doesn’t question if anyone notices how inept and incompetent she feels at simple tasks (and probably is), because she knows they’ve got their own things to deal with. 

Rody leaves the meeting almost in a huff, a furrow between his brow. The men all seem holed up in their respective desks, departments and offices. The secretaries are all firmly seated, clicking away on typewriters. There’s still interaction and loitering, it’s just… less. Everyone seems to have some role to play behind the scenes- and that’s probably because they do. Marlboro, as so many people have told her, is UA’s biggest client. If they lose them, they lose a significant chunk of income- perhaps everything. 

She’s answered a few phone calls, given today’s itinerary to Mr. Aizawa, and the next few phone calls and meetings won’t be for another hour or two- after lunch. So she turns to handling the mail. 

Katsumi had given her a very extensive breakdown about all the little details that were essential to remember. Circulars, ads and other junk mail was usually to be thrown out (but Izuku had to assess it to make sure). Telegrams and special delivery letters were to be brought to his attention immediately (she’d set them aside in a very neat pile) and personal letters, Katsumi had emphasized, were not to be opened under any circumstance.

Well. Actually it was more along the lines of, “these letters are private, touch them and you die,” but Izuku digresses. 

The priority, then, is delivering the letters. Aizawa isn’t actually here, though- he’d left to go get lunch with an associate (Izuku had panicked and Katsumi had to bluntly tell her that this was normal and to ‘quit freaking out’), so she just files them away for later. 

(The realization that this is probably exactly how it was in Yo’s office makes her stomach curdle.)

She heads to the breakroom.

“So,” says a woman, and Izuku nearly jumps out her skin, spilling over  “You’re the new girl?”

Izuku whirls around, briefly thankful she hasn’t actually started pouring any piping-hot coffee yet, and comes face to face with a tiny woman with brown skin and dark hair pulled into a bun- she has a blank expression, down-turned eyes, and is dressed in a pale green day dress with a white cardigan, pinned with a little frog brooch. The woman blinks, and Izuku stumbles to reply. 

“Oh! Uhm. Yes. I-Izuku Midoriya.”

“You can call me Tsu,” says Tsu, who is stirring some chamomile tea- Izuku recognizes the smell. “I’m the front desk receptionist. I left early yesterday, so you probably didn’t see me.” 

Her voice is slightly raspy, croak-like in sound. It’s very endearing. Izuku, who didn’t remember seeing Tsu at all yesterday, finds this explanation plausible. “I see.” 

It goes quiet for a moment- that way it does when you’re meeting someone new and don’t know what to say. Izuku considers a smoke, but for whatever reason, decides against it.

“How are you finding work so far?” Tsuyu asks. 

“Oh, uhm...It’s been a little confusing,” Izuku admits with a shrug, pouring herself a cup. “But I can’t complain. Everyone’s really been taking care of me…”

Tsuyu nods her head a little. “That’s good. I felt similarly on my first day. Although, I can't say it's comparable. Aizawa’s a tough desk.”

Izuku’s smile falters a little. “Oh. Yes, I've heard that.”

“It’s true. He goes through secretaries very quickly. The last one was only here for about a week or two.”

At Izuku’s silence, Tsu looks up. “I don’t say that to scare you. You seem much nicer than Hina. I think you’ll be fine.”

“I appreciate it,” Izuku says, a little surprised by the bluntness. It’s a very rare quality, she finds. It’s refreshing, almost. 

“I don’t really have much advice to give,” Tsu says, finishing her tea. “Other than to never be too forward in your intentions. And to always keep your skirts just  below the knee, but not too much.”

Izuku furrows her brow, suddenly more perplexed than refreshed. Tsu shrugs. 

“That’s what I was told, when I started.” She gestures to her own skirt, which goes a good inch or two below her knee. “I don’t really get it either.” 

That’s not the problem. Izuku is fairly confident she knows exactly what whoever advised Tsu was talking about. She knows what men do with their secretaries. She just doesn't like it. 

“Other than that , I’d say, be careful around-”

“Tsuyu.” 

They- along with what seems like the rest of the break room- all whip their heads to the door. 

Katsumi stands, as imposing as a statue and with the intensity of a hurricane. She shoots Tsu- Tsuyu- a pointed look and then juts her chin in the direction of the office. “You’re needed at the front desk.” 

Tsuyu sets down her empty mug- Izuku now sees that it’s a little lumpy and colorful, with a ceramic frog decal sculpted onto the front. It looks a little like a handmade school project. “Of course, Katsumi.”

She sends Izuku a knowing look and then walks out of the break room. 

Katsumi strides in, and half the secretaries immediately go back to whatever they were doing before, while the few men let their gazes linger a little longer. Izuku is left to watch, a little stunned, as Katsumi strides in, right next to Izuku, and starts getting herself coffee. 

Katsumi’s wearing her hair down today. The ends spike out in sharp curls, framing her angular face, and her ruby-red flower earrings match her perfectly applied lipstick. Her eye-makeup is done simply, but no less striking and almost sultry. And then there’s her dress- short sleeved, black and white gingham-check patterned, with a large black stripe around the waist area. Her gold flower-explosion brooch rests over her left breast.

She’s beautiful. Intimidating and alluring, like- like Lauren Bacall, from that one movie she’d seen in childhood with the Bakugo family. It’s one of those few fond memories with Kacchan, from childhood. 

Izuku vividly remembers how Kacchan’s eyes had been glued to the screen whenever the actress appeared, the most interest in a “corny romance movie” he’d ever shown, and for the longest time Izuku just thought it was typical teenage lust. What young man wasn’t utterly taken by Lauren Bacall? 

But now she sees the straightness of Katsumi’s nose and the slightest fullness to her ruby-red lips, and the perpetually stern look on her face, and she sees something else. 

A rather startling resemblance.

Katsumi picks up her cup, turns to Izuku and then suddenly frowns a little. “What? Something on my face?”

“...No.” Izuku says, looking down. 

A beat passes. Somewhat reluctantly, Katsumi shrugs and starts getting herself a mug. 

The posture- the outfits- hell, even the hair, somewhat- 

Izuku wonders if it’d been a sign all along- and how many more she must have missed.

O

Chapter Text

There’s someone crying in the janitor’s closet.

This is ultimately strange to Izuku, because most people eat lunch in the cafeteria and would never dream of eating where all the garbage and cleaning supplies are- and because it might be the first time in the past few years that that ‘someone’ wasn’t her.

She stands in the middle of the room, mere feet away from a dark-haired girl who sits with her knees pulled to her chest, weeping into her hands. It feels private, in a way. If it were Izuku, she’d probably feel a little embarrassed if someone walked in on her like that (which has happened many, many times, and has never ended well).

But still. Her hand twitches like it’s going to reach out.

“Um,” Izuku’s throat feels dry, and she swallows. “Are-are you alright?”

The girl takes a heaving breath, and at first Izuku is sure she hadn’t heard, but then-

“What do you think,” she sobs, looking up. Her eyes are rimmed red, and her dark hair is a mess. Tears and phlegm dribble down her mouth to pool together at her chin- its a painfully awkward and familiar sight.

“Sorry.” Izuku winces and then, albeit hesitantly, crouches down to eye-level with the girl. “…Should- should I go?”

“Yes,” the girl says immediately, wiping off a long trail of snot on her sleeve and sniffling. “No. I don’t know. Do what you want.”

After a moment of hesitation, Izuku sits down.

She considers offering the girl her lunch, but at the same time she doubts a soggy peanut butter sandwich is going to make anyone feel better. So the lunch pail sits forgotten by her side.

The girl doesn’t talk.

Izuku looks up at the ceiling- the lights, the cracks in the walls, that one corner with the intricate cobweb. Mr. Sarusabe sometimes jokes that it’s been there since he first got the job and is therefore part of the school- Izuku doesn’t believe him at all. But it is funny to watch him describe what it had been like in his youth- everything fresh and new and clean, his skin smooth as butter and his looks strikingly perfect (his words, not Izuku’s). She always laughs when he tells her long, exaggerated stories. And then he smiles. It’s a nice memory.

It’s quiet for a while.

Finally the girl sniffles.

“I hate that- Bakugo,” she says, voice warbled, and Izuku looks over in surprise. “He’s such a jerk. I hate him.”

Kacchan is a jerk. Izuku can admit that much. But something tells her this is a new revelation to the other girl.

“What’d he do?” Izuku asks gently.

“That’s none of your business,” the girl snaps, and then abruptly goes quiet. She shifts in place, glances at the closed door- under the crack at the bottom, as if to check that there’s no one lurking outside, and then, voice muffled, “…you can’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t,” Izuku promises earnestly, although there is a hint of ironic amusement in that statement- who would she tell? Who would listen if it came from her mouth?

The girl looks around, as if double checking that there’s no one around. She takes a deep breath, not making eye contact with Izuku, and then-

“…I confessed.”

Izuku tilts her head, furrowing her brow. “…Con-confessed to what?”

The girl gapes, then scoffs. “To Katsuki Bakugo, dummy.”

She immediately glances at the door to make sure no one had heard.

“Oh,” Izuku says, and then realizes. Her eyes go wide as saucers. “Oh.”

At the beginning of middle school, Kacchan had gathered a lot of attention really quickly, and it was easy easy to see why- he was handsome, and rich, and well-groomed, with all the latest things and the best P.E grades. It was easy to look to him as the perfect guy- up until he opened his mouth. The year after that, the number of Valentine’s Day cards and candies he’d received had dwindled, and kept dwindling. Nowadays, most girls know better, and Kacchan seems to like it that way.

This girl, apparently, didn’t know better.

“I wrote him a letter,” the girl says, seething through tears. “I wr-wrote him a letter, and- and I bought h-him candy, and I- I stood outside, by that big oak tree, and when he came, he—”

She makes a sound that’s halfway between a bitter laugh and a sob.

“He told me to- to quit wasting my time. Like I wasn’t even on his- his level, or whatever, and so many other things- his stupid friends were there, too, I just- God, what a*-* a- a stupid, egotistical- boy!”

The girl buries her face into her knees again. She shudders, sniffling wildly. Her wild mane of hair is messy and matted, and something about the sight of her makes Izuku’s heart clench.

“He has no idea what it’s like,” the girl scowls down at the floor. “To-to be vulnerable like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Izuku murmurs, because she doesn’t know what else to say. Izuku doesn’t even know what to say to herself when she’s the one crying in the broom closet. Part of her thinks this girl would appreciate it if she left.

The other part- the stronger part- can’t seem to move.

The girl says nothing.

“If it- if it, uhm, if it m-means anything, I. I know how you feel,” Izuku blurts out.

More silence. Izuku keeps going.

“Last year, I- I got a con-confession letter,” Izuku says, thinking back to that day. “It said- it told me- uhm, to- to meet him outside the- you know the- the old tree in the- near the park? That one.”

Her hair had been longer, then- frizzier. The air had been cold, but she hadn’t minded that- she’d gotten new leggings for the winter and had been proud to show them off (even if Kacchan and his friends all said it made her look like she had chicken legs). Never mind that it had been Kacchan’s mother who gifted them to her. She’d stood there, her skin red, her teeth chattering, her heart full of hope- who knows how long she’d stayed out there. “He, uh, never- never showed.”

It hadn’t been as bad as the time with the hose, or the cranberry juice, or the chocolates with toothpaste in them- or even all those times when groups of people came out to laugh at her.

But that boy had been different. He was, well- nice. He called her Izuku, not Deku, and didn’t laugh when she stuttered over her words. She didn't even feel particularly strongly for him, she just... dreamed of that sort of connection with someone. Anyone. And he was nice, and not bad looking, and wasn't that all she could hope for?

Maybe that’s why it had hurt so much more. Why she looks away from him in the halls and rarely thinks about him now.

More silence. Finally, the girl speaks. “That sucks.”

Izuku laughs a little, surprised by the bluntness. “Y-Yeah.”

She tilts her head, looking at Izuku inquisitively. “I think I’ve seen you around before.”

“O-Oh! Uhm, prob-probably, I- I mean, it’s a small- small school, and…”

“Wait, wait, I know,” the girl points suddenly. “You’re the girl who’s always- y’know, muttering and stuttering and stuff. Deku, right?”

“…Izuku,” Izuku winces. “It’s… it’s Izuku.”

The girl frowns imperceptibly.

“Izuku?” she questions, squinting a little. “Isn’t that a-”

“No,” Izuku says immediately, shoulders and hackles rising- just a little too defensive. Izuku- isn’t that a boy’s name? It’s a question she should probably be more used to by now. Mama tries to reassure her that it’s just a conservative town, but that doesn’t mean it’s not annoying.

Oh, of all the things her father could have left behind for her, he just had to choose the name of his beloved grandfather (whom Izuku had never met, obviously). Some of the older teachers still look at her funny when they call her name in attendance.

“Are you sure?” the girl pries. “Yes.”

A beat. For the first time since finding her, the girl cracks a small smile.

“…If you say so,” she says, clearly not believing Izuku. It doesn’t feel particularly malicious, though. The tension in Izuku’s shoulders lessens.

“What’s- what’s your name?”

“Aiko,” says the girl- Aiko.

Something warm blossoms in Izuku’s chest.

“That’s- that’s a nice- a nice name,” Izuku murmurs. “Like… it reminds me, uhm- of- of a flower.”

“A flower?”

“Yeah,” Izuku shrugs helplessly. “I-I guess.”

Aiko looks at her strangely- half-amused, half-pleased.

“Thank-you, I guess,” she teases.

After a moment of quiet, her smile fades a bit, and then she tilts her head. “You know… you do that a lot.”

“Huh? Do- Do what?”

“Stutter,” Aiko says matter-of-factly, and Izuku deflates. “And mutter. You’re always tripping over your words.”

“Oh. Yeah, I- uh…” Izuku scratches at the back of her neck, trailing off.

“I don’t hate it though,” Aiko clarifies, waving a hand. “It’s not super annoying or whatever. And you seem nice.”

“Th-thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” she leans back against the wall. Another beat passes. “That guy was stupid for standing you up.”

Izuku looks at her, surprised, and huffs out a quiet laugh. “Kacc- B-Bakugo was stupid to do that to you, too.”“Yeah,” Aiko nods, lost in thought, seemingly not noticing Izuku’s slip up. “Yeah. Boys are stupid.”

“Yeah.”

“But… I guess I’m stupid too,” Aiko mutters, looking up to the ceiling. “I’m the one who confessed to that jerk, after all. He’s not even that great. I don’t know what I saw in him.”

Izuku frowns, a wave of defensiveness rising up- and instantly crashing back down. Kacchan doesn’t need her to defend him from anyone, much less someone he embarrassed like that. It’s not as though he deserves it, either. Still.

“He’s… strong,” Izuku mumbles. “Uhm. Tal- talented. Really- really, uhm… bright. I guess it- it makes sense that you’d- that you’d look-look up to him. Determination like that… it’s- it’s inspiring, really.”She scoffs. “What’s it matter if he’s got an awful personality?”

Izuku doesn’t have anything to say to that. She shrugs wordlessly.

“Boys are stupid,” Aiko says again, then huffs. “He probably told everyone all about it. The whole school probably knows, and- and I’m gonna hafta’ show up to that stupid dance all by myself. Just- terrific.”

The dance.

Izuku rests her chin on her knees. The dance. She’d almost completely forgotten about that. She wasn’t going to go, of course- but she imagines that for any other girl, it’s a lot of fun if you have people to go with.

“That doesn’t sound ter-terrific at all.”

Aiko stares at her. And then-

She snorts. It’s quiet and soft and kind of ugly- not a charming titter from actresses in the movies. It’s real. Endearing.

“Izuku,”Aiko snickers, flicking Izuku’s forehead. Izuku yelps. “I was being sarcastic.”

Izuku flushes. “Oh. S-Sorry.”

Aiko just laughs. Shoulders shaking, dimples popping- when she looks at Izuku, her eyes crinkle. Something about it makes Izuku’s cheeks feel warm- nothing like when Kacchan and his friends or the girls in the halls laugh at her. They all look at her like she’s a deformed, ugly bug under a magnifying glass, meant to be poked at and prodded at and crushed beneath the rubber sole of someone’s boot.

Even in a room full of pesticides, in this moment, Izuku doesn’t feel like an ugly bug. For once she can twist it, justify it to herself; she feels- it feels nice, to know she made someone laugh like that.

There’s something weird about her, in this moment. Her cheeks are red, her lashes wet and defined, her lips are soft and rosy, her jaw sharp-She’s blonde, too. It’s more dirty blonde than platinum- darker in some parts, with stray, choppy bits that escape her curled hair. Curled- not frizzy.

Izuku can’t help but stare.

“…You’re beautiful,” she murmurs.

The laughter trails off, and in a split second Izuku realizes that somehow, what she’d said was no simple compliment.

Aiko’s brows furrow slightly, her face somewhat frozen, like she’s not sure what to say.

Izuku’s eyes go wide, her face face flaming red. “I mean- I mean it- it’s not- it’s just- I’m surprised! Because- because you’re so p-pretty, I mean…”

She wrings her hands and turns away.

“…I don’t have a- a date to the da-dance, either,” Izuku admits quietly. “And I’m… I’m me. And I guess it’s just- if there’s no hope for you, then…” she shrugs. “I don’t know. Boys are stupid.”

It’s quiet for a little while.

“We should go somewhere together,” Aiko mutters. “Instead of going to the dance n’… feeling all sorry for ourselves.”

Izuku whips her head around, eyes wide.

“You mean it?” she asks, barely daring to hope.

“Yeah.” Aiko shoots her a half-grin. “We could- go to the movies, or something. Maybe get ice cream-

“-Or the planetarium,” Izuku thinks aloud, thinking about those stiff seats and the deep, soothing voice of the narrator, the pitch back dome ceiling and the swirling projection of stars, galaxies, planets… “We could… we could go there.”

Aiko snorts, looking at her strangely- but somewhat fondly. “Sure, weirdo. We could go to the planetarium. Or-”

They keep talking. Izuku loses track of time.

Aiko likes clothes and volleyball and dreams of being a famous actress, and doesn’t laugh when Izuku starts rambling about All Might, or weird little facts Izuku picked up from a new library book, or the stars- although she clearly isn’t interested. Izuku appreciates the effort. No one’s ever really put in the effort for her this way, and she’s grateful.

For once Izuku’s shoulders feel a little lighter, the nervous storm in her head a gentle lulling sea. Suddenly her mind is full of fantasies- her and Aiko walking to school together, eating lunch together, going to the mall and watching movies*.* Her and Aiko at the little diner a few blocks away from the neighborhood, which have those really big sundaes and two straw milkshakes, and always seem to be filled with huge groups of friends and swooning couples. Her and Aiko trading secrets in the janitor’s closet, this very one, dubbed ‘their spot’. Aiko listening to Izuku talk about All Might without judgement, without accusing her of being a weirdo or desperate. Them. Together.

Aiko scooches closer.

Izuku’s imagination runs wild. Her and Aiko sharing test scores. Her and Aiko doing assignments together. Her and Aiko at graduation, walking side by side on the way home- Aiko’s house, not Izuku’s.

(In her head, it’s a cozy, picturesque home with redwood furniture and a huge dining table. And a family portrait. And- maybe Aiko has a mischevious brother, like Izuku has always wanted. A doting father. A stern but loving mother. Like in the movies.)

Aiko’s hand is a breath away from her own.

Izuku and Aiko changing into their pajamas, staying up late with the radio playing and the lamplight on, chatting away. Do you remember when and You know, I always thought and on and on and on. Izuku doesn’t really know what most girls her age talk about. She imagines it must be nice.

Izuku finds herself leaning closer.

Closer.

Closer-

The bell rings.

Izuku jumps back like she’s been burned.

It’s almost anticlimatic. They pack their lunch pails and toss away garbage and dust dirt off their uniforms, all without looking at each other. Izuku’s heart is pounding. Her face warm. If she had a compact, like some of the cool older girls, she’d be able to see whether or not she really looked like a strawberry.

“I’ll catch you later,” Aiko says, as they exit the closet.

She doesn’t meet Izuku’s eyes.

Chapter Text

Wednesday

“Oh,” Hitoshi drawls, breathing out smoke. “You again.”

It’s late, to put it simply. Rush hour has come and gone, and the roads are relatively empty- by the city’s standards, at least. The sky is so deep blue it looks black, stars dotted across the sky like faint, gentle freckles. Most jobs and offices have probably closed by now. Everyone else who can is probably winding down from the cold and work and everything else, not going back outside to brave more of it.

But Izuku likes the cool, quiet ambience of the parking garage, and she’d had nothing else to do in the time between coming home and going to bed, so she figured…

She takes a few steps closer, fiddling with the straps of her purse, pulling out her case. “I hope I’m not bothering you.”

He appraises her half-heartedly, then shrugs. “‘Course not.”

Cigarette still held between his lips, Hitoshi holds out his lighter. Izuku leans close and he lights the flame right at the end of her Chesterfield, and she watches the white wrapping go bright orange and then mellow out into burning embers. The first inhale soothes all the tense spots in her mind, and she lets her eyes flutter closed.

Smoke swirls up into the sky in wisps. The quiet is punctuated with the occasional car horn, the racing engines of stray cars, loud conversations. And for a moment, it stays quiet.

“I hate my job,” Hitoshi mutters suddenly, and Izuku nearly chokes on a lungful of smoke, shooting him a baffled glance.

His face is blank, unbothered, and he’s not even looking at her- just straight ahead, at the horizon- at the distant shape of towering skyscrapers all clumped together like books on a shelf.

She gapes for a second, at a loss for words, before quickly taking another long drag of her cigarette. Her mind races.

Should she… say something? All the advice columns she’d read about consoling people were all about comforting children or female friends that were more like acquaintances and, well, mostly about dissatisfied husbands, but that certainly didn’t apply here. She and Hitoshi spoke to each other, sometimes, and they were acquainted well enough— she knew he was a criminal defense attorney and he knew enough about her recent employment, but they were not close. Would it even be her place to comment on it?

She exhales.

But ignoring him would be rude, there was no getting around that.

“…Do you want to talk about it?” she blurts out.

Hitoshi glances at her, his face as blank as ever. He’s a lot taller than her, and it makes her feel like a bug under a magnifying glass, like she’s being inspected, judged, and she resists the urge to squirm or shake her head and say Forget it, I shouldn’t have spoken.

“I- there’s not much to talk about,” he shrugs, snapping her out of her thoughts. “I don’t actually- I like doing what I do. Just… a tough case, that’s all. ‘S going slowly. Prosecution’s being a dick.”

Izuku knows nothing about practicing law, so she just stutters out a, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

He hums, taking another inhale. A beat passes. “You have a job now, right? How’s that going?”

“It’s going… well,” Izuku says, throat bobbing. “Uhm. Kind of hectic, I think, but I’m doing alright. We’ve got a new client.”

“UA Advertising Agency, right,” he repeats- probably recalling from the last time they’d touched upon the subject. “Good on you.”

“I can’t take any credit,” Izuku turns her head to exhale. “Really. Ka- my friend got me the job and I’m not- I don’t really- I’m only a secretary.”

“Secretarial work is tough shit,” Hitoshi says. “If anything, your friend threw you to the wolves. Wolves who pay well, but still.”

Izuku doesn’t really know what to follow that up with, so she takes another inhale, peeking at Hitoshi out of the corner of her eye as he does the same. A question hits her, suddenly. “You prefer Marlboros, don’t you?”

“Hm? Oh. Yeah. Have for a while.”

“…If you don’t mind, uhm- is there any reason why?”

“Why do I smoke in general, or why do I smoke Marlboros, specifically?” he asks.

“The latter.”

A beat passes. He shrugs again. “Dunno. I like the taste better than- Lucky Strike, or whatever.”

“Even if it’s- uhm. You know that they’re saying- you know it used to be, uhm- a woman’s cigarette?”

At that, Hitoshi smirks. “Aw. That’s not fair. You know they’re trying to distance themselves from that.”

Izuku flushes, waving her hands. “I- I wasn’t trying to insinuate anything, I mean you’re- I mean, I was just- you know, it’s… a lot of people kind of think that way, but, uhm…”

She trails off.

Hitoshi regards her critically for a moment, then nonchalantly takes another huff. “I already smoke ‘em. A little too late to start worrying about that now.”

And then, “Any reason why you care?”

Great question. Why does she care? She’s been at UA for two days, tops.

But then, she’s always been like that. Too nosy, too easily invested for her own good, even when she really shouldn’t be. The day after Yo proposed she’d bought a stack of books about homemaking, beauty tips, fashion tips, even a few about preparing for motherhood- and memorized them until she knew everything there was to know. He’d once told her that everything seemed to come easy to her, and she’d never known how to say that he just never saw her trying.

“…Well,” Izuku begins, gray smoke wisping into the air. “Marlboro’s the client- the one UA landed, I mean, and- recently they’ve been clashing a little, so I just…”

“Ohhhhh,” he says, suddenly sympathetic. “Now that, I get. Big client, impossible standards, not enough time… Your boss making things difficult for you already?”

“No, no, no,” Izuku hurries to explain. “Just- I don’t know. I’m no advertising expert. I’m not sure how they’re going to spin it, I suppose. I’m worried.”

Hitoshi hums in thought.

“Well. In my experience, a lot of guys don’t mind the filter. It’s just the, ah, feminine aspect that turns them off.”

“And… you don’t mind the feminine aspect?”

“Nah,” he admits. “‘S not a big deal to me. People like what they like.”

At that, Izuku smiles a little. “I guess you’re right.”

“You really don’t have to worry, anyway,” Hitoshi says again. “It’s out of your hands. Let them worry about it.”

All we do is make everything leading up to the meeting run smoothly, a Katsumi-like voice in her head reminds her. Then we watch them try not to fuck it up.

“I- I should get going,” Izuku says suddenly.

Hitoshi takes one final exhale, then drops the cigarette to the ground, stamps it out with his shoe. “Want me to walk you back?”

“…Alright.”

Thursday

“Don’t even think about it,” Katsumi snaps. Eijiro draws his hand away from the radio dial like a scolded dog.

“But Bakugo,” he whines, and Izuku doesn’t have the greatest view from where she’s sitting in the back, but she can still vividly imagine the kind of sad pout on his face.

“Stop it. I don’t want that—” she waves a hand, “that— lovey-dovey shit playing in my car.”

“It’s Valentine’s Day.”

“It’s February thirteenth.”

“So. Valentine’s Day.”

“Ugh.”

Izuku had insisted on sitting in the back seat this time, concerned she’d been overstepping— but Eijiro and Katuski seem to talk exactly as much as they did before, bickering and griping at each other like they’ve known each other all their lives. Eijiro hadn’t minded sitting up back, either- apparently he sometimes liked sitting back there because the seats were “really squishy”.

Well, he was right about that, Izuku thinks. She leans back and squirms a little. Is leather meant to be so… plush?

A janky tune starts blaring throughout the car — Eijiro must’ve won the battle, and Katsumi’s ensuing groan all but confirms this.

“Ohhhh, Veeee-nus,” he croons, endearingly off-key, as Katsumi screeches, “Fucking hell, anything but that one-”

“It's a classic!”

“It was released last month,” Katsumi grits her teeth, “And it’s everywhere.”

Katsumi’s right- ever since February started it seems the song has —somehow — boosted further in popularity. To be fair, it’s not hard to see why.

“It is the season of love,” Izuku tries to tease.

“See, Izuku gets it!” Eijiro says, as Katsumi lets out another groan. “Aw, c’mon, admit it: it’s a good song.”

“You people have no goddamn taste. This guy sounds like a janky morning bird.”

“It’s romantic!”

Katsumi scoffed. “If this is what passes for fuckin’ romance these days…”

Instead of retorting, Eijiro picks up the tune again, his gestures grand and impassioned (at least, from what Izuku can see), and as much as Katsumi moans about it, Izuku can tell she’s not actually upset. Possibly even mildly amused.

But maybe she’s just imagining things. After all- what would she know?

“-mise that I always will be true,” he sings, as they slow to a stop at a red light. “I’ll give her all the love I have to give-”

He holds the note unexpectedly, and then, out of nowhere, turns back and gestures to Izuku, as though handing her the imaginary microphone. She blinks wildly, like a deer in headlights.

A beat passes. And another.

“…A-A long as we both shall live,” Izuku sings weakly. She’s off-key and awkward-sounding, and several beats off from the music, but Eijiro cheers loudly, and Katsumi groans loudly, and the tension in Izuku’s chest, the one that seems to have been sitting ever since she woke up, is temporarily lifted.

Izuku has… mixed feelings about her job. On one hand, she earns about twenty-two dollars a week, and the work isn’t difficult, by any means. Her coworkers, on the other hand…

“Say- why don’t you try a cooler toned lipstick? It looks good for darker hair, y’know! Ragdoll Cosmetics has a ton of cute options, they’re a pretty new brand but they work real swell for me!” chirps Neijre Hado, over the rushing sink water. “A lot of men like the look of dark lipstick. And long legs. Ohh, you’ve got great legs. Show ‘em off a little more, I bet the boss would like that.”

“…I’ll think about it,” Izuku says, wiping her hands with a paper towel. In the background, a toilet flushes. “Uhm. Neijre, right?”

“Mmh-hmm!” she reaches for a paper towel and Izuku dutifully hands her one. “I’m up in front of Mirio’s office, just about two desks away- you should stop by some time! He’s pretty lenient, although I can’t say the same for the Queen Bee- or, better yet-”

Aizawa scribbles on his notepad, not sparing her a glance. He reviews the itinerary she’d drafted once, eyes squinting. “So that’s all for today?”

Izuku looks through the schedule she’d drafted, and briefed with him, for the third time- just in case she’d somehow missed something. “Uhm. Yep, that- that should be-”

“Good. Oh- and I need to restock on eye drops. See if you can get that done during your lunch break.”

“Oh- of- of course. Right away. ”

“And, uh,” he shoots her a knowing, tired look. “Don’t let Monoma in here. He’s been bugging me all week.”

Izuku bobs her head. “I’ll make sure of it.”

He stares at her for a moment longer, then nods with finality, turning back to his papers. “Good. You can-”

“-go see if he’s available, won’t you?” Monoma asks, waving a hand- he does that a lot, Izuku notices. He’s very… theatrical, always gesturing with his hands and leaning over every available space like it belongs to him. Izuku remembers some of her old classmates being like that. The rich ones, mostly. The really rich ones.

From what Izuku’s heard, Monoma comes from one such family. His mother’s family owns just about every major property west of the city, and his father is a prominent investor-businessman with quite a few prestigious country clubs under his belt. Izuku can’t even properly think he’s a bit of a jerk- though, she does think that— it’s just. Well, she imagines it’d be kind of hard not to be a jerk if you spend your whole life with enough wealth and influence to avoid ever hearing the word ‘no’.

“M-Mr. Aizawa’s not accepting visitors right- right now,” Izuku manages, trying to look neutral— she rests her fingers over the typewriter keys in an attempt to busy herself.

He chuckles a bit. It sounds slightly manic, but she doubts that’s intentional. “Well, surely I’m not just any old visitor to him?”

“Well- I’m sure you aren’t- but he’s- it’s- he’s busy.”

Monoma tilts his head slightly, his plasticine smile taking on a note of confusion, like there’s something she isn’t understanding.

Izuku isn’t understanding. In fact, she’s starting to get nervous— if she lets Monoma in, that’ll signal to Mr. Aizawa that she’s unreliable and untrustworthy, and if the rumors about his harshness are correct, she’ll be fired— but if she’s right about Monoma’s family, then it’s definitely likely he has connections sustaining his job and the company, which means if she pisses him off too much there’s a less than zero chance they’ll give her the boot anyway.

“Come on, he’s never busy this time of day,” he pesters, as Izuku’s finger begins anxiously twitching against the typewriter key. “I have a pitch I’ve been trying to sell to him, I’m sure you can just let him know-”

“You don’t understand, he’s-” her mouth clacks shut, in case she was being too loud. No, no. Come on, Izuku, you can do this. You’ve done this before. You’ve lied about worse.

Carefully, she briefly looks left, then right, then back to an openly confused Monoma. She leans in slightly, willing her face to look apologetic. “He’s… really, really busy.”

She says it in the same tone the other housewives back in Takoba used when they wanted to share a particularly sad piece of gossip- in the same tone some of the neighbors used to talk about her, as a child. She’s taken it to mean this is a sad, non-normative personal thing that I can’t really discuss.

Miraculously, it seems to work. Monoma’s eyebrows raise, and he opens his mouth, as if to say something- then clearly thinks better of it. He shoots her a final, polite smile, exchanges some pleasantries, and then he’s gone, looking disgruntled.

Izuku shakes her head a little, turning back to her work. Strange, she can’t help but think. It’s-

“-Izumi, right?” someone says, tapping Izuku on the shoulder. She startles, whirling around to see a man she has never seen before. He has dark hair and a somewhat round face, and he’s staring at her in a way that can only really be described as a polite leer. Currently, he’s inspecting the fridge.

“…Izuku,” she corrects, still a bit bewildered. She smiles nevertheless. The man seems to appreciate that.

“Beautiful name. You mind getting me a coffee?”

He gestures over to the coffee maker on the other end of the break room, still plugged in from the last use- her use. She blinks, and then the next thing she knows she’s nodding and fixing up another cup. She’s already in the break room, after all, and the pot is right there, and… and…

He smiles- again, more of a polite leer- when she hands him the cup, her hands shaking all the while.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says, eyes crinkling, taking a swig . “Glad to see that some of you are still nice.”

Here he glances over to the door, then back at Izuku, as if sharing something with her, eyebrows raised in silent, smug mirth. He’s telling her some sort of joke, clearly.

Izuku follows his eyes to the outside of the break room- to where Katsumi is walking by. Hair styled up, her clothes form-fitting and elegant, her features as sharp and striking as ever. She strides past the door without noticing them, every step taken in full confidence.

(Izuku had always found that admirable about her.)

The punchline registers when she notices the man still leering- not at her, this time. At Katsumi. And it’s no longer polite.

Other than that, Tsu’s voice rings in her mind, I’d say be careful around-

What was it Nejire had said, earlier?

Although I can’t say the same for the Queen Bee-

Queen Bee— is that Katsumi?

Instinctively, she looks down. Katsumi’s skirt is the same length as hers. But her lipstick is dark. It does, to some extent, make her look intimidating.

Glad to see some of you are still nice-

As if possessed, Izuku sets down her cup and walks out of the break room, ignoring the strange look the man sends her. She peeks outside the doorway, down the hall of offices and rooms. Katsumi strides down it.

For the first time in a long time, Izuku watches her go.

Chapter Text

There’s a group of older kids lurking outside the school.

It’s nothing new, really; it’d happened all the time in elementary school. Rowdy, rule-breaking teens from the nearby high school who skipped and smoked; the teacher would always scowl at the window and shake her head in disapproval if she saw them, and always went on to make everybody promise that they’d never be that entitled and disrespectful when they grew up. Izuku had promised eagerly, and Susumu Shirogane had called her a suck-up when the teacher was out of earshot.

She has memories of four-year-old Kacchan sneering at teenagers like that, throwing rocks through the fence if they got too close. One older kid had called Izuku ugly once and Kacchan bit him hard enough to draw blood. But they had still been friends then, and Kacchan still seemed annoyed with the way all the adults had cooed over him being Izuku’s ‘boyfriend’, a ‘real man’ now- like he’d finally crossed an unspoken barrier that welcomed him into a new world of expectation, and completely shunned him from the one he’d shared with Izuku.

He’d hated being called her boyfriend, and denied it furiously every time. Izuku didn’t get it. Kacchan wasn’t her boyfriend. Some days he barely even felt any different from her!

These kids are different, anyhow. The kids hanging outside of the elementary school were goofing off. These kids are scary. Izuku had internally waved off Mama’s warnings about ‘dangerous characters’ until she’d seen them on the way to school once, hanging out behind the fence near the back of the building. She’d ducked her head and speed-walked past them, praying that they wouldn’t notice her. The teachers won’t even do anything about them; probably worried about getting mugged in an alley later. The police were called, once, but they’d somehow fled before the cop cars could arrive.

They’re not always there, and sometimes it’s not all of them. There are about four people who show up consistently; a blonde-haired girl with pigtails, a blonde-haired guy with a scar running down his forehead to his chin, a boy with large burns on his arms and face, and a scraggly boy with matted, platinum hair and an unsettling gaze. They usually gather around and smoke together- sometimes they just stand around and chat, sometimes they’re not there at all. They usually are, though, and they keep coming back, and Izuku wonders about how their parents must feel about all of this.

But then, maybe they don’t have any. Setsuko Takeuchi has been going around saying that they’re all orphans- bastard children who blew up the orphanage they were housed in. Setsuko says a lot of things, and this particular rumor is too awful for Izuku to want to believe.

They’re a rowdy, unstable bunch. Dangerous to get involved with. It’s best for her to keep her head down and pretend they don’t exist.

But sometimes she doesn’t keep her head down. Sometimes she glances up, just for a moment, and she sees the girl say something to the boy with the singular scar, and then she watches as he laughs, while the boy with the burns can only smirk a little. The boy with the shaggy hair says nothing, but his posture relaxes a little, like a cat that’s comfortable with the chaos around it, and-

Izuku knows they’re a bad bunch.

But they smile and shove at each other in a way she can’t explain- like they like each other, genuinely like each other, and that’s the reason that they keep coming back to this spot. She wonders what it’s like, to like someone like that- warts and all.

Izuku knows she shouldn’t. But in these times she looks at them, at the little family they’ve made for themselves, and she wants more than she fears.

The day starts off poorly. They’re out of fruit, so Izuku only gets a peanut butter sandwich- which makes her mother incredibly apologetic, near-tears, and by the time Izuku has reassured her that everything is fine and that it’s not a big deal, Mama is ten minutes late for work. And because of that, she nearly ended up walking side-by-side next to Kacchan on the way to school, and he’d sneered at her whether she kept pace with him or purposely stood back to let him overtake her, so he’d been extra upset with her in their morning class, and she’d already woken up feeling awful.

It gets a little better during math class; the teacher gives her back Monday’s test with an A plus scrawled on it, and flashes her a small, approving smile, and Izuku feels genuinely proud of herself. She’s always liked math- numbers are easier to figure out than people, she finds.

But it gets worse afterwards, because of course it does.

When Izuku gets out of class and heads to the cafeteria, she’s interrupted by a sudden stampede of students in all different directions- loosely buttoned uniforms and ribbons and slicked-back hair, with the familiar stench of pubescent body odor. In the middle of it all, she spots a teacher- and a familiar-looking head of blonde hair, heading off in the direction of the principal’s office after the teacher points at him to do so.

Kacchan?

She swerves closer. Yes- definitely Kacchan. He has his head bowed, and she catches a splotch of red on his face.

In her curiosity, she does something she’d normally think twice about: she grabs the sleeve of the nearest person and tugs lightly- just enough to get their attention. “Uhm! Excuse me.”

The boy she’s grabbed onto- Kariage, her brain supplies, Kacchan’s friend- stops and looks down at her strangely. “What do you want?”

“Sorry,” she says immediately, letting go of his sleeve like she’s been burned. “I just- do you know what happened?”

He frowns at her, brush. “None of your business.”

Kariage turns to go, but Izuku grabs onto his sleeve by instinct again, and he looks back at her, properly annoyed.

“What?”

“I, uh,” Izuku flounders, unsure of why this matters so much to her. Is Kacchan in trouble? Has he done something? “Uhm. I just want to know-”

“Katsuki got into a fight with Ito, alright,” Kariage snaps, wrenching his arm away from her. Izuku’s jaw drops in shock. Kacchan? A fight? “Man, you’re annoying.”

The reality of the situation hits her belatedly- she’s grabbing on to the arm of the same guy she once overheard saying that he’d sooner eat slugs than hold hands with her. What on earth is she doing? Why is she getting involved again?

“S-Sorry,” she says, but he’s stormed off already.

From what she can piece together, the story is this: Kacchan has just gotten into his first proper fight. Not an argument, not a disagreement— a genuine, one-on-one fight, with someone nearly equal in size and strength.

No one really knows how it started- just that it happened. Just that Kacchan and Ito Watanabe started exchanging barbs, and then someone threw a punch, and then the next thing everyone knew, they were brawling.

And when the teacher pulled them away from each other, everyone scattered, and that was the end of it. From what Izuku knows, Kacchan has a split lip and a detention. Ito has a detention and worse. There’s no mistaking who won.

The janitor’s closet that izuku usually eats lunch in is locked today, so she ends up having to eat lunch in the cafeteria, with the other kids.

Although, 'with the other kids' is a bit of a stretch. She finds an empty table in the very far corner, where no one else is sitting. She'd spotted Aiko, earlier, and had tried to ask if she could sit with her and her friends, but the girl had immediately looked away when Izuku approached and the rest looked at her really, really weirdly when she'd asked to sit down, so she'd settled for sitting here. 

Kacchan’s not at the cafeteria. He usually isn’t- he’s always out somewhere else, smoking with his friends. And when he comes back into the classroom, reeking of tobacco, the teachers don’t say anything.

He's not really a delinquent. Izuku had never considered him that way, at least. He had good grades, and didn't do traditional delinquent things (outside of the smoking), and cared very much about his appearance in a way Izuku had only seen other girls do. The last time she'd seen him be in anything close to a fight, it'd been back in elementary. Her, standing behind a tree, watching Kacchan wipe away tears and brush off his scrapes, back straightening in determination. 

All men fight, said Izuku’s father, a very very long time ago. Either they know, or they learn. A man fights for his pride, his honor, what’s his. If a guy ever pursues you but won't fight for you, I'll knock his teeth out. 

He'd said it all with a smiling, pleasant face. Her father had always been a little weird like that. 

But this fight is different. It doesn't feel like the manly ritual her father sort of described it as.

It was one of the rare times Kacchan had not looked proud. Not even a little bit.

“I still can’t believe Ito lost,” marvels Mariko, from the table in front of her. The girls Mariko’s sitting with either haven’t noticed Izuku’s presence, or are choosing to ignore her. “I guess he’s always just been talk.”

“Such a shame,” Setsuko says, and Izuku perks up instinctively. Her stomach has been tying itself into knots recently, but eating her sandwich doesn’t make her feel any better. “Did you see how Katsuki swung at him? Ito’s nose was bleeding!”

“It was frightening,” mutters Yoko. “Really frightening.”

“Oh, don’t be such a baby,” Mariko scoffs. "It was cool."

"It really was, honestly," Setsuko muses.

Setsuko is one of the prettiest girls in their class, bar none- shiny, fiery and unique red hair, a clean face with glowing skin, full lips and a slender figure- not bone-thin and curveless like Izuku. Every guy is, to some extent, smitten with her. Not Kacchan, though. Kacchan has never shown that much interest in things like that, as naturally as it seems to come for him, and maybe that’s another part of the appeal.

She pictures them together and admits they’d make a very good-looking couple.

“I don’t know about that,” Yoko continues. “Katsuki... Don’t you find him a little bit- I don’t know, loud? Egotistical?”

“Well, yeah, but at least he can back it up,” says Mariko, getting a gleam in her eye. “Most guys like that are all talk.”

Izuku thinks of Kacchan. Of yanked pigtails, and harsh hands shoving her to the floor, and burnt notebooks. 

I’ll bet it’s safe to say he’s not just talk, she thinks, and involuntarily lets out a quiet huff of laughter.

She regrets it immediately when the three of them whip their heads around to stare at her, because of course now is when they would notice her. Of course. She shrinks in on herself like a turtle and prays for the ground to swallow her whole.

“Is something funny, Deku?” Setsuko asks.

“No,” Izuku manages, suddenly terrified. She really does not need this. She doesn’t want to make any of it worse, and she finds herself stumbling. “No, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no, we were rude,” Mariko says. “We didn’t mean to leave you out.”

“I- I don’t mind-”

“Well, then,” says Setsuko, turning around to face her. “What about you? Do you agree?”

When Izuku doesn’t respond, too busy opening and closing her mouth like a dying fish, she prompts, “Katsuki’s dreamy, isn’t he?”

They all lean in, exchanging bemused looks, and Izuku’s throat closes up, like a wounded animal being circled by vultures. “Wh-What?”

“Come on,” pushes Mariko. Yoko hides a smirk behind her hand. “Don’t be shy. You think he’s handsome, don’t you?”

“What?” Izuku squawks, frantically looking around. Nobody else is paying attention to them, and then the question sinks in. Kacchan?  “N-No!”

“You don’t have to lie-”

“I’m- I’m not,” Izuku sputters. “I don’t- I don’t think that at all!”

“Really?” Setsuko implores. “Are you being honest with us?”

“Yes?” she says. It sounds like a question, even to her own ears. 

That's because the truth itself is a little complicated. Kacchan is, objectively, good-looking. He has sharp eyes and features, and he’s pretty tall and a fast runner. If she were to take a butcher’s knife and cleave his skull in two parts down the middle, both halves would probably be the exact same. 

But she doesn’t feel- like that, about him. That’s not how she would describe it at all.

Kacchan is mean and cruel. But he’s there, a constant in her life, a North Star of success. He inspires her to be better, even though she knows deep down that she probably won’t ever amount to much. All she knows about the guy, as much as she hates to admit it, is what she remembers of the only kid on their block who really liked her- of their adventures and stories and trips to the park. The more Kacchan grew up into that masculine ideal, the crueler, more unfamiliar he became. And for this reason, he sight of his sharp jaw doesn’t make her swoon- instead it reminds her of when his friend called her a turkey-neck and Kacchan laughed.

As a person, Izuku jumps between admiring his skill and almost disliking him.

There is a wounded part of her that wants her friend back. That thinks maybe they could be friends again, like they were before. But all in all, even she can acknowledge that he’s kind of a huge jerk. She doesn’t like him, not really-

“Deku?”

She’s snapped out of her thoughts immediately.

“You were muttering,” Mariko says, half sneering, half-morbidly intrigued- almost like she’s awestruck by Izuku’s social ineptitude. Yoko is staring. Setsuko bites her lip like she’s trying not to laugh.

Izuku claps her hand over her mouth at the realization, and her face burns. How long had she-? “S-sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean- uhm- sorry.”

She looks down at her lunch tray, squeezing her eyes shut to prevent the instinctive tears, and hopes and prays that they don’t interrogate her further. By the grace of some great God, they don’t - they snicker about her behind their cupped hands, but they don’t come over and confront her, like they normally would. Izuku does feel a bit bad- she hadn’t meant to interrupt them, or join in (God knows she’s tried in the past, and it’s never gone well).

Her stomach hurts.

She decides to excuse herself quietly and head to the bathroom, legs oddly wobbly. By some miracle, it’s totally empty, which means there’s little chance of anyone coming in to bother her. She picks the first stall and locks the door.

When she doesn’t hear any approaching footsteps, Izuku gathers her skirt to the front, pulls her tights down, and-

There’s blood on her underwear.

Izuku’s breath hitches.

As if the day couldn’t get any worse.

It does get worse, predictably; about twenty minutes before the bell is set to ring, Izuku, with squares of toilet paper between her legs, decides to head to the office around the same time Kacchan leaves it.

He drags his arm over his eyes roughly, looking frustrated with himself. His mouth is drawn into a snarl. And when he inevitably turns his head and spots her, his whole expression drops- like he’s horrified, almost. Izuku starts to sweat.

This can’t happen. She needs to get out of here. Kacchan cannot know about her current…. predicament. She’d be better off dropping out of school. Not to mention what a scandal it would be, how desperate and gross it’d make her look. Mama had told her about periods, of course, and she knows what they are, and she knows that it’s not something you talk about with boys. Never.

“Deku?” His eyes are red and his lips look shiny, with dried blood in the corner; the nurse must have put petroleum jelly on it. It confirms the theory that Ito gave him a split lip. The confusion on his face immediately gives way to rage. “Wh- The hell are you doing?”

She doesn’t really need to go to the nurse’s office, she thinks to herself. She’ll probably be fine. Sure, she needs some sanitary pads and maybe something to soothe the ache, but she can probably secure it later.

But then, she needs all of that soon enough so that she doesn’t bleed through her tights. Then she’d really never hear the end of it. God, she’s disgusting.

“Hi, Kacchan,” Izuku says, voice cracking. Her face burns, but she moves on, instinctively squeezing her legs together. “Uhm. Uh- I heard about what- what happened. I’m glad that you’re okay.”

He sneers at her, furiously clenching his fists. “Of course I’m fucking okay. What, you think I need a creep like you checking up on me?"

“No. No, of course not. I don’t think that at all,” Izuku stumbles. “I just. Wanted to ask.”

“I’m fucking fine,” Kacchan spits, and there’s a hysterical edge to his tone. “I beat the other guy’s ass and I’m fine. Don't come up to me like we're friends!”

It’s not even close to the worst thing he’s ever said to her, and it has no real effect- but Izuku’s stomach cramps again at that exact moment, and she cringes visibly.

“Right,” she manages. Kacchan’s face doesn’t lose it’s furious edge, but an inkling of bafflement slips in. She needs to get out of here. She needs to get out of here, anywhere but here- “Uhm. I’m glad that- I’m glad- I-”

“The hell is wrong with you?” Kacchan demands, and if she didn’t know any better, through the layer of anger, she’d say he sounded genuinely curious. “You got something to say to me?”

“No. No, I just-” she cuts herself off. She cannot tell Kacchan she needs the nurse. She can’t even hint at it. Who knows what he’d think, or say, or do? “Uh. N-Nothing. I hope you feel better.”

“Deku-”

“G-Goodbye!”

She turns on her heel and runs as fast as she can around the corner. Kacchan, predictably, doesn’t follow after her.

Through her panicked haze, she ends up outside, somehow.

She’s not really sure what she was thinking; maybe that she could somehow manage to leave school property and find a store less than five minutes away, and- and buy Tampax with the two dimes she has on her right now? God, she’s an idiot. She’s an idiot, she’s-

“Oh, hi there!”

Izuku whips her head around.

Behind the fence stands the blonde-haired girl that Izuku usually sees around these parts. Her friend, the blonde boy with the single scar and a cigarette in his mouth, looks at her with equal parts intrigue and terror. The other boys- the one with burns and the one with the shaggy hair- are nowhere to be seen.

“Gosh, you’re so cute,” the girl gushes, “So little. You won’t tell anyone we’re here, will you? Otherwise we might have to-”

“Himiko,” hisses the boy, a hand on Himiko’s shoulder. “Himiko, we shouldn’t…”

She pouts. “Aw. You’re no fun, Jin.”

Izuku looks at him. Izuku looks at the girl. She thinks about Kariage and Setsuko and Kacchan and the cramping in her stomach and-

Izuku laughs a little. And then chokes on a sob. When Himiko’s eyes widen, she buries her face into her hands and weeps.

“Hey,” the boy - Jin- says suddenly, sounding a bit softer. “Hey, what’s wrong? The hell is wrong?”

Izuku struggles to inhale, but against her better judgment, she steps closer to the fence. She wants Mama. She wants Mama to hold her in her arms and kiss her head and tuck her into bed, and-

“Is everything okay?” Jin prompts, resting his arm on the fence like he’s unsure whether he should reach out or not. “It’s okay.”

Himiko just stares at her. Izuku doesn’t know whether it’s because her emotions are all over the place, or because she instinctively feels like Himiko’s the only girl in the whole building who she doesn’t know for certain will make fun of her for this, but she takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“I.” she manages, swallowing down the dryness in her throat, lowering her voice to a whisper, discreetly avoiding eye contact with Jin. “I. I started, today.”

Jin furrows his brow in confusion, but understanding passes over Himiko’s face almost immediately.

“Oh.”

“I don’t, uhm,” Izuku says, face burning. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Jin, go,” Himiko says, looking oddly delighted. “It’s a woman thing.”

He seems skeptical, but agrees, and walks off. Izuku sniffles, and wipes her nose with her sleeve.

“What do you need?” Himiko asks, already reaching into her handbag. It’s a tattered old bag, pale brown in color, with an unmistakably handmade feel. There’s a somewhat messy embroidery of a bird on the bottom corner. Izuku thinks it looks cute. “Tampax, right?”

Izuku nods, sniffling once more. “Th-thank you.”

Himiko smiles, giddy- she has two sharp incisors, like a vampire. She pulls out a tampon from her bag and places them in Izuku’s hand from over the fence. “There. That should do it. Do you have a pocket?”

Izuku shakes her head.

“Then tuck it into your bra, okay? Like this,” Himiko’s top is partially unbuttoned, and she pulls at her bra strap and mimes putting something under the cup. When Izuku doesn’t move, Himiko adds, “it’s unnoticeable. Promise.”

Blushing, Izuku turns away from Himiko, and follows her instructions. It feels slightly uncomfortable, but it’s more secure than holding it in her hand and praying nobody notices. And despite her flat chest, Himiko had been right- beneath her uniform, no one can tell it's there. 

“Better?”

Izuku nods her head, pigtails bobbing. “Th-Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Himiko speaks before Izuku can think to leave.

“You know, it’s nice to have another girl depend on you, like this,” she muses, resting her chin in her hands. “Shiggy and Dabi and Jin are fun, but really… it’s incomparable to having a girl-friend. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh. I suppose,” Izuku says, shuffling her feet. She swallows. “Well, I mean. I don’t exactly have many girl friends.”

She doesn't have any girl friends. 

Himiko grins, big and wide, sharp incisors on full display. It’s really rather pretty- cute, in an unconventional way. “Me neither,” she says. “Say, what’s your name? I’m Himiko.”

“Izuku,” she replies. She’ll probably be late for class, but for once she doesn’t care. That teacher always marks her late no matter how early she arrives.

“Well, Izuku,” says Himiko, stretching out the syllables. She glances at Jin a couple of times, who has only gone off to the end of the street to smoke. “Why don’t you come hang out with me and my friends at lunch tomorrow? Dabi and Shiggy seem mean, but they’re really nice deep down. Pinkie-promise.”

She holds out her pinkie. Izuku looks at the physical barrier between them.

“But…”

Himiko waves her hand. “Just jump it. It’s only a fence, silly.”

The bell rings before Izuku can even begin to process that sentence. The tampon feels like a hundred-pound weight, and the rush of emotions swirls around Izuku’s head makes everything feel even heavier. In the corner of her eye, she swears she sees a spot of red hair disappear around the corner of the building, and her panic worsens.

“I- I have to go.”

And then, before she can chicken out, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

When Izuku gets home, Mama holds her in her arms and kisses her head and tucks her into bed, and she gives her a hot water bottle to settle her stomach. It’s heaven and hell; Izuku’s whole body feels like jelly. Like disgusting, wretched, spoiled jelly.

“It’s nothing to be afraid of, sweetheart,” Mama murmurs, running her fingers through Izuku’s hair. “It’s not bad. It's your body's way of letting you know you can have children, when you're ready. It means you’re a woman now.”

“What’s the difference?” Izuku asks blearily, only half-coherent. What she means is, what’s the difference between being a woman and being a girl, but she’s not really expecting an answer. She knows what the difference is, even if she can’t put it to words. It means everything’s about to change.

Mama kisses her head again and cuddles her a little longer. Like she’s still her mother’s baby girl, despite this.

A few drops of blood, and such a drastic change.

Just jump it, says a voice in her mind. It’s only a fence, silly.

Izuku inhales Mama’s soft perfume, rests her head against Mama’s maroon cardigan, and closes her eyes.

“It’s okay, baby,” says Mama, into the crown of her head. “It’s going to be okay.”