Chapter Text
Shouto’s first conscious thought is that he is extremely grateful that it is the weekend, because his bed has never felt so comfortable.
Though he’d remodelled his room rather rapidly, UA still insisted on students sharing the same basic furniture, so their desks and beds were all manufactured together, perhaps in the interests of fairness. Shouto is aware this is just, as he is growing quite aware of the fact not all of his classmates can relate to his and Yaoyorozu’s ideas of economic normalcy, but this does not mean he is entirely able to quash the voice in his head reminding him of his bed at home. Not that he sleeps worse at UA, per se- he probably sleeps better, considering his father is nowhere near- but the flat, stiff little mattress that barely fits now he’s hit yet another growth spurt does no wonders for his comfort, and he feels too self-aware to complain about it.
He stirs a little, mind still surprisingly hazy with sleep, and wonders at how soft everything feels. He is not particularly the self-indulgent type, but he feels it presently. His pillow even smells good, not the sterile scent of his dorm or the artificial cleanliness of his house, something like cinnamon or citrus.
He stretches, and feels only further bedding.
Shouto stills. Slowly, he opens his eyes, ill-adjusted against the glare of sunlight, arm still feeling mattress where there should be none, and stares up at a ceiling he does not recognise. There is a fan above him. His room doesn’t have a ceiling fan.
He sits up in one clean movement, drowsiness gone and fingers flexing with tension, poised for a fight. Sitting upright only makes the disorientated feeling grow; the entire room is completely foreign to him. Now that he’s out from under the covers, he can make out the sound of traffic, unheard of from the UA dorms.
The room is spacious, looks lived in, making his initial suspicions of some villainous basement lose further credibility even as his pulse continues to race. There are bedside tables on either side of the Western-style bed; the wardrobe is classically Japanese, and there are old-fashioned mats laid on the floor. It’s spotless without feeling impersonal, books and various accessories neatly organised but clearly well-kept, the walls a muted cream sort of colour. Shouto startles when something by his side buzzes softly, calming a little when he tracks the noise to no more than a phone, though not a model he recognises.
Cautiously, he slides his legs over the side of the bed, palms still raised defensively by his sides. No sound comes from outside the room, but that means nothing; he moves with as little noise as possible, anticipating violence.
He glances at the phone, which has gone dark again, reaches swiftly to activate the lock screen again. It shows a number of emails from official-sounding addresses, some activity in group chats he doesn’t recognise, and a handful of text messages, mostly mundane, that he doesn’t bother to look at. The whole thing seems incredibly banal. His eyes travel the room again, finding nothing amiss, which only lodges unease more firmly in his chest.
He can’t shake the feeling this is someone’s real apartment, and he’s somehow found himself in it, though he knows it’s naive not to suspect foul play. Most likely he’s been taken somehow, or he’s been hit by some sort of quirk and is hallucinating. It’s possible this is all a dream, too.
Likely he is being toyed with, observed. It is important that he maintain composure.
Shouto goes to stand and has to catch himself against the wall when he finds himself dizzy, like his centre of gravity has shifted. It almost feels like it has- he frowns at the floor, wondering if the owners simply like a low bed.
He’s read somewhere that it’s possible to wake from a lucid dream by checking for specifics, like the date, and reaches for the phone again. The time seems about accurate, but he can’t access the date, unfamiliar with the make of the device.
He pushes himself off the wall, frost softly emanating from his fingers when he reaches for the door handle lest it make some creak, and peers further inside the building.
As he’s suspected, he’s in an apartment, and though his stance is taut with nerves as he looks around, he finds it empty, at least to the eye.
The apartment is nice, though there is something strange about it Shouto can’t quite place. The kitchen is big and modern, cupboards fully stocked when Shouto finds himself relaxed enough to snoop; there is a living room with a nice couch and a suitable dining-table, and a kind of cramped bathroom. The bathroom is the first real giveaway that the apartment is shared, unless the two sets of toothbrushes and various grooming products are the sign of a very vain and particular home-owner.
He ends up perched on the couch, peering out of the window into the street. It looks busy for Sunday morning, and he frowns, wondering if this isn’t perhaps Tokyo rather than Musutafu. It’s true that he lives in a rather isolated part of town, but he doesn’t think he’s seen this kind of activity even around the school, unless it was some special occasion. It can well be- he’s bad at keeping track of festivals and the like, unused to celebrating them and bad with dates in general.
Unsettled, Shouto retraces his steps, worried by his unbalanced gait as he does so. He’s never ill, and rarely injured; there’s no reason for him to be dizzy unless this all is part of some nefarious scheme. The fact that he simply can’t guess what the game at play is is driving him to frustration.
He stops in the bathroom again, rifling around, until a glimpse of a man just by him makes him jolt upright, ice and fire crackling into existence unprompted. He might have marvelled at how easily his flames arise, but he’s too distracted by the realisation he’s simply looking at a mirror- but his reflection is unfamiliar.
He glances around the room, feeling disturbed, but there is no one in sight, and the brows furrowing in the mirror match his own frown. And yet-
The man in the mirror is just that: a man. Adult in a way Shouto is not, and will not be for quite some years. At a wager he would have said his mid-twenties, maybe slightly less. Shouto feels plenty grown himself, but looking at this unfamiliar face he can see the ways he isn’t yet- his jaw is stronger, his shoulders broader; he’s far more muscular, and there’s something both sharper and more sophisticated in his face. He raises a hand cautiously, watching the man do the same. He has a scar across his palm.
He’s fully aware he’s letting his guard down too much, but he finds it hard to look away from his inspection, eyes searching. He realises after a moment he’s looking for traces of his father, and flinches away, embarrassed. Still, though there are hints of him in his posture and the piercing blue of his eye, he finds his mother’s delicate features have not left him in this older form, something refined in his face that neither his father nor his brother can lay claim to.
He tears his eyes away at last and stares at the ceiling. So his body is older. He’s taller: that explains the dizzy spell. Where he is, though, remains unclear, despite hypotheses beginning to form in his mind. He goes for the bedroom again, opening the drawers of the cabinet he’d woken up by, and exhales a controlled breath, finding identification forms, a wallet, various knick-knacks that he doesn’t recognise.
The phone buzzes again. Calculating, he presses his thumb to the screen. Nothing happens, but a notification pops up to enable facial ID. He presses it rapidly, blinking in surprise when a little laser scan emerges from the device, buzzing faintly as Shouto holds still. He curses his impulsive move for a moment, sure of impending danger, but the phone simply clicks and the home screen appears with a little welcoming beep.
He checks the date. Sunday October the 19th, 2125.
Right, Shouto thinks, and feels an urge to sit down, which he resists. He checks the weather, the news, watching the date reappear with normalcy as he scrolls rapidly through unfamiliar stories.
He sets the phone down, and looks at the ceiling again. His hair feels long, which he’d noted only absently earlier.
It seems most probable he’s in some kind of future world. The concept is decidedly odd, and more fantastic than he’s apt to believing, but it’s hard to come up with an alternative explanation. His body is physically older, the room seems strangely known to him, and the bedside cabinet is filled with what seem to be his possessions, not to mention the year matches up with the age he looks.
He sits on the bed. The whole situation still feels like a dream. His thoughts turn to hospitals and doctors, and he wonders if this is his life- his real life- and he’s simply lost his memory. That’s possible with amnesiacs, he assumes, though does not know. Perhaps there’s been some kind of fight, and he’s hit his head.
It’s just very difficult to grasp. Shouto knows for a fact that he’d gone to bed the previous day in his dorm room at UA, and can recall every detail of the day. The past week comes to him with perfect clarity. Is this normal for amnesia? His gut feeling says no. He feels too much himself to think he’s forgotten some eight years of his existence, give or take.
At a loss, he turns to his phone. It hasn’t struck him until now that if he is indeed in his future, he might not be completely alone.
His most recent text is from “I.M.”, and reads Hey!!!! thanks for yesterday, sorry i was so drunk, i think kacchan made me do it but still and is immediately followed by Also, i just wanted to know if you’ve made any progress on that dossier, because i was wondering if i might take a look at it - would be helpful ahead of the trip but don’t feel like you need to if you’re busy !!!
Midoriya, he thinks, and feels strangely heartened, though perplexed. It’s nice to see they’re still talking in the future- or still friends, really, based on the tone. He would have hoped so, but he’s always cautious with his friends, unused to their presence even after a year of UA. It’s odd to imagine Midoriya older, and odder to imagine him and Bakugou drinking together, but he supposes if it was some kind of group event Bakugou might well have taken his boredom out on his usual scapegoat. It’s not like he and Bakugou are at constantly each other’s throats anymore, after that fight in first year- Bakugou’s slightly less of an asshole and Midoriya’s slightly less… Midoriya.
He wonders what the dossier is, and if he should attempt to reply, pretending to know what he’s being thanked for. He supposes he wasn’t drinking, or not heavily, because he feels fine.
Curious now, he checks his other texts. One is from “T.I.”, simply reads Good Morning ! Hope you are ready to face the day ! and when he checks the chat log, he notes this seems to be a daily send-off. His usual response seems to be a single cat sticker. He sends one now, feeling somewhat like a fraud. Another text is from the data provider, and the last unread message is from someone whose initials mean nothing to him, talking about scheduled interviews and upcoming press galas. There are a number of other conversations open, but none unread, so he leaves them be, vaguely overwhelmed.
He avoids his inbox for much the same reason, heading for the messaging app where various group-chats seem to have their own life; one is named “aizawa number one dilf appreciation group”, which he does not understand but suspects to be the work of Kaminari or another one of Bakugou’s friends. He’s wary of reading the messages, just scrolls through the groups. There’s one with his siblings that hasn’t been used in a solid month or so, which is strange because they’ve never had a group chat. There’s a number which seem to be related to work, and he catches a few familiar names. For some reason Bakugou appears first amongst his noted friends, but he thinks this might just be taking note of who was last online.
Phone in hand, he wonders who to contact. A year prior he would have tried to handle this completely alone, but it seems obstinate not to consult someone, considering everyone else seems to be in the right time and place but Shouto, who is a potential amnesiac. If he’s doing pro-hero work, which he seems to be, it’s dangerous putting civilians at risk by not telling anyone about his condition.
He considers Iida, who very likely will drop everything and quickly run through every possible alternative with him, but it feels slightly uncomfortable. Iida is always busy; he doesn’t doubt this applies in the future too, and he doesn’t like to make himself a nuisance. Midoriya is another obvious answer, but if he’s recovering from a rough night Shouto doesn’t want to throw this at him. His next close friend is Yaoyorozu, who is also permanently busy but perhaps more composed and less likely to drop everything if he assures her it’s not an emergency.
First of all, he thinks, he might as well know if he’s meant to be doing anything instead of lounging around and having an internal crisis.
It feels uncomfortable messaging her, especially because they so rarely talk via social media in his own life. They spoke a bit over summer, mainly sending each other pictures of their holidays and having polite discussions of their plans once school started, but he’s been told he’s awkward over text, and Yaoyorozu stays very formal. If he scrolls up on this phone, he can see snippets of their last conversation, apparently organising some work-related event. The tone is more casual than he’s used to.
He writes: Hello. Do you know if I’m doing anything important today? I feel like I’m forgetting something.
Oddly enough, her response is almost immediate.
I take it your night went well :-D As far as I know, it’s your day off, isn’t it? Last we spoke you mentioned going into the office to look at something for Izuku, but I don’t believe that was urgent business.
It is bizarre to see Yaoyorozu use emoticons and to call Midoriya by his first name, but he supposes it would be stranger if she didn’t, almost a decade down the line.
Ah, that’s what it was. I’ve got to send him some intel before he goes on his trip.
He seemed a little sad about it when I last spoke to him. I think he’s enjoyed being back in Japan for a while. But the opportunity to be there with All Might is a tremendous one, which he knows, I think.
Of course, Shouto says, though he has no idea what she’s talking about and feels vaguely blindsided by the notion of Midoriya and All Might outside of Japan. Thank you.
He pulls the wallet out from the drawer, finding a registered hero ID card inside with a thrill of excitement, then a business card, which lists the address of a building- it is Tokyo, he notes, and wonders abruptly just where all his classmates are talking to him from.
Leaving the apartment fills him with vague trepidation, waiting to wake up from his strange slumber, but nothing happens. He’s dressed in clothes he found in the wardrobe, which fit him too well not to be his, though he raised a brow at some of the fashion choices he’d apparently be making in the future. Fashion has never been a concern of his, nor style, but this seems to have changed with time; he feels a bit ridiculous strutting around in an all-black ensemble, but it feels fitting on his older body. His keys and his wallet he puts in his pockets, fearful of losing them.
It occurs to him as he hesitantly follows his phone’s instructions to the nearest underground station that he’s got no real reason to be heading to the office as if it matters. He still hasn’t told Yaoyorozu about his condition, and there’s nothing about this favour he’s doing Midoriya that feels relevant. It’s more that he feels like he has a purpose beyond aimlessly avoiding some kind of nervous breakdown.
Riding through Tokyo makes him feel vaguely claustrophobic, and very much on high alert. A lot of people are staring at him, which makes him feel like everyone on the train knows he’s out of place, though he considers eventually that it might just be that his face is recognisable, if he’s a pro-hero. Probably he doesn’t take public transport.
The building he finally arrives at is impressive, towering over the city, and the kind of place he’d expect his father to own, which he dislikes. He mellows when he steps inside and notes the group of teenagers staring at him, feeling exposed and staring right back. They’re obviously on some kind of school outing; he recognises the Ketsubutsu uniform and wants to inch away, remembering only belatedly that he is not their peer in their eyes, as a handful respectfully lower their gazes and a number of others stare at him with a sort of impressed awe, muttering his name under their breath. They look sort of like they want something from him; Shouto manages to spare them a nod he hopes comes off as friendly enough, trying not to look blatantly out of place in his own damn workplace as he heads for the reception.
The receptionist is out; it strikes him he has no idea how to enter the building further. There are doors, but they’re locked by pass, and he doesn’t want to try them and look like an obvious idiot in front of a school tour.
The door opens as he’s still calculating his next move, and he’s surprised to find Amajiki meeting his eyes, the other man’s hair shorter than he remembers over his elf-like ears, something hard to place about him changed enough that Shouto struggles to recognise him for a beat. He tilts his head faintly at Shouto, ghost of a smile on his lips as he holds the door.
“Todoroki.”
“Thank you,” Shouto says, bowing, and passes through before he can blurt something stupid or stare at the older student. He wonders if he works with him sometimes, if they share office space, if the man is just visiting. He’s never seen him look at ease, but he seemed fine just then, far less subdued than Shouto knows him to be. Perhaps they’re friends, or perhaps Amajiki has evolved into someone comfortable enough to smile at near-strangers. His clothes were still faintly crumpled, which is reassuring somehow.
He wanders without real direction around the building, finding his way to the elevators and deducing the right floor only on his second attempt. It’s nicer than he expected, perhaps still soured by the memories of working for his father. There’s a handful of bigger offices towards one end of the corridor that he assumes contains his, and it does; his name is written on the door, and his handprint unlocks it.
At a loss again, he texts Midoriya.
Sorry, which part of the dossier do you want in particular? I am at the office right now.
Not for the first time in the day, he feels like a child pretending at being an adult. This is technically his working space, but he has no idea what’s what, and he dreads meeting his coworkers lest they begin to talk to him about any of their work. The idea of talking to anyone is losing its appeal- surely it would sound insane, suggesting he was from the past; he finds it hard to pretend he seriously believes himself to have amnesia.
He entertains himself by rifling through files, which does ground him somewhat. There’s something deeply satisfying, maybe even exciting, about glimpsing what his life could be one day- cases he’s resolved, people he’s saved. There’s more paperwork than he expected. On the walls there are awards, and it feels like cheating to look at them but he does anyways, taking in the achievements this Todoroki Shouto has accumulated over the years, plaques and rewards and commemorative pictures.
He wonders who works with him, if he works alone. Midoriya seems to be based abroad for the moment, probably in America, and he can’t guess if any of his classmates are in Tokyo too, or if they stayed home, went elsewhere. He tries to imagine what his thought process was, in his final year, applying to internships- why he went to the big city. It’s tempted him often; he’s ambitious, Tokyo has a very competitive circuit, and it would take him away from home. He’s thought recently it might be more difficult leaving all of his schoolmates behind. Perhaps he’ll grow out of these worries, or perhaps his friends have followed.
There’s a picture of what looks to be class 1-A on his desk, older than Shouto knows them but younger than he looks now, maybe a year or so after graduation, he thinks, all in what looks to be their hero costumes. It’s very strange observing his classmates like this, all recognisable but different as they sit on the steps outside the school. Midoriya seems much taller, and his hair is short, curling wildly. Iida looks much the same, but he has new glasses, and they change his face. Uraraka’s hair is long, darker. Yaoyorozu’s seems short, and her costume is very different from the one he knows, leaving her far more covered up than he’s used to seeing. He spots himself near her side, looking askance at the photographer as he is prone to doing- he can’t tell very well, but he almost thinks his hair has been bleached. Bakugou and Kirishima are on his other side, both turned backwards to look at something happening off-screen; they both look tall, too, more built, Kirishima’s skin dark from the sun and his hair loose like he rarely wears it. Bakugou’s face is obscured, but he looks darker too, hair very blonde against his tank-top. His one arm seems to be knocking into Shouto’s, which he finds odd, or maybe just the precursor to a shouting fit.
Whatever you have is great, but if you could give me matsuoka’s personal files that would be especially good !! We don’t have much on him yet and i know you have a more substantial backing on this one :)
No problem, Shouto sends, and starts searching for whoever the hell Matsuoka is. When he finds him last, Midoriya’s sent him something else.
By the way, you’re sure you’re ok from friday ? didn’t want to ask yesterday …
Shouto stares a little. Friday? Something happened to this Shouto on Friday?
Why wouldn’t I be fine
Oh, be that way :P Midoriya replies, unfortunately assuming Shouto is being dismissive of his concerns. Shouto sighs to himself and sends him the files.
Task completed, he feels antsy lingering in the building, and sees himself out cautiously. The receptionist is back in when he leaves, and she smiles warmly at him. He tries to return the favour, and doesn’t quite succeed.
He tries to avoid the underground the second time around, hailing a taxi and feeling both kind of ridiculous and kind of like an asshole when the price counter hits the hundreds of Yens in an obscenely short time. Still, he supposes it’s his money. If he can afford an apartment that big in central Tokyo, he must have money to burn.
The driver seems aware of who he is, and keeps glancing like he wants to ask but is too nervous to, which Shouto sort of appreciates, not feeling up to conversation, much less when he’s not exactly the person the driver thinks he is and has no idea what future Shouto would have to say in his position. He feels himself stiffen every time the guy looks over, and when they make eye contact once, the driver flinches and looks away.
He tips awkwardly, uncertain what taxi etiquette is, pats his pockets down to make sure he still has his keys on hand when he enters the apartment complex. Somehow the walk upstairs feels familiar, which he guesses it is, to his body at least. He feels drained, though the day really hasn’t been particularly taxing and he slept in until lunch.
The apartment is blissfully quiet. He finds himself hungry, looks through the cabinets with mixed approval and apprehension. He can’t imagine himself eating half of the things in it, so he supposes he must have gotten more adventurous, and significantly better at cooking, but the issue is that Shouto himself is still terrible in the kitchen, and has been basically banned from touching the communal oven, stove, and microwave.
He ends up eating cold noodles he found in the fridge while he sits on the sofa, finding them significantly tastier than any brand he recognises and his sister’s attempts to cook for the whole family (though he feels slightly guiltily thinking this). The silence of the apartment doesn’t bother him, but he finds it slightly less blissful than initially. He thinks he might have gotten used to the dorms, the constant undercurrent of activity. The Todoroki estate had felt like a tomb over summer.
He opens the window a little, regulating his body temperature when he finds the autumn air colder than expected and enjoying the faint sounds of pedestrians and traffic.
So, what now? As much as the food is better and the bed more comfortable, it’s not on the table for him to stay here if he doesn’t belong- if he does, he’ll ruin more than his own reputation, messing about amongst pro heroes when he’s still in high school. It feels inevitable that he’ll have to talk to someone, but the prospect is daunting, now that the lives of his friends in this future world feel more real. They won’t remember being second years so clearly as to recall his week; they’ll worry he’s been put under some mind-controlling quirk before they really think he’s from the past. Shouto’s never heard of a quirk that allows for time-travel of any sort.
He sets his noodles down, appetite gone. The truth is that he feels at a loss, but the situation is so foreign he’s not sure how to even react to this. It is so rare that he is rattled- Bakugou’s kidnapping in their first year and Endeavour’s televised battle had been about the only recent times he’d been incapable to control himself, and he’d thought those two had been quite sufficient.
His silent contemplation is abruptly interrupted at the sound of the door swinging open, interruption so unexpected he actually jolts a little, immediately on edge again. So he was right after all- this is some kind of trap, Shouto thinks, a little wildly, and feels his powers come easily, each hand deceptively gently wrapped in ice or flame.
“You could have warned me you still haven’t apologised to that crazed bitch about the cat thing,” a voice calls from the hallway, and Shouto’s heart pounds loudly, disoriented again by the tone. “She ripped me off completely, didn’t even let me negotiate the damn rice.”
The voice is hoarse, low, loud, familiar. Shouto feels his feet move by their own volition so he can look at the intruder, who is very non-menacingly tucking his shoes away, grocery bags by his side on the floor as he kicks the door shut lazily. From where he’s crouching by the closet Shouto can really only see his back and legs, which are more what he’d expect from some pro villain than the grocery discussion, but only in the sense that the guy looks like he could crush someone’s head with his thighs.
The guy stands, turns, expression irritated as he meets Shouto’s eyes. “Don’t give me that look, asshole. You know damn well you were the one who started that whole mess.”
“Uh,” Shouto says, because he’s - there’s a very high probability that the man currently walking up to him is Bakugou Katsuki, and also Shouto feels like maybe he needs to sit down, though he’s not quite sure why. His heart is beating very fast even though he no longer thinks he’s about to be attacked, and he thinks he’s overheating.
Definitely Bakugou stops just short of him, eyes narrowing. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Shouto would like to reply, only he feels as though he has forgotten how to speak, and this would likely be a lot more alarming if his brain wasn’t completely shut down. Bakugou looks-
The thing about Bakugou- his Bakugou- well, younger Bakugou- is that he’s not- Shouto thinks he’s pretty okay on the eyes, really. Not that he cares, or focuses, but out of the guys in their class, excluding himself, he’d probably say Bakugou was- somewhere in the lead. Based on objective assessment. He knows this is true; the girls gossip. He has nice skin, and bone structure. It’s just somewhat marred by the fact his temper is atrocious and he thus rarely relaxes his face into less than a scowl.
This Bakugou also has good skin and bone structure, but unlike with the Bakugou Shouto is used to seeing, his eyes have to keep jumping around trying to take all of him in. His skin is sort of golden, like he’s holding on to a summer tan; he’s wearing a tight long-sleeved black shirt that makes his physique very apparent, and it’s- it’s a good physique to have. He’s still shorter than Shouto, thank god, but just by a little; he seems more imposing anyways, even just standing with groceries in his hands. His hair is longer than Shouto knows it, also more shiny somehow. There are neat silver piercings high on both of his ears. Like Shouto, his jaw is more defined, nose sharper, and he has faint cheekbones. There are freckles on the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t know how to describe the change all these details amount to, but it is immediately obvious and overwhelming, and Bakugou is- he’s- hot.
Shouto has spent about fifteen years of his life resolutely disinterested in other people point blank, sixteen disinterested in them in the romantic or sexual sense. Lately he’s been catching himself not so completely removed from it all as he thought he was, and with some well-founded suspicions as to where his interest lies, but he’s mostly surrounded by people just heading into their late teens, half of them still recovering from the horrors of puberty, the vast majority with the maturity of children, and the most he’s had to contend with are brief flashes of interest every couple of days when one of his classmates looks handsomer than he remembers, or maybe staring a little too hard at some of the older students, who have grown into their good looks. Once in a while he realises that his observations of some of his friends are not strictly platonic, and is quietly mortified by it for a couple of days. He just doesn’t really know how to process it, and resents the impact on his composure.
He does, however, think Bakugou is decisively and terminally hot, a word he has never even thought of applying to a real life person. This knowledge continues to hold him hostage, incapable of speech.
“I,” Shouto manages, and with colossal effort shifts backwards slightly, so he’s not standing so close to him. For a moment he thinks he’s managed to escape, Bakugou stepping around him to put the bags down in the kitchen, but he only does this to then grab Shouto by the shoulders and stare him down. He freezes more habitually, unaccustomed to touch.
“Are you ill or some shit?” Bakugou asks, still peering intently at him. Shouto wills himself to get a grip, because he’s aware that once he gets out of this stupor he will be beyond humiliated that he managed to turn into an overloaded Kaminari just because Bakugou of all people aged this well, and begins to come up with a response, something cutting and clever that will explain away his current state.
“I could be an amnesiac,” is what comes out instead. Bakugou stares.
“The fuck?”
Shouto finally gets a grip, shaking Bakugou off and rubbing his shoulder reflexively. “It’s just a theory. I seem to be missing eight years of memory.”
“Wha- since when?” Bakugou asks, and Shouto thinks why is Bakugou in my apartment anyways? “Are you sure you’re not just high? Goddamnit, was Kaminari here again?”
“No,” Shouto says, which feels true, at least. He can’t imagine smoking weed with Denki Kaminari. “I’ve been having a weird day. Could we do this later?”
He doesn’t know what he’s asking, exactly, because he’s not sure why Bakugou is in his apartment, or why he’s brought groceries, or- did he leave the door unlocked? Does Bakugou have spare keys to his apartment? Is this even Bakugou?
After a beat, Bakugou goes to punch him in the face, which answers the last question, and Shouto glares incredulously at him, ice glinting where it formed between them. Bakugou merely blinks, then crosses his arms.
“You don’t seem concussed.”
“You thought actually giving me a concussion was going to help with that?” Shouto asks, flat.
“Fuck’s sake, Sho,” Bakugou says, which throws him off so much that his ice evaporates, ears ringing. Bakugou swears and goes to manoeuvre him somewhere; Shouto flinches back again.
They stare at each other.
“Okay,” Bakugou says finally, eyes like amber. It is rare that he fixes Shouto like this, but he swears he’s gained some kind of ungodly extra quirk, because he feels hot all over. “Who the hell are you and where the hell is Todoroki?”
His voice is oddly calm, expression blank. Shouto wants to lie to him, but he feels suddenly more trapped and tired than he has all day, and he still doesn’t know what Bakugou is doing in his apartment on a Sunday evening, holding groceries and calling him by his first name. Bizarrely, the fact he seems a moment away from killing him inspires trust.
“You probably won’t believe me,” Shouto says. Bakugou only stares, gamely. There’s something about him that Shouto doesn’t recognise, not just in his face.
“Try me.”
“I am Todoroki,” Shouto says, eyes flitting away. He’s usually not uncomfortable with eye contact, but he knows how stupid it sounds, doesn’t want to be looking at Bakugou when he says it. “Shouto, I mean. But I’m not- from now.” He exhales through his nose. “When I went to bed I was at UA. I woke up here. And I don’t know why.”
Bakugou says nothing for a bit, and then he says: “Doesn’t sound like amnesia.”
“I don’t think it is,” Shouto says, turning back to him. “I think I’m in the future. I don’t recognise anything. Normally I’m still in school.”
“So where’s normal you?” Bakugou demands. “In high school?”
Shouto hadn’t considered this. He feels like the thoughts he’s spent the day avoiding are finally catching up to him. “I suppose he’d- I’d- have to be.”
Bakugou looks for a moment like he’s going to blow something up, eyes flashing and brows lowering, but it passes. “How old are you?”
“Seventeen this year,” Shouto answers, which is stupid because he’s still sixteen for a while yet, but he feels like an idiot saying he’s sixteen in this grown man’s body. “I’m in my second year at UA.”
“What were you doing yesterday?” Bakugou asks, gaze shrewd.
Shouto considers it. “We all had breakfast together yesterday- Iida wanted it to be a bonding experience. Half of the group was miserable being up so early, though, so he was quite distressed. And we had some incidents in the kitchen.” He delicately doesn’t mention he was behind one of these. “Later Midoriya and I studied together a while, but he got somewhat flustered thinking about our practicals because he injured himself for the first time in a while in our last session. I went to read in my room for a while and skipped lunch. Someone ordered pizza to the dorms and got in trouble. There was a movie on, but it looked - not to my tastes. I went to bed.”
He sighs, remembering his disgruntled mood. “It was raining hard. It took me a while to get to sleep because Bakugou was blasting music.”
“I wear headphones,” Bakugou says.
“They don’t do much, then,” Shouto starts, then remembers himself and pauses. “I mean-“
“Goddamnit, Todoroki!” Bakugou exclaims abruptly, now actually looking pissed off as his fingers spark. “I fucking knew something happened on Friday. What is it with you and being a complete fucking moron at the worst possible moment?”
The last part feels more directed at him than the start, and Shouto kind of wants to say something in his own defence except he has no idea what his future self has done and he’s also slightly irked by him at this moment, considering he’s apparently to blame for Shouto being here.
“You believe me?” Shouto asks, because he’s a little incredulous that Bakugou of all people, even this Bakugou, is the type to take his word for this kind of thing. Bakugou glowers at him, which is reassuring.
“That idiot is a terrible liar,” Bakugou mutters, looking furious. “And you’re clearly not him, but you’re obviously still Shoto Todoroki.”
“How am I not him?”
Bakugou just rolls his eyes. “You didn’t even bitch out the grocery store woman.”
“I could just be an impostor,” Shouto points out, not sure why he’s trying to convince Bakugou not to believe him. It just feels wrong somehow, how easily he’s been let in on the secret.
Bakugou actually snorts, though his features are still tight with anger. “Only you would fare so poorly at it, then. And you talk like an orphan from a Dickens novel.”
“I do not,” Shouto says. And then, because apparently he physically cannot stop himself from rising to the bait with Bakugou, even in this bizarro world: “I didn’t know you read.”
“Fuck you,” Bakugou retorts, though he seems to have relaxed a fraction. His expression is unfamiliar when he looks at him, and it makes Shouto’s skin crawl.
“Why are you in my apartment?”
He doesn’t mean to ask it, but the question bothers him. It’s the one thing out of place in his future- the rest was pretty much expected. Bakugou casually seeing himself in was not. Again, Bakugou takes him off guard by not immediately biting his head off, just looking at him with this hard knowing gaze Shouto doesn’t want to find intimidating but somewhat does. His Bakugou never looks like that.
Just as suddenly, Bakugou shrugs, dismissive. “My place got flooded a couple weeks back. I’ve been crashing here. Your dumbass still hasn’t learned to cook; I magnanimously keep you from starving to death while I’m here. Speaking of which: hungry?”
He turns back into the kitchen, Shouto slowly following. He can’t imagine Bakugou ever picking his place to crash at.
“Didn’t you have anywhere else to go?”
“In Tokyo? No,” Bakugou retorts, swiping through the cupboards expertly. “Unless I wanted to end up crammed into a shitty four-person dumpster.” He turns to give him the evil eye. “Do you wanna fucking eat or not?”
Shouto’s stomach grumbles. “If you don’t mind.”
“If I don’t mind,” Bakugou echoes, mockingly, but he shoves Shouto towards the table. “Lemme work then, dumbass.”
Shouto watches him move around the kitchen like he’s the conductor of a particularly raucous orchestra, mildly fascinated and still vaguely in shock. Every so often he realises he’s just blatantly gawking and reels himself in. He’s not sure what to make of this Bakugou, who is both so like his own and so diametrically opposed. Shouto wonders what he’s like, if this is what his version of Bakugou has turned out to be.
Bakugou sets bowls down dramatically, clicking his tongue when he catches sight of the leftovers. “Thought you were hungry.”
“I am,” Shouto says, albeit somewhat guiltily. The food smells heavenly. He’s caught sight of Bakugou making his food in the dorms sometimes; Kirishima and co are always wheedling him for some. It smells good at UA, too. He’s sure if he asked Bakugou would lose his shit and hit him with a spatula.
They eat in silence, Bakugou obviously distracted and Shouto feeling increasingly fatigued. The food wakes him up a little, so good he kind of wants to weep and beg Bakugou never to let him return to the mercy of a Bakugou who doesn’t share.
“Right,” Bakugou says, setting down his chopsticks eventually. Shouto blinks around a particularly large mouthful of rice, trying not to look like an idiot child when he meets his eyes. He’s pretty sure he fails, but Bakugou doesn’t even give him shit, just looks away while he swallows, fingers tapping against the table like his Bakugou does in class. When he looks back his brow is furrowed. “We need to figure out how this happened and how the fuck to switch you back around. You look like shit and I need sleep, so we’ll start tomorrow. I assume you don’t know what caused this.”
“No,” Shouto answers, feeling useless and hating the feeling. He’s not accustomed to being the weakest link in a situation. “I think whatever happened occurred on your side, not mine. We spent Friday in class, and I’ve felt fine all weekend.”
“Fucking swell,” Bakugou grunts. “I don’t know anyone with a time-related quirk.”
“I think I probably have some kind of villain database in my office,” Shouto suggests, unwilling to be of no consequence in this conversation. Bakugou only shoots him an irritated look.
“I know, asshole, I work there too.”
He collects their cutlery as Shouto exhales, feeling disoriented again. He hovers while Bakugou cleans up, just as intensely as he does everything else. He wonders if there’s anything Bakugou doesn’t do angrily. He imagines he brushes his teeth hard enough that his toothbrush snaps.
“Do you pay rent while you’re here?”
“Wow,” Bakugou says. “Cheap bitch.”
“That’s not what- I just meant. If you buy the food and cook, it’s a lot of money and work. It doesn’t seem fair.”
He doesn’t know why he feels the need to share it; it’s just suddenly that he’s worried his older self has forgotten what a miracle this food is compared to microwaved noodles, and that just seems wrong.
“I don’t pay rent,” Bakugou answers. Shouto can’t see his face, but he sounds like he’s smirking. “As if I’d let you take my money when you could afford the whole building on daddy’s credit card.”
The mention of Endeavour and the thought of still being indebted to him in his adult age makes Shouto clench his jaw, wanting to detach from the situation but unable to quite do so in present company. He watches Bakugou in silence instead, wondering why a Bakugou who lives at his mercy would still insist on bringing up topics he knows to avoid. He guesses it’s just some greater truth that Bakugou must be an asshole no matter the time or place; the real life equivalent of a toothache no matter how good he looks.
He does look good. Shouto wishes he could stop focusing on this so much.
The cupboard door slams shut; Shouto twitches a little.
“Stop standing around like a mismatched houseplant and go to bed,” Bakugou snaps, peering at him with the sort of look Shouto would expect one of their teachers to throw at them if they’re acting out. “I take it you’re able of doing that, or do you need to be put to sleep, too?”
“I think I can manage,” Shouto responds, irked, and turns away, though he can’t help shudder at the thought of Bakugou manhandling him to bed like a particularly disturbing mother figure. Then he feels slightly bad, because this is probably just as weird to Bakugou as it is to him, and Bakugou has been acting uncharacteristically reasonable all evening while Shouto zones out and trips over himself.
He turns; Bakugou’s arms are crossed as he stares at nothing.
“Ah, Bakugou?”
The blonde raises a brow. Shouto cannot believe how quiet he is. “What?”
“Where- I presume you have a mattress to sleep on?”
Bakugou looks about to snap at him for saying something stupid, then his expression contorts a bit and he clamps down. “No, I, uh. Take the couch.”
Shouto looks at the couch, which does not seem built for a grown man to sleep on. He looks at Bakugou. Bakugou glares at him with murderous intent.
“I see. Well. I just- you should have the bed; I’ll take the couch.”
“Why would you take the couch in your own damn apartment, icyhot?” Bakugou sniffs, and Shouto feels an odd sort of pang at the nickname, like a little bit of normalcy has returned to his life.
“It’s not really mine,” Shouto says, raises one shoulder. “And it feels wrong making you take the couch after taking advantage of your cooking and your-“ He tries and fails not to sound passive aggressive. “Hospitality.”
To his shock, Bakugou stifles a smile, like Shouto has said something incredibly amusing; it comes second after the time travel in terms of things Shouto has never dreamt of experiencing.
“Don’t be fuckin’ dumb. You look about to pass out, and I’m not gonna risk getting evicted for sweating on the ice princess’ sheets once he comes back.”
“If you’re sure,” Shouto says, and feels awkward for the umpteenth time. There is something about conversing with this man that makes him tongue-tied, and he decisively does not enjoy the feeling. “I can buy a mattress tomorrow.”
“You won’t have to, seeing as we’ll have sent you home by then,” Bakugou shrugs, and shakes his head. “Just go before you faint, idiot. I’d leave you to sleep on the floor if you did.”
Shouto doesn’t quite believe him, but he obeys anyways, instinct to rebel overpowered by his exhaustion and the reluctant admission that Bakugou is right. He hopes this isn’t also a repeat event. He doesn’t think he can cope with the fact Bakugou has grown wise with age.
Sleep comes fast and heavy once he’s lying down, bed still as comfortable as it was in the morning. His last coherent thought is how big the bed is for one person to sleep in.