#the characters look so distinctive the clothes the hair the make up the eyebags

[etheralisi]

ᵀᴼ ᶠᴼᴿᴳᴵᵛᴱ ᴬᴺᴰ ᶠᴼᴿᴳᴱᵀ

In which Bakugou Katsuki gets hit with an amnesia quirk and has some regrets. Namely getting hit in the first place.  

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝟸: 𝙳𝚎𝚔𝚞 𝚅𝚂 𝙺𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝙸 𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚁𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛

 Ao3

𝟷 ᴅᴀʏ sɪɴᴄᴇ ɪɴᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛ

 Beep. Beep. Beep.

 There’s nothing more ironic than forgetting you’ve forgotten, but in this moment, Katsuki operates on autopilot, flinging out an arm to grab for his phone on the shelf above. A groan as he blinks his eyes open, bleary vision trying to focus on the bright light hovering near an inch from his face.

 As the screen sets in, so do his memories, or rather, the distinct lack of their presence, empty if not for the fleeting few he’s made from the day prior. Recovery Girl, Kirishima, the study group, it all comes back as his dreams slip away, sand through his fingers, entering the waking world with the slightest residue dissatisfaction from whatever his brain whipped up as a concoction.

 He silences the phone alarm, labelled as something about a morning run for a certain amount of time or whatever, and stares at the numbers on display. New dose of information, normal him’s an early bird, early rising, early sleeping (early sleep according to Kirishima, anyhow).

 This then begs the question, does he go through with his regular schedule or wait things out by killing time with introspection? The latter sounds downright foolhardy, even boring, so it’s a no brainer that he finds himself prepping for the morning run, flinging on clothes that look vaguely work out related (maybe), and heading out. There’s no reason to stick a pin in a regular routine, besides, his inner optimist hopes that if he tries going back to his old lifestyle, he may actually reclaim some of those memories lost.

 (That part of him is pummeled into oblivion, shamed by his inner realist with a glare.  The jog does nothing in that respect.)

 What it does accomplish is the will of his past self. That guy’s right. Run. Running is good. He’s got the barest bones of a mental map for the area, merely skeletal, but better than what he had, discovering that it’s a large site and a pretty one at that. He’s even gotten a glimpse of sakura trees far out, and though he never ran through them, the pink hues looked beautiful on the horizon, the flurry of petals tinted orange through the morning glow. 

 When he arrives back at the dorms, he may go as far as saying that that run had been, well for lack of a better term, relaxing. The soothing ambience of a morning just does that to a person. Katsuki’s worries can be almost discounted as nonexistent, a pure oblivious bliss that shatters the very second he steps back into the common room, all sweaty and smelling for all the world like a caramelised apple. Is sweat even meant to smell like this?

 There’s a couple of faces he recognises, accompanying those that he doesn’t, all busy going about their morning rituals (some of which involving excessive caffeine intake) as they trickle in, states ranging from bedraggled zombie to chipper morning person. Amongst those is a face he’s been acquainted with the most — for better or for worse — shark teeth sporting his trademark grin when he notices Katsuki from over the counter.

 With those faint bruise-like circles shadowing Kirishima’s eyebags, it occurs to Katsuki that maybe he’s woken up specifically this time just for him and this is by no means a regular occurance. Like he’s become some kind of self-proclaimed guide to him for all things Katsuki Bakugou. He’ll roll with it.

 “Coffee?” Kirishima asks as he raises up a kettle. Katsuki’s never tried the beverage before, but there’s no time like the present so he accepts the offer with a nod, sidling up next to him and pulling up a mug for himself.

 As Kirishima pours the boiling liquid, Katsuki deems in appropriate to bite the bullet and start asking questions he’d rather be asking now than later, and if this guy really is his self-dubbed guide, gluing himself to his side like a permanent fixture, there’s no better person to ask. 

 Beating around the bush just sounds pointless.

 “Hey, how’s today looking?” He’s yet to receive a schedule and, like with the run, there’s got to be other things to fill the day. One such thing being school, because they’re not rooming at Yuuei just for the sake of it. Things to learn, places to be.

 “Okay, so you’ve got Tsu over there.” Kirishima waves over at a girl bearing a lot of resemblance to a frog, overseeing a frying pan with a keen eye on the sizzling yolk within. “And Satou both making natto and fried egg on rice for breakfast. Satou’s been under the tutelage of Lunch Rush-Sensei lately, think he’s been trying out new ground? Speaking of, Sensei’s food’ll be delivered over soon, so you’re free to have that instead.” Upon realising Katsuki was asking about the wider picture, Kirishima adds, “Of course you’ve got classes after this, lunch, more classes and then our day’s free from there!”

 So they are going to lessons today. Nice to know.

 “So it’s true, ribbit,” Tsuyu says, coming away from the pan as Satou takes ahold of it. Speaking of. “You’ve lost your memories.”

 “Yeah, don’t remember you. Sorry.” He’s said this before, hasn’t he?

 Kirishima ruffles Katsuki’s hair with a laugh. “S’got nothing up there now — what the, your hair’s so soft. I assumed it’d be all covered in hair gel? How?” 

 “Thanks? I think?” Katsuki’s eyes roam to the top of his peripheral where Kirishima’s hand runs through his hair, longer than the average hair ruffle should be in his book (again, he’s not in any position to say from experience). “Is this normal?”

 “Nah, but you’ve gotta tell me what you use. My hair takes work, y’know. These spikes come from blood, sweat and tears.”

 “And red dye, ribbit ribbit,” Tsuyu adds on, to Kirishima’s horror. He deflates, and Katsuki swears even his hair sags with him, just as disheartened as his face.

 “Wha— who told you my trade secret? Who else knows?” 

 Tsuyu blinks, slow. The kind of gaze she used on the eggs. “It’s a secret?”

 “Yes!”

 “Tsu!” Calls a classmate — presumably this Satou character — just when things may get messy for both the food and the conversation, “A little help please? I’m more suited to baking.”

 “Coming!” Tsuyu hops on back to her work station whilst the pair of them get set up with their coffee. Katsuki swats away the need to get in there and do things himself. Cooking is a foreign jungle he’s yet to explore.

 This atmosphere. It’s… nice.

 ————-

 After showering and changing with minimal unintentional hand explosions — because he doesn’t care what Kirishima says he smells like, he’s still sweaty — he’s heading back down again to enjoy the first meal of the day, only spending five or so minutes looking for a tie that may or may not exist and deeming the search a waste of time.

 He’s not eaten since, well, he doesn’t know.

 It tastes as good as it smells, which is pretty damn good (though Satou insists it’s mainly Tsuyu’s work) and it’s just as he’s finishing up polishing off his plate that he meets him, late down having received a case of faulty wake up alarm. 

 So far, re-meeting his classmates has been going alright. Sure, there’s been looks ranging from giggles and snickers, to concerned and downright confused, or the near impassive look of the infamous Todoroki along the way. But for the most part, he’s taking this in stride. They’re being nice to him, making him as welcome as possible in their efforts, and doing their best to keep things normal in a way he’s thankful for.

 “Oh that?” Kirishima starts when he asks, “That’s Midoriya Izuku, you’re childhood friends.” Then this look crosses his friend’s face as he adds, “I mean, you and I are close, man. But you and him? You’ve got history.” 

 It explains the inexplicable tugging force at work towards him. What the mind forgets, the heart remembers.

 Kirishima pats Katsuki on the back and pulls him over to the boy, all green eyes and a smattering of freckles, cherubic features surrounded by forestfulls of hair. This Izuku’s looking over at them quizzically, and by the rate his mouth is moving at, Katsuki will hazard a guess that he’s mumbling very, very quickly. You think the speed of light’s fast? Got nothing on this kid right here.

 (Nobody notices how the tips of Katsuki’s ears dust themselves in the faintest of pinks, layer opacity five percent at best. Something inside of him flutters. He dismisses it immediately.)

 “Yo Midoriya, what’s up?” Kirishima startles the boy from his spewing of thoughts, the mumbling ceasing as Kirishima makes for conversation. 

 “Oh, hi Kirishima, Kacchan… you’re uh, in a good mood?” He’s a little hesitant, curious, eyes flitting across his face in a calculating manner. It’s nothing of the malicious sort, merely discombobulated, as if he’s being presented with an alien situation and doesn’t know quite how to react, keeping on guard until he can discern an appropriate course of action.

 Katsuki startles as the word ‘Kacchan’ passes his lips, riding sky high on a rollercoaster to cloud nine and simply not coming back down. Kirishima really wasn’t kidding about the childhood friends thing, and, even in this day and age, the cutesy nicknames stay.

 Huh.

 “Kacchan?” Katsuki repeats, his words sounding distant, like he’s underwater. The green boy stills. “You call me Kacchan?”

 There’s a pause. “Whaa- uh...Yes?” Izuku blinks before whirling to face Kirishima, eyes swimming with unanswered questions which absolutely no one can answer until he voices them. Despite this confusion, his next words come out surprisingly firm, commanding even. “What’s going on?”

 As Kirishima gives him a rundown on the situation, something he’s been saved from when it came to the majority of classmates (gossip spreads far, so Katsuki’s learned), Izuku pales considerably, skin subtly turning a sickly pallor, his freckles only becoming ever more prominent like the seeds of an unripe strawberry. A ghost may as well be choosing this moment to walk on in and announce its presence, Izuku sure looks as if he’s seen one.

 But perhaps the only ghost here is Katsuki. Isn’t he but a hollow shell of who he once was? Who is he, really, without those memories? Without his core identity?

 Who is he?

 The boy chokes, mouth opening and closing, catching flies as an accusatory finger is raised at a wobbly snail’s pace. He’s stuck like that before he starts running his mouth with questions, topping at the list of ‘most dramatic reactions yet’ with a grand whopping total of a thousand points. That’s got to be a record. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” He hisses, and hasn’t Yaoyorozu said something along those lines? “You can’t just- this is a bad idea. Okay? And I mean a bad one.”

 Katsuki’s lost, probably somewhere in between bad and idea, but Kirishima remains at ease, laid back from attitude to posture and spewing stuff like “relax” and “everything’ll be fine”. Yeah, he’s missing something big here, stepping on into a conversation part way through like he’s intruding and not meant to actually be present. 

 But he’s got to try saying something. He’s got this growing feeling he’s being ignored. 

 “So childhood friends, yeah?” And that catches Izuku’s attention, like a moth to a flame, caught somewhere in the middle of freaking out in front of Kirishima and trying to give a justifiable conclusion for it. “Great that someone here’s known me for so long, there’s gotta be a load of stories stored up there! ‘Cuz that’ll help with getting my memories back.” Then he adds on, “I’m glad you’re here Izuchan!”

 The word weighs heavy on his tongue, bitter, tangy, like something he is unpracticed in saying. It feels off... somehow, but when he tries to pull up something to justify it, he’s hit with the empty feeling of blank memory banks, a canvas of white when there ought to be colour. He moves on nothing but emotion and muscle memory, the only things keeping him going when there’s little else to guide him.

 And apparently that emotional drive is not helpful in the slightest.

 Somehow — and he doesn’t know how — this only succeeds in making things worse. If this guy’s lucky, he’ll live until he’s fifty because he’s pretty sure he’s shaved exactly that amount of years off his life.

 Oops?

 (“He’s.... smiling…. at me,” Izuku says slowly once Katsuki is out of earshot, straining to push the words out, the subject hard to grasp. The few left to witness the whole conversation send him some sympathetic looks.)

 (Just. What?)

 _____

 Excluding the odd encounter with the green boy, the morning’s smooth sailing, with a few road bumps along the way (read: Izuchan and other stories). Lessons? Not so much. 

 Just like the dorms, the label for their classroom can’t possibly be bigger. And even if he, for some unfathomable reason, found himself unable to follow the flow of his classmates as they meander their collective way to lessons, locating the room would be childsplay, you know, after finding the correct floor. 

 Yuuei sure likes its flashy titles.

 He finds his seat (thanks Kirishima) and instinctually slings his feet up on the desk like a sack of potatoes, a natural reaction that refuses to leave even during memory loss’ hold. He doesn’t even realise he’s doing it either until that glasses guy — what’s his name again? Begins with ‘I’ and ends with ‘don’t remember’ — comes up, hands chopping at the air with a mind of their own like he’s cutting invisible vegetables, and calls him out on it, using examples of property damage to fuel his point. Katsuki hastily backpedals, sinking into his seat as he returns his feet right back to where they should be. On the ground. The traitors.

 Katsuki doesn’t know what came over him, he swears. Can testify this in court. But he settles with apologising which gets the glasses guy to halt, then nod in approval, like the class’ proud parent.

 (Or class rep, as it dawns on him later. Funny how these things come to you late.)

 Then chatter tapers off into muttering as in walks a guy who looks like he’s stared death in the face and remains wholly unimpressed. Their homeroom teacher in all his glory, one of the many pro heroes here because right, that’s what they’re training to be.

 Apparently, even pro heroes need to learn the mandatory normal school stuff.

 Katsuki, more often than not, finds himself staring at the board rather than his notes, the creeping unease rising about jumping in mid topic, the deep end of the pool when he’s only dipped his toes in the shallow end. He doesn’t remember what he’s being told he should know, and when he flicks back to his notes, everything his past self has written feels foreign. This whole experience, it’s like he’s being shoved into the life of someone else, someone who looks so much like him, but he can’t even begin to recall. It’s all so... foreign. Someone else’s shoes he can’t possibly fill, not for lack of trying.

 Katsuki wants to push himself to do better, but he’s tailing the others. He’s floundering when they’re already so far ahead, and try as he might, despite wanting to resist this metaphorical speed bump and not let it get the better of him, it inevitably does.

 It must show because he can feel the concerned eyes of Izuku prickling on his neck. It realligns him with reality and he gets back to note taking.

 For now, it’s all he can do.

 He won’t let himself fall behind. He won’t.

 ----------------

 There are many peculiarities at Yuuei.

 And this is one of them.

 One minute Aizawa-Sensei is there, doing that thing teachers do, standing in front of the class and talking about something that is undoubtedly important in their studies. The next, he’s out cold and dead to the world (in a manner of speaking, their teacher hasn’t just kicked the bucket from the stress of teaching them, afterall). Was that teacher seriously just taking a nap in class? Looking, for all his worth, like a human caterpillar, lying flat and ready for metamorphosis. Katsuki idly wonders about the entry requirements for working as a teacher at Yuuei, or if this sleeping correlates with his quirk in any way shape or form.

 The classmates are all unperturbed by the development, seemingly a common occurrence they’d grown used to, as normal as a blue sky, or Iida reminding him to take his feet off the desk. If it doesn’t bother them, then it shouldn’t bother old him either. He keeps his trap shut as they finish up with his lesson plan.

 They’re training to be heroes. They’ve known weirder.

 ------------

 By the time lunch swings around, he’s only filled up about half as many book pages as he would on a regular day. But. Katsuki’s trying. It may not mean much, but it’s all he can say, and for the meantime, before all his memories come back and shit makes sense, it will just have to do. 

 Whilst he may be stumped when it comes to his education, his taste buds aren’t having the same problem.

 “Aaand you’re still eating that.” Kirishima grimaces with his eyes locked on Katsuki’s lunch. He really doesn’t understand where that look’s coming from, this spicy stuff is great. “Your taste buds really haven’t changed.”

 “It’s a memory quirk,” Katsuki points out, as if this information isn’t obvious at this point. Apparently he holds more brain cells than them, and he’s the one with memory troubles. Talk about the irony.

 “True, true,” Ashido nods along from where her head rests propped up by her elbows, “Soooo, what do you think of- whaa- Sero! My drink’s spilling.”

 “Maybe if you stopped using my elbow as a cupholder,” Sero insists from his seat next to her, said drink only spilling more until Ashido scoops it up, “There’s a table. Right there. Instead of my elbows.”

 “Just using my resources!” She says like the innocent flower she’s not, then looks down disappointedly at her cup “Aww, I’m going to have to get a refill.”

 “Or you can have some of mine? I don’t mind,” Katsuki offers, but at her slightly taken aback look, he almost considers retracting the offer. Then the smile’s back in place like it never left, though a little softer.

 Another thing he’s releasing. Smiles aren’t exclusive to Kirishima. They’re all chronic grinners here, one way or another, like it’s something contagious. 

 His other self sure must be something if this lot’s hanging out with him. They’re nice. Chaotic, but nice.

 “Oooh,” Ashido continues, reaching out wiggling fingers across the table, “Don’t mind if I do…”

 “You...may want to... reconsider,” A voice chokes from beside him, in between wheezes as he struggles for breaths. They jolt at Kaminari’s appearance, all red in the face like he’s run a marathon with no breaks, and then some. “This stuff’s just as spicy as his food. What is this stuff? Eugh, hot.”

 Ashido backs away, slumping back in her seat. When she speaks, it doesn’t do the faintest thing to mask her amusement. “Maybe that’ll teach you not to steal other people’s drinks, then.”

 “He offered!”

 “To me. Ooo, speaking of drinks, you’re probably gonna need one before you die of spice.”

 When the pair arrive back, drinks in hand and Kaminari looking significantly less red in the face and not impersonating a dog panting after a long run, Ashido wastes no seconds in starting where she left off.

 “Anyway, as I was saying. What do you think of us Blasty? Come onn, admit it. We’re pretty great, right?”

 “Fishing for compliments?” Kirishima asks, “Unmanly, dude.”

 “No, no!” Kaminari protests, like if he doesn’t jump in now, he will forever be mournful of a lost opportunity, “This is good material. Let’s hear it.”

 Put on the spot like this with all eyes on him, Katsuki sees no other option than to comply. “I mean, I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I just met you yesterday.” His eyes fall on Sero, who apparently chose yesterday of all nights to pack in up early with his study group session. “Today. Whatever. But if you’re asking then... yeah.” He meets their eyes with the utmost sincerity, a smile tugging at his lips, a hint of something small, honest. “You’re ‘pretty great’.”

 Katsuki doesn’t know what to say to the silence, wonders if he’s misspoken even if he can’t fathom how. He opens his mouth, makes a move to correct whatever muck up he’s got involved in, when it’s broken by Ashido’s squeal.

 “Oh get in here, you!” And suddenly there’s a blur of pink in his face, wrapping her arms around like a clingy limpet doing — oh, is this a hug? He goes ramrod rigid initially, but finds himself leaning in, a steadily rising of something warm and odd in his chest, fizzling and mushy and sending back up in that rollercoaster to the clouds once more.

 “Knew you always liked us!” Someone says from amongst the bundle, and that’s got to be Kirishima, he’s sure of it.

 “We’re doing a cuddle pile?” That’s distinctly Kaminari’s voice, though it sounds so, so far away, “Whilst eating? My food!”

 But he’s in on the pile in seconds, in favour of his lunch, adding to the tangly mess of limbs that’s surprisingly comfortable, even with all these odd angles they’re coming in at. They make a pretzel look simple, tangled wool look neat. Yet he’s content.

 “Wish I could remember you lot,” Katsuki says quiet enough to nearly go unnoticed, heck, he’s only half aware of saying it aloud. It’s true, he does. He’s a tourist in his own skin. He wants to remember all moments like this, the laughs, them.

 Their grip tightens before Ashido bails out, like a diver gasping for breath. “If it’s memories you want, then it’s memories you’ll receive. Let’s make some!”

  Sero looks as if this is the best idea he’s ever heard in the history of ideas, pumping his arm with a beat of enthusiasm as they untangle, “Yeah! Sure sounds like fun.”

 Kaminari wrinkles his nose. “Ehhh? But how? Didn’t they say it’ll be a week?”

 “At the most,” Kirishima adds, then returns to the topic at hand by shooting Ashido a confused stare, “What do you mean by that?”

 “Boys, boys,” She drawls, and you can see her eyes taking a roll on the dark abyss of her sclera, “I mean let’s do something fun as a squad. Make some memories! You in?”

 “Oh that?” Kaminari nods, then again with a tad more conviction, entertaining a thought that is steadily growing on him the more he mulls it over, “I mean we had to cut the last trip short, so why not head back? I’ve still got stuff to get.”

 Kirishima puts his foot down at that, not in the literal sense, but rather the ‘absolutely hecking not kind,’ wincing as if Kaminari’s words cause him physical pain with a whole bucket load of flashbacks to boot. “Dude, you saw what happened to Bakugou. Really? So soon?”

 Kaminari may not have, but he’s looking at Katsuki now, then Kirishima, brow creasing slightly but otherwise absolutely unphased. “There’s got to be a rule against villains not hitting the same place twice, right?”

 “That’s lightning. Lightning.”

 “Okay but, hear me out,” Kaminari continues like his words are spiritually enlightening and not the complete opposite, “We’re not that unlucky.”

 His words seem to register after a moment, gauging their looks, tense and silent, and his face falls, crestfallen. “Nah, you’re right. We are.”

 “We’re villain magnets.” Sero nods sagely.

 “Cursed,” Ashido agrees, then not two seconds later, “So, a film then?”

 “Yeah.”

 (Not for the first time does Katsuki find himself wondering just what he’s been through with this group of individuals. But it is a first when it comes to wanting to know how they’ve gone through the wringer too.)

 --------------

 Just as there is normal schooling of the academic kind, to get people’s brain cells in gear, there’s the hero part of their training for — as it so clearly states in the title — the hero course.

 And, being the heroes they are, they have the matching suits to go with. He picks his out and then frowns at the pieces as if they’ve done something to offend him by purely existing. It’s not like he’s unhappy with it — because he is, really well and truly is — but there’s something to be said for assembly. Once the flashy costume is on, you have gauntlets that weigh heavier than they look (which look heavy on their own, but these sure are something), and all those other fiddly attachments which are as good as useless when there’s no instruction manual to go with them. What’s he meant to do in the emergency case of amnesia then, huh? What then?

 With a sheepish look, he’s turning for Kirishima once more, only to find the place he once inhabited utterly devoid of any spiky redheads. Already out and on the field then, having beaten him to it. What he does see, however, is someone less on the red side and more on the green spectrum.

 Midoriya Izuku stands in the doorway, half awkwardly, with his nervous twitch and round uneasy eyes, the gentle breeze ruffling his hair like a sighing forest. He looks conflicted, caught in some internal debate of ‘should I or shouldn’t I.’ If he’s going to do anything other than pose by the door, Katsuki really hopes it’ll be sooner rather than later.

 Or not.

 Katsuki takes the leap, startling Izuku from all thoughts.

 “You don’t happen to know what’s going on with this costume, huh?” He doesn’t know how aware his classmate is of his costume, but unlike Katsuki he’s seen this thing in action. That’s a better start than he has.

 “Oh, of course!” And he’s not expecting that, he blinks, stupefied. This will save him some hassle for sure. 

 Then Izuku’s mumbling something about gauntlets, sweat, pins all the while pointing at each part individually, making this look like a rehearsed speech. He starts tinkering, picking up the parts and attaching them on all before Katsuki really knows what’s going on.

 “Oh, sorry!” Izuku startles, getting a hold of himself. He rips his hands away like someone upped the temperature of Katsuki’s suit to level five: fiery inferno. But there’s nothing wrong with the fabric and Izuku’s hands are yet to blister. “You don’t mind me helping you out like this, do you Kacchan?” 

 Izuku drops this like he’s thus far not finished already, way too late to the party to be asking a question such as that. Try a few moments earlier, perhaps? Still, help is help.

 “Nah, you’re good. Thanks Izuchan.”

 Izuku pulls a face, something caught between a wince and a flush at the reiteration of the name as he pulls away completely, hastily changing the subject, be it an equally important one.

 “Aizawa-Sensei paired us up for practice today,” Izuku explains, and now his awkward shuffle waiting is a whole lot clearer, or else he’s be in the field like Kirishima “I think it’s because of my notebooks I’ve got on using your quirk. He’s noticed that you may need…” He frowns. “Pointers?”

 Today’s task is simple training, or at least, it should be for those with actual experience doing this thing. Him? He’s got nada. Could’ve been born yesterday for all it matters. 

 There’s something to be said for muscle memory, so it isn’t as if he’s working from scratch, but it can only get you so far before lack of technique becomes a hindrance. Ever since last night, he’s been setting off sparks, occasionally and not all intentional, coming to grips with his quirk as it comes back to him like a well oiled bike. He’s far off where he probably was only a mere few days ago, hasn’t even had time yet to practice full attacks, but he can’t afford to be useless for when a real threat comes. 

 If he slacks off, even for just a day, there’s no way he can rise to the top. To be the best hero he can possibly be.

 He’s done this before, and maybe, with the assistance of Izuku’s olive branch, he can do this again.

 (Izuku pays attention to his quirk, his mind screams. There’s a notebook out there on… you.

 He doesn’t know how he feels about this.)

 “Sure,” Katsuki finds himself answering, tightening up those gauntlets and ready to give it his all, “I’d like that.”

 -------

 Izuku’s not going easy on him. Which is good. He doesn’t want that. His limits are there to be tested and tried, and if anyone thinks babying him just because of a slight case of memory loss is the way to go, then they can suck it.

 Besides, he’s not going to go easy on anyone either.

 In fact, he’ll be as bold as to say he’s getting the hang of this.

 “Of course you are!” Is Izuku’s response, like he never expected any less of him. Good.

 Along with encouragement straight from the heart, Izuku never giving praise he doesn’t think is due, Izuku dishes out suggestions and techniques as the pair of them spar, one on one, locked in a battle of minds and fists. Izuku’s observations start with weaker, fiddly bits of information, as if almost nervous to suggest anything major. 

 With Katsuki’s shout of “Come at me with everything you have!” that smirk on his face just so right, Izuku progresses in internal drive to demonstrate entire moves, with Izuku admitting once Katsuki sees some of these tactics in action, that some of his own moves are inspired by Katsuki himself.

 Huh.

 Izuku is a force to be reckoned with, alive with a stunning energy about him, but Katsuki’s no slacker either. And he’s a fast learner to boot. Katsuki puts in his all, the thrill of adrenaline coursing through his veins, heightening the power of each blow in this back and forth dance of blows. Now this is his element, his quirk, his extension of his body. This is where he belongs and it will take more than a villain’s quirk to take it away from him.    

 Katsuki detonates his palms once more and throws a fist back to counter and-

 <A bitter rage swells, simmering beneath the surface, his blood boiling to the hundredth degree. It Ripples through him in leaps and bounds, a wild hound that can’t be tamed, ragged at the edges, fierce to its prey. Like a second skin, like it’s always been there, an underlying current that’s washed him into an ocean of scorching rage. Like an old friend. 

 But it encases something more, buried deep down in his core, closed off and held tight. The caged hound is wounded, fearful and guilty, and he pushes this down because he refuses to be weak. Refuses to be less than strong. He won't. But in this moment they begin to spill over the crumbling edges, and the lines blur to what once and what is.

 And he needs to know. To lay things down clear.

 The truth.

 He’s shouting and the words are tumbling and “FIGHT ME!! WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM?!”

 And so, the first blows are thrown. They fight with fists and words and>

 And he’s gasping for air, momentarily thrown by the dizzying feeling of whatever that was, the tumbling and loss of focus just enough time it’s enough to give Izuku the leverage he needs for his attack.

 “Kacchan?” Izuku asks, breathy and panting as sweat crawls from his brow. Izuku’s concerned, those eyes glistening like sparkling beacons, calling out to him through whatever ocean he plunged through.

 He takes a moment, no movement between the two except for the rise and fall of Katsuki’s chest, taking heavy breaths. He’s not sure how much of it is from the battle or the vision. Katsuki blinks it back, and shrugs it off, back on his feet in seconds like an ordinary day at the office. 

 “Yeah,” Katsuki assures, “I’m fine. C’mon, go again.”

 He won’t let Izuku take him down so easily.

 ----------

 They go again.

 And again.

 And again.

 (He pushes the vision to the back of his mind. He can’t explain what he’s feeling, what it means.)

 (But it sounds important.)

[pepi-nillo]

i love how all beyond evil characters look like they need a good night of sleep like yeah me too