Work Text:
The first of hundreds.
August 15, 1946
Midoriya-san,
I am writing this at the furthest corner of the kitchen table. My mother is preparing the broth for tonight's dinner. She keeps asking me why I look like a frightened field mouse, and I keep telling her my stomach hurts. She couldn't understand how true that is. It aches with a heavy pressure right in the center of me. I am sitting crookedly because of it. I hope she doesn’t look too closely at the blush on my face.
Midoriya-san, I understand that you are seeing a girl. I heard my mother yesterday evening, speaking to my father in the dialect from their village. They only do that when they don't want me to understand, but I know more than they think I do. I caught your name. And then, a word I had to look up later, in Papa's heavy dictionary: mi-ai. An arranged meeting. It's the daughter of the politician your mother has been circling for months, isn't it? This morning they mentioned how respectable she is. How she has the grace your father would have approved of to continue your family name, and how she is the proper path forward from the years of the war.
But tonight, you forgot her. You forgot the air raids and, for just a little while, you forgot every single thing you are expected to become.
We were barely a street away from my house when you stopped me. Your fingers closed around my wrist so suddenly, like a man trying to catch a bird before it takes flight. Did your head finally catch up to where your eyes had been lingering all afternoon? Or was it the plum wine from the meal you shared with that girl and her father, just before our lesson? It was your idea to stop under the eaves of the shrine, sheltering us from the early evening drizzle. You said we shouldn't get the texts wet. When your hand reached for my jaw, I thought my lungs would seize right there. You asked me, simply, if I know how beautiful I am. I didn't have an answer, but I don't think you expected one.
I feel suddenly ancient, Midoriya-san, and I have lost something I didn't know I could lose. I should hate you. I try to. But I can only hate the way you left me with nothing other than this empty space inside. At the very least, you could have let me keep the undershirt of my school uniform. Even that would have been a private thing to hold onto. You used it to wipe me clean and pocketed the evidence in your unbuckled trousers. It felt important, your warm intrusion, and its stains.
Afterwards, you fixed my hair and told me that it must never, ever happen again. That it was a mistake. And you looked so tortured, Midoriya-san, that I almost believed you. I almost let myself be nothing more than a convenient release.
But then I think of how you held my face as you entered me, looking so earnestly into my eyes, and there was no mistake in that. I saw the desire in your tears before the fear swallowed them whole.
I want to know if you regret it. I want to know if you’ll ever look at me again. I know I am not the daughter of a politician. I am just the son of a restaurant owner who fled the bombings in the countryside alongside you and your mother. I have nothing to offer you but this small body you inhabited tonight.
My mother is pouring the soup into obāsan's china now. If she saw this letter she would not just beat the stuffing out of me; she would flay the skin from my bones. And then she would look at you, my diligent tutor, the son of her dearest friend, a respected law student with a bright future, and she would tear that future to shreds. She would bring shame instead of honor to the memory of your father’s sacrifice.
I cannot do that to you. I cannot do that to myself.
I have to set the table for Papa now. I will burn this once the ink dries and pray that you, too, cannot look at your own mother.
Your loyal student,
Katsuki.
P.S; Tell me what you meant to steal from me next time. Tell me so I can give it to you willingly.
July 23, 1955
It had been nine years, eleven months, and eight days since Izuku had first taken him, and every second since had been a life lived only to return to that moment, like a compass needle pointing eternally north.
Katsuki was fastening the buckle of his briefcase when the first drop hit the window beside him. A single, fat droplet of rain, followed by the percussion of an incoming typhoon. The radio announcer, sounding far too cheerful for the grim news, was already warning citizens to secure loose items.
A bellow from the kitchen reached him. Then, the thump of a broom handle on the downstairs ceiling. Not even the wind could muffle that woman.
“Katsuki! The restaurant isn't going to open itself, you spoiled boy! Stop dawdling!"
He rolled his eyes and stomped down the narrow wooden stairs, making sure each step punctuated his displeasure.
Mitsuki stood in the doorway of the kitchen, hands on her hips, looking like a typhoon herself. “What is this nonsense? That suit is too expensive for waiting tables, young man. Go change.”
“I’m not waiting tables,” Katsuki grumbled, smoothing the lapel of his charcoal jacket. It was tailored. He’d spent two months' wages on it. “I’m going to the office.”
"On your day off, with this storm brewing? Are you thick in the head!?”
“The storm is exactly why I’m going.” Katsuki slipped into his shoes, ignoring the way his mother bristled. “We have case files near the east windows. If I don’t move them, Midoriya-san will have a fit when they turn to pulp. You know how he gets.”
It wasn't entirely a lie. Izuku would, undoubtedly, throw a fit if his documents were soiled. But that wasn't why Katsuki was going. The truth was that he’d been hoping Izuku was as foolish as him, and would be there, alone, desperate for an excuse to avoid his waiting wife and hounding mother.
Mitsuki made a noise in the back of her throat, a sharp click of disapproval. She wiped her hands on a rag and marched over, reaching up to aggressively straighten his tie.
“Midoriya-san,” she mocked, tugging the knot tight enough to choke him. “He has hands, does he not? I love that boy, but I didn’t work my fingers to the bone during the occupation, selling soup to GIs, just for you to spend your weekends serving a drunken old sot who can barely manage his own affairs. You have a law degree! You speak three languages! You're better off running your own—"
Katsuki swatted her hands away. “I'm content with my job, woman. You and father could be too, if you’d stop being such stubborn oxen.”
Mitsuki's face pinched as she gripped the fabric, dragging him down to her eye level. The kitchen staff—two teenage girls working seasonally—were pretending not to stare.
"I advise you to watch that smart mouth of yours, boy.” she warned. “You do not talk about your family like that, do you understand? You’re fortunate. We're both fortunate. The war took away too much from us. And here you are, healthy and strong, with the credentials to make a good, honorable life for yourself. Do not make me ashamed to call you my own son.”
Katsuki's face heated with humiliation. The last time they had argued about this, he'd ended up nursing a bloodied nose. He was far too old to be slapped around by his mother, twenty-three now, so he did what he always did in the face of her wrath.
"Understood, Okaa-san.”
She sighed, the stern expression melting into weary indulgence. She cupped his cheek and gave it a light swat.
"You have such a handsome face, Katsuki." she mused, not for the first time. "Such a shame it houses the personality of a junkyard dog. How will I ever find you a proper wife? She'd need the patience of a saint to handle your temper."
She released him with a sharp push that knocked him back a step.
“Now, go. If you must be a fool, at least take the train. Don’t walk and catch your death.”
August 21, 1946
Midoriya-san,
I could not destroy the last letter, and I do not think I have the will to destroy this one. I told myself I would. Instead, I am keeping it trapped inside my history textbook, pressed between the pages discussing the Meiji Restoration. It seems a fitting place for something that feels like the start of a revolution in my own small life.
I spent all of yesterday morning at the beach, clearing the driftwood that had washed ashore, trying to scour my lungs clean. I kept looking for a sign of you in the waves. I know that is foolish. You are not a fish to be caught. You are the deep, cold water itself.
When you came to the restaurant this afternoon, you pretended to examine the lacquer of the dining tables, claiming you were comparing them to your mother’s heirloom pieces. But your eyes kept skipping over the wood, catching mine across the room. The first time I saw the blush rise against your neck, I thought my heart had leapt into my throat. The second time, I was certain it had jumped out of my chest and fallen at your feet. I fumbled the tray of tea when you finally spoke to me, your voice low enough that it was swallowed by the clamor of the lunch rush. You asked about homework. The Gojūon practice. And then, you leaned in, and told me my tie was crooked.
It wasn't.
I could’ve wept when you brushed your fingers against my nape to "fix" it. You are so terrified of exposure, yet you cannot stop touching what you fear. You are like a child playing with fire in a paper house—you will set us both alight.
I think that is what made me tell Papa I would take the examinations for the Law Academy in the capital. Once I finish my schooling, that is. He was startled, but pleased. It would finally prove to the neighbors that his son was not just a pretty face. That even a boy like me could be a man in his own right.
So he took me to the city to enroll me in the prep school; the supplemental studies required to ensure I can pass those exams. It was there that I saw your beloved fianceé for the first time. She looked utterly serene, like a watercolor painting. I know I cannot compete with a masterpiece.
I want to know what you will do when you realize that every difficult, ambitious move I make from this day forward is entirely about you. I have decided to become something neither of us can contain, someone so useful, in fact, that one day you will have no choice but to rely on me. The kind of man your mother would approve of, just so I can stand at your side. I will steal your attention in the dark, because you are too cowardly to give it to me in the light.
I will become your equal in status and then, Midoriya-san, I will tear down and rebuild your perfectly ordered life until all that remains is me.
I hope your fiancée's serenity lasts, because I have just declared war for your soul.
Until I stand beside you,
Katsuki.
Izuku was precisely where Katsuki had hoped he would be, and precisely how he’d feared.
The lawyer was slumped over his desk, head pillowed on his folded arms atop a stack of heavy files bound with linen string. The contents of the files, stamped with a seal Katsuki knew to mean they were sensitive, were half-spilled onto the floor.
The title on the topmost sheet was starkly printed: Shinji v. The Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. Public Indecency and Sexual Deviancy.
Izuku muttered something, a slurred syllable that dissolved into a sigh.
Katsuki sighed too, a theatrical sound he knew Izuku wouldn't hear. “Honestly, Midoriya-san. You’re going to be sacked for dereliction of duty if you continue this behavior. And then what will you do? Try and convince your wife you weren’t at a hostess bar with all this stench on you?”
Katsuki knelt, carefully gathering the fallen documents. The words and phrases jumped out at him—sodomy, obscenity, public lewdness. The usual charges reserved for the city's unfortunate queers.
He kept his expression professionally neutral, allowing not a single drop of dread to seep into his face. He knew the laws by heart; they were the chains around his own neck, after all.
He stacked the files and placed them on the dry corner of the desk, away from the cracked window.
He placed a hand lightly on Izuku’s shoulder, a pretense of waking him. He held the contact for a single, protracted moment, feeling the rise and fall of a drunk man’s breathing.
Izuku shifted and groaned, his face lifting just enough for Katsuki to see the lines of exhaustion dug into his eyes. He looked thirty-five going on fifty.
“Kacchan,” Izuku mumbled, still half-asleep. “You shouldn’t be here.”
The use of the childhood nickname sent a sudden jolt through Katsuki’s chest. He snatched his hand back. Kacchan was reserved for late-night sake and the darkest corners of their history. He both hated and cherished it equally.
"It's Katsuki, Midoriya-san," he corrected instantly, leaning in, "Or are you so pickled you've forgotten the basic rules of professional courtesy? This is why you shouldn't drink on the job. As you are now, there isn't room in your brain space for anything more complicated than tying your shoes and reciting the law code."
He leaned in even closer, so his words, spoken softly, brushed against the shell of Izuku's flushed ear. "You should learn to respect your assistant if you want them to keep cleaning up your messes."
To his dismay, Izuku did not stir again. Obviously, he pinched Izuku’s ear and twisted.
"Midoriya-san."
He yelped, suddenly wide awake, a hand flying up to cover the abused cartilage.
Katsuki smirked, arms crossed. "Ah. There you are."
"What ... what are you doing here, Katsuki? Your mother will be worried sick."
He was already trying to push back from the desk, but Katsuki kept a hand planted on his shoulder, pinning him in place. This close, he could smell the whiskey and the cigarettes Izuku had so recently been indulging in.
With such close contact, Katsuki's heart was racing madly. He clenched his free hand, trying to maintain his usual mask of detachment.
"I suppose it's a good thing she isn't here, then," he retorted lowly. "Though I have the misfortune of finding myself in the presence of a pathetic version of you. You really are just as useless as she claims."
Izuku winced. "Enough."
"Is it?" Katsuki leaned in further, his lip curling. "I can think of a few more apt insults for you. Should I go retrieve your wife? Perhaps she'll agree with me for once, and you can have a good cry into that ridiculously large bosom of hers."
Resuming his authority, Izuku mustered his dignity and shook off his grip. "You've no right to talk about my wife with such vulgarity. I am your superior, and it will do you well to remember who pays your salary."
Katsuki took a half-step back, withdrawing his hand to his side. This. This is what he came for. This wounded anger simmering beneath Izuku's professionalism. It was the only way to break through that damnable self-control of his.
"Very well, Midoriya-senpai." He stepped back toward the desk and plucked one of the documents from the stack with deliberate slowness, flipping it open in full view for Izuku to see.
"Let us do some actual work then, yes?" Katsuki continued dryly as he skimmed over the file. "Hm. Let's see. This is about some poor bastard getting caught with another poor bastard?" His eyes flicked up in amusement. "Tsk tsk. Who knew Midoriya-san had such an interest in queers after all."
"If your purpose here is to antagonize me…" Izuku began.
"I don't need a purpose to antagonize you. I enjoy the pastime on its own merit."
"You're such a child, sometimes, Katsuki. I cannot fathom how I ever considered you my friend."
Katsuki stiffened, taken back. It was rare that Izuku ever took such a sharp tone with him—usually, he preferred to hide in passivity.
"At least I'm not a hypocrite, Midoriya-san. One of us is hiding their inclinations and passing judgement onto others. I'll leave you to guess which."
A vein throbbed visibly in Izuku's forehead. He made a move to rise from the chair, but stumbled, catching himself painfully against the desk.
"Sit back down. I'll call you a driver." Katsuki relented softly, unable to help his tone from shifting to a gentle note. Even like this, Katsuki was as foolishly devoted as he'd been at fourteen. "Coffee?"
Izuku slumped back in his seat. He buried his face in his hands, scrubbing harshly. His voice was muffled when he spoke again, weary.
"Get me tea, please. And my overcoat."
Katsuki obliged him, making a phone call and retrieving both items. He stood awkwardly at Izuku's side, watching him don the coat, his expression tight with worry. It was getting cold; rain beat against the glass, and the temperature had dropped accordingly.
As he handed over the tea, their fingers brushed. Green eyes lifted to meet his and held. The moment stretched, taut, as Katsuki's own fingers twitched, itching to close around Izuku's. The urge was so familiar that he nearly followed through with it.
But then, Izuku's eyes flicked away, and the spell was broken.
"I'll take the files with me. I still have some work to finish at home."
Katsuki nodded curtly, stuffing his hands into his pockets to restrain any further impulses. "The car will be here in forty minutes. Try not to drown on the way, senpai."
He turned sharply and strode toward the door, leaving Izuku with his tea and files. But as he reached for the handle, Katsuki paused.
Without turning around, "...Oh, and tell your wife that I said hello."
Then Katsuki turned away fully with a scoff.
"Or don't," he added with a careless shrug. "I'm sure she won’t mind either way."
The slam of the door drowned out Izuku's startled retort. Rain lashed into his face as soon as he stepped outside. It felt fitting somehow; if fate was going to punish him for coming here, it might as well be with something as brutal and unforgiving as the storm. Let it drown him properly tonight while there was still time left between them to make mistakes.
He had achieved something, he supposed. He had reminded Izuku that he still existed. Yet in the end, it amounted to very little. He would still return to his mother's restaurant tonight and sleep alone as he always did.
His existence alone will not, and will never be enough to make him change his mind.
He turned on his heel and started walking the opposite direction, away from his journey home, and away from his mother's prying eyes.
He needed to think. He needed to not think. He needed...
He needed to go somewhere people like him existed.
There was a bar in Shinjuku. He had found it three years ago, when the loneliness had become a physical ache. No sign outside. Just a blue door down a narrow alley, past a bathhouse and a shuttered pharmacy.
The password changed monthly. Tonight, it was the name of a dead poet.
"Kobayashi Issa,"
The bar was smaller than he remembered. A dozen tables, half of them occupied. Men sat in pairs or alone, their voices low, their hands careful. No one touched, no one looked too long. This is how people like him lived. In between the cracks of the world, between each other's words and the spaces left by those who would never understand.
A woman stood behind the bar. She had been a courtesan before the war. She knew everyone's secrets and remembered nothing.
"Bakugou-kun." She nodded as he approached. "Haven't seen you in months. Thought you'd gone respectable on us."
"I work for a living now. Doesn't leave time for respectable."
She snorted. "Someone's been asking about you."
Katsuki's hand stilled on the glass she poured him, eyebrow raising. "Who?"
She tilted her head toward the back corner.
A man sat alone at a table against the wall. He was around Izuku's age, perhaps a year or two younger. His hair was split down the middle. White on one side, red on the other. A scarred eye stared from a face otherwise composed.
Todoroki Shouto.
Katsuki had met him a year ago, at this same bar. They had spoken exactly five times since. Todoroki came from money. Old money. His father was a member of the Diet, rumored to be positioning himself for a cabinet position. The kind of man who would sooner kill his son than tolerate a scandal.
Katsuki grabbed his drink and walked over.
"Todoroki."
"Bakugou." Todoroki did not smile. He never smiled. "Sit."
"Demanding, aren't you?" Katsuki replied, sliding into the seat opposite. The bar was warm enough to make his wet clothes stick. It was an unpleasant feeling.
Todoroki's gaze never once left his face. He had a terrible habit of staring, like he could see the soul beneath a person's skin.
"You look terrible," Todoroki eventually murmured.
"Thanks. You look like your father's puppet, as always."
A flicker passed across Todoroki's face. It might have been pain, but it was quickly shadowed by rage.
"Are you here because of the arrest last weekend?"
Katsuki stiffened. "How do you know about that?"
"My father told me. He's pleased." The word curdled in Todoroki's mouth and died. "He says these deviants are polluting the nation. He wants stricter enforcement."
"Your father can choke on his own tongue."
"Many have wished that. None have succeeded."
Katsuki took a deep gulp of his drink, relishing the burn of rice whisky down his throat.
"I'm here as a treat to myself,"he admitted sourly. "The world has had its chance to punish me today."
"What sort of punishment?"
Katsuki hesitated. It wasn't that he didn't want to tell, it just simply hurt to say. But he'd kept all his pain locked up all day, and the drink was making his tongue loose. So he let out a dry laugh.
"The worst kind. I saw the man I'm in love with today," he said.
"Are you expecting pity?"
Katsuki barked another laugh. "No. I'm expecting you to have a drink with me."
Todoroki signaled the bartender for another round. The amber liquid caught the dim light, the only other witness to their conversation.
"My father is drafting a bill," Todoroki said quietly. "The 'Public Morals Preservation Act.' It will grant the police broader powers to arrest anyone suspected of homosexual acts. Not just in public spaces, but private residences too. Informants will be rewarded."
The glass in Katsuki's hand trembled.
"You're joking."
"I never joke about him. He has the support of the conservative bloc. The American occupation forces have left, and with them, the indifference they brought. The country is hungry for order and purity. He intends to give them both."
Katsuki's mind raced. He thought of the file on Izuku's desk. Tahara v. The Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department.
"Who is the first target?"
Todoroki took a slow sip. "A lawyer. He's allegedly been too sympathetic in his defense of accused men. My father believes making an example of someone in the legal profession will send the proper message."
The floor seemed to tilt beneath Katsuki's feet.
"Midoriya," he whispered.
"His name has crossed my father's desk, yes. There are rumors. His wife has not produced a child in three years of marriage. He keeps a male assistant he refuses to dismiss despite complaints about his temperament." Todoroki's mismatched eyes locked onto Katsuki's face. "Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
Katsuki understood. He had spent nine years, eleven months, and eight days trying to become indispensable to Izuku. He had made himself a fixture in that office. He had thought he was building shelter.
Instead, he had built a cage.
"What do you want from me, Todoroki?"
"Information." Todoroki leaned forward, his voice dropping. "My father has enemies, men who despise him but fear him. They would welcome ammunition to use against his crusade. The lawyer you work for handles sensitive cases, yes? He knows things."
"You want me to spy for you."
"I want you to be all right." Todoroki sighed, his hand closing briefly around his own glass, knuckles whitening. "I had a brother once. He is dead now. My father killed everything but his spirit, yet the result was the same. I will not watch another person be destroyed by that man if I can prevent it."
The rain outside intensified, drumming against the walls of the bar. Somewhere across the city, Izuku was being driven home to his wife. Tomorrow, he would sit at his desk and pretend Katsuki was merely a difficult employee.
"The bill," Katsuki said slowly. "When will it be introduced?"
"Three months, perhaps four."
"And Midoriya-san's name on the target list. How long until they move on him?"
"Weeks. Maybe less. They are building a case. People who have been caught are being offered leniency in exchange for names." Todoroki's gaze was steady. "Someone will talk eventually. Someone always does."
Katsuki drained his glass. The burn was no longer pleasant.
"I need time."
"You have very little of it."
"Then stop wasting it." Katsuki stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "If you want my help, you'll have it. But not tonight. Tonight, I need to think."
Todoroki inclined his head. "I will be here. Same time tomorrow."
November 23rd, 1953
Midoroya-san,
I gave up an associate position at a reputable firm just to be your errand boy, to my mother's despair, but nothing has changed since I was fourteen.
Tonight, the flicker of your office lamp is the only light I can bear to look at. I watch the way it throws your shadow long against the wall, sheltering your cowardice. You are afraid, aren't you? Of the wind and debris outside. Or is it the air itself? How it demands attention, much like I do when I stand in the doorway, waiting for you to spare a single glance.
Why did you ever believe the best way to handle this was to simply pretend I don’t exist outside of this office, as if the sun sets and I cease to be a solid object?
I saw your photograph in the newspaper. Of course it wasn't the big one from your wedding announcement, I couldn't care less about that, but a smaller one. The snippet from the society page that showed you and your wife, Uraraka-san, at the opening of that charity hospital. You were smiling, but I've become an expert at reading the lack of life in your eyes. I stole the photograph from your desk while you were at lunch. It’s tucked under my pillow now, folded neatly in half so I can’t see her face when I close my eyes. That feels fair, doesn't it? You keep me hidden—so why shouldn't I hide what's yours?
For not the first time, I wonder if I should leave. This kind of love makes me hate myself as much as you seem to. How did you know this was how you wanted to spend your life? Miserable and exhausted, with a woman who is not me, when you used to stare at me as if you could drown in the colors of my eyes? How was it possible to look at me and not think: "This is what I want". Was it so very difficult to say it? Did I disgust you so?
If I disgust you, why did you speak of your lovely wife with such bitter conviction? If I were a more foolish man I might have thought she was the true object of your disgust.
But I am not a foolish man.
You, however, leave tracks of your terror in every room you enter. She is not the one who disgusts you, Midoriya-san, and neither am I. It is the world in which I exist, the world we exist together, that frightens you. How I have never understood, and will never understand, is how you could be so terrified of something that is simply fact. I have no choice in it. No one does. You would have been better off becoming a priest than a lawyer, if all you wanted to do was bury your head in the sand and pretend you had no desires.
You lock me in this office, away from sunlight and the possibility of kindness, because it is easier to starve me than to admit that hunger exists.
Do not be afraid of the world, of its cruelty, of its intolerance, or of its hatred. You are no stranger to it. It is no stranger to a man like you. You were born with every advantage. You were never meant to be afraid.
Until you are brave enough to face me,
Katsuki.