My one and only love
I've been lonely long enough
Will I find you when the night is over?
Tell me where did you go?
I've been searching high and low
I have only 'til the night is over

—

THE PRISON

The wheels of outer gates squeal as Kirishima and Todoroki push the rusting metal away to welcome the three strangers standing silently on the other side. Uraraka snipes a few corpses that wander a bit too close from her watchpost in a nearby guard tower. Izuku doesn't spare her a glance, but he knows she's got eyes on them, Ashido too, hidden away in her makeshift nest on the roof of one of the many cell blocks in the compound.

Even after all this time, Izuku wants to believe the best in people. You'd think after ten years in a ravaged wasteland people would stop trying to hurt each other and start trying to rebuild, but they can never be too careful.

Kacchan stands beside him, looking brawny and intimidating, as always. He's the de facto leader of their little family, mostly because he refuses to do what anyone tells him, but also because he's smart, and a surprisingly good judge of character. He also has the scariest face among them. When strangers converge on a group in a relatively settled, highly coveted compound, it's best to lead with your most frightening scowl. Their multitude of walls and fences alone in the prison they call home are worth killing over. When a stranger sees Kacchan's face, it says don't fuck with me, my people, or my way of life.

Kacchan levels the newcomers with a glare that could melt steel beams, but they seem mostly unfazed. The only one who's really paying attention to him is the tall, scarred up man who stands just a bit ahead of his companions. He's obviously their leader. The other two—a blonde woman with cunning, yellow eyes and a younger man in a red hat—both stare at him. Izuku feels their gazes like needle points on his skin. His fingers twitch with nervous energy, and he wishes he had his paracord with him, so he could twist and untwist it, braid it and pull it out and braid it again. Instead, he grips his bat tighter, ready for anything.

—

TEN YEARS AGO

When everything went to shit during the summer break of their first year in college, Kacchan took pity on him. They hadn't shared more than a glance between each other since they graduated high school, and they went their separate ways to colleges on opposite sides of the country. On a hot July day—his eighteenth birthday, actually—Kacchan came barreling up the sidewalk, looking armed and dangerous, and like he was just waiting for a zombie apocalypse to happen so he had a reason to go apeshit. He looked as unfazed as always—confident and sure footed in the midst of disaster. He found Izuku in a heap on his front lawn over his mother's mangled, half-eaten corpse. In the span of maybe a few seconds, he shot his mother in the face with his crossbow, dislodged the arrow for later reuse, hauled him up by the arm—his screaming cries be damned, put a backpack on his shoulder, and dragged him away. Izuku was too stunned to do anything but follow him. Following Kacchan was easy, he'd been doing it since he was three, no matter how much Kacchan didn't want him around.

Days later, as the new normal settles around him like a suffocating blanket of fog, Izuku stares at Kacchan, a face so familiar and yet so strange at the same time. He gave up on Kacchan a long time ago. He thought Kacchan gave up on him too, but how else could he explain his presence before him now? They sit cross-legged in a camping tent off a secluded mountain path, with only the stars to light up his profile.

Kacchan shifts in the dark. Izuku's eyes have long adjusted to the dim lighting, but he still can't tell what Kacchan is doing with his hands. Izuku's nervously picking at the chapped skin of his lips, an old habit he's had for as long as he can remember. Kacchan grabs his wrist, and Izuku lets out an embarrassing squeak. He's too high strung for this quiet moment. He's too high strung to live in survival mode of a horror game.

"Don't pick at your lips. It's fucking nasty." Kacchan relinquishes his wrist just as quickly as he'd grabbed it.

"Kacchan," he says weakly. He has so many things he wants to say, to ask. Speaking to Kacchan has never worked out well for him. He can see the outline of Kacchan's head turn toward him, waiting.

"W-why?" It's little more than a whispered whine, but it holds so much. Izuku hardly knows what he's asking. Maybe it's why did you help me? Or why is this happening? Or why can't we be friends? Kacchan will take his pick—probably the one with the easiest answer.

"A familiar face at the end of the world can go a long way."

Sometimes, when Izuku lays in his cot next to Kacchan and he looks back on this moment, he thinks this might be the closest Kacchan has ever come to saying I love you. How strange that he'd said it when he could barely stand him.

It's not really an answer. It only leaves Izuku with more questions. Izuku takes to picking at the grip of the metal bat, the one Kacchan looted from a sporting goods store and thrust in his hands. Kacchan grabs his wrist again, and puts something in his hands.

"If you have to do something with your hands then braid this. Don't pick at things." His voice is gruff and low, but not nearly as harsh as it could've been. Izuku fingers the gift in his hands, trying to work out exactly what it is in the dark. Some kind of string.

"It's paracord. You can't fuck it up, so just mess with that until you go to sleep."

Izuku doesn't know if it's from the awful three days they've spent in total silence, dodging biters or looting corner stores or hiking up into the mountains. He doesn't know if it's in the knowledge that Kacchan has never willingly given him anything. He doesn't know if it's because he's been so thoroughly broken down by the man beside him that any morsel of kindness is a comfort. Whatever the reason, Izuku starts to cry. He only lays down and pretends to sleep so Kacchan won't criticize him for his tears. Maybe the biggest kindness of all is that Kacchan says nothing.

—

THE PRISON

"Don't move. Unload your weapons before we talk," Kacchan says in his usual gruff and commanding way. It's so convincing it has Izuku wanting to drop his own bat to the ground. He doesn't, of course. Neither do the strangers.

"We haven't made it this far by being unarmed. Name's Dabi. This is Himiko and Kota."

"You want a place to sleep away from the biters? Then do what I say."

"That's no way to welcome a guest," the woman—Himiko—grumbles, scrunching her nose like it's something she's practiced in front of the mirror to appear cute and disarming. Izuku doesn't buy it—especially when he surveys the browning bloodstains all over her clothes. That blood is human. Biter blood is so decayed now, it's damn near black. She notices Izuku's appraising eye and winks at him. Izuku looks away, and Kacchan steps forward just enough to block her view of Izuku. Whether or not he means to do it, it's noticed by all three of the newcomers with an almost cruel interest.

"I'm Bakugo," Kacchan says, perhaps as a show of good faith. Izuku can tell it's because he's trying to divert attention from his territorial blunder.

"What's his name?" The man in the hat—Kota—asks, smirking, his dark eyes sliding over Izuku. Izuku knows better than to speak up, but he allows himself to stand up straighter, puffing out his chest in an approximation of confidence. Izuku's no pushover. Pushovers aren't alive anymore, that's why it's so dangerous to meet new people.

"None of your fucking business," Kacchan all but snarls, and Izuku has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. "You want in, you deal with me."

"Hey, freckles. I haven't seen anyone as pretty as you in a long time." Kota tips the bill of his hat, like some old world man in uniform and not some horny kid, like Izuku isn't at least a decade older than him. Izuku ignores him, shares a look with Kacchan. He nods, and Izuku raises a fist, signaling the snipers. The change in the air is almost palpable.

"The second he lowers his arm, the three of you are dead. Sniped in the fucking head like a bunch of biters. Drop your weapons, sit down, and we can call them off."

There's a long pause while they consider this. Kacchan only gave them two options: certain death, or uncertain life. It shouldn't be too hard to consider, since uncertain life is everyone's natural setting these days. Kota, clearly the youngest and most amenable one of the group, is the first to drop his weapons—a serrated hunting knife and a beat up pistol—and kick them away before sitting down in the gravel. It's miserably hot today, and Izuku can only imagine how uncomfortable it is on the pebbled ground. The sun is dipping lower in the sky, with any luck this standoff will be over and done with before dark. Dabi and Himiko exchange a wordless conversation of shifty eyes and imperceptible nods, before they too drop their weapons and sit down. Dabi drops three different guns, one from each pocket and one poking out of his sock. Himiko drops no less than thirteen knives, but somehow, he has a hard time believing she doesn't have anymore squirreled away on her person.

Kacchan nods to Izuku, and he makes a show of opening his fist and lowering his hand slowly, as if that's the signal to call it off. It's not, Kacchan makes the real signal, and Izuku is just the decoy. If Kacchan were to throw his hand above his head, even for a second, Ashido and Uraraka would take them all out.

Kacchan sits down with them, again a show of good faith, and Izuku goes to collect their relinquished weapons while Kirishima and Todoroki close the gate again.

When Izuku kneels in front of Kota to grab his gun, he sees Kota's hand move just enough to feel threatened. On instinct, Izuku puts Kota's own hunting knife to his neck, the point flirting with the idea of piercing his jugular.

"Pretty and deadly." Kota smiles, somehow warmly, even with his eyes bugging out of his head. He looks so dopey that the corner of Izuku's lip twitches—the barest beginning of a smirk.

"Enough," Kacchan barks, and he can't tell if he's talking to him or Kota, but Izuku backs off anyway. He finishes collecting the weapons and leaves Kacchan in the yard, Kirishima and Todoroki silent specters behind him.

When they're far enough away, Kirishima speaks.

"Think they'll make it in?"

"Not a chance." Todoroki glances at Izuku just for a second, and he knows what he's thinking.

"They don't seem so bad to me."

"They seem too interested in freckles," Todoroki says, rolling his eyes.

"I thought they just wanted to rattle Bakugo. He gets so keyed up about you, Midoriya. You're his only weakness," Kirishima says, bumping Izuku's shoulder, almost as if that's a good thing.

"Don't let him hear you say that," Izuku mutters. It's true, but it shouldn't be said. Izuku knows how annoyed Kacchan is to have a weakness, something to exploit. That's all Izuku is, really. If he wasn't so selfish, so stupid, he would've left a long time ago, removed himself from the equation entirely so that Kacchan would be truly unstoppable.

"He's keyed up about everything," Todoroki says uncharitably.

"That's what's kept us all alive, man. That's what got us this place."

"Momo—and your daughter, for that matter—wouldn't be here if we didn't have this place, you know," Izuku says, feeling the need to come to Kacchan's defense. It was a messy delivery, and if they'd been on the road, it would've been much worse. It's been nearly a month, and Momo can still barely walk.

"I know. Doesn't mean I have to like him."

"Doesn't it?" Kirishima laughs.

—

EIGHT YEARS AGO

Somewhere along the way, through the seasons of their lonely existence together, something changes. Deku stops sounding like an exasperated insult and more like his name.

"Deku!" Kacchan roars, too far away to do anything for him, and he's not yelling at him. It's not Deku, you're fucking useless or Deku, I hate you, get away from me. It's a warning, a ragged, desperate cry at the thought of losing him to a vicious bite or haphazard scratch or a gunshot wound to the head. Izuku dispenses with the walker easily with his bat, and when the threat is gone, he can't help but stare across the clearing, open-mouthed at Kacchan. He's never heard him sound like that over anything, let alone someone as burdensome as him. There's a lump in his throat the size of a baseball. He's loved Kacchan for a long time—maybe even before the end of the world. He wants to close the distance between them, but he doesn't know how. He doesn't want Kacchan to shove him away. He doesn't want to lose whatever they have that makes Kacchan sound like that.

—

THE PRISON

Katsuki doesn't like any of the people sitting in front of him, but if that were a good enough reason to turn someone away he would've booted Todoroki out long ago. Well, that's not true. Deku would never forgive him for that, let alone the rest of the group. He's a leader among his group, but even Katsuki knows he doesn't have that much pull.

The kid's obvious hard-on for Deku isn't enough to boot him either, no matter how much it infuriates Katsuki. He can't really blame him for it either. Having a steady place to stay for the last year, and the food they get from the gardens has Deku looking like his old self again—the one with fuller cheeks and a dimpled smile, and a hard-muscled, healthy body. Deku would be a catch if he wasn't already spoken for.

"How long have you been on the road?" Katsuki asks. It's not the most important question—the one that'll make of break his decision to let them in, but it is the easiest. It helps him establish a baseline. Everyone's a bit nomadic these days, but the ones who've never had any kind of settlement, the ones who live in constant danger, tend to be a bit feral.

"On and off since the beginning. Nowhere is safe for long," Dabi says in the same measured cadence Katsuki uses. He's not one to give someone something to use against him. Katsuki can respect that, but he's got his own people to think about, his own safe haven to protect. He nods when Dabi goes silent and it's clear he's done speaking.

"How long have you been together?"

"Himiko and I have been together since the beginning. We fell in with Kota's group about seven years ago, give or take. He's the only survivor of that group. We took him in when he was… what? Twelve?" Dabi looks to Kota to back him up. There is no warmth or sympathy in the glance they share. It's clear that Kota is there because he had no other option. A bond forged from necessity rather than actual attachment. Katsuki knows all too well what that's like, but the attachment came in its own time.

Kota is rigid and his eyes look clouded with grief. He nods, sullen, and looks away across the grounds. Katsuki lets him be. It was hard enough dealing with the end of the world at eighteen. He couldn't imagine how difficult it would be for someone even younger. He wonders how old they are. Age hardly matters anymore—only the capable are left—but knowledge is power.

"How old are you now, kid?"

"I'm not a kid. I'm nineteen," Kota says, his displeasure at apparent in the defiant set of his mouth.

"I'm twenty-nine and Dabi is thirty-six. Practically an old timer in this day an age," Himiko offers, a tittering giggle that sounds too forced to be genuine punctuating her words.

"How many people have you got here?" Dabi asks his first question, nodding to the compound itself. It lets Katsuki know that he's getting a bit too comfortable, which is exactly what Katsuki wants. Let your guard down, and show me who you really are. He only takes a second to decide to be honest. It's looking like he'll let them in, so they'll know soon how many people they have in the prison.

"Nine people," he says, offering no other information. They don't need to know that one of those people is only a month old, or that they lost someone six months ago. Dabi nods.

"Gonna make it twelve?"

"Probably, on a provisional basis. If I let you in, you'll be unarmed and locked in your own cell-block. We've cleared B block, but you'll have to burn the bodies and clean it up yourselves."

Himiko makes a face like Katsuki just shoved some shit under her nose instead of offering her a bed behind the safety of not one, but five gates. Dabi maintains his poker face, and Kota looks anxiously at his companions.

"We eat twice a day. You're welcome to share meals with us, or keep to yourselves. You will do chores on a schedule and be escorted by someone else if you're ever outside your cell-block. You harm my people, you're dead. Sound fair?"

"Plenty," Dabi says, but the tightness in his tone betrays his displeasure.

"Got any questions for me?"

"Where does freckles sleep?" Kota asks, his shitty smirk back on his face, a challenge clear in his eyes. Himiko giggles and Dabi rolls his eyes. Katsuki does his best not to betray his annoyance. The kid is either incredibly ballsy or just looking for attention after running with two people who clearly don't care about him even after eight years. Maybe both.

Katsuki has to take a deep breath, a second to figure out how much to give away about their lives, how much weakness to show. He was never one to shy away from a challenge.

"He sleeps in my bunk, twerp."

—

EIGHT YEARS AGO

It's cold, and only getting colder. Every day that passes by feels even more miserable, and Katsuki wonders how they make it through the rest of the winters they'll inevitably have to weather if they don't get their faces ripped off by biters first. They've got a good enough supply of food, so they don't have to spend every day scavenging. They've holed up in a barn in the middle of nowhere, and the scattered bales of hay provide some protection from the howling wind. It feels like they're hibernating, spending their days huddled together for warmth. If it wasn't so awful it might've been intimate—or as intimate as anything ever is in the apocalypse. They don't have time for things like love and romance, but Katsuki knows how he feels. He thinks Deku knows it too. He thinks he feels the same.

It burns him up to see Deku suffering, and to know Katsuki can't do anything about it other than wiggle closer in their cocoon of rough blankets. Deku is careful not to touch him too much, and that hurts too. He's too tentative to be his personal space even after eighteen years of knowing each other and two years of knowing only each other. Katsuki doesn't know what to make of it, but he'd never let Deku know just how much time he spends reading into the things Deku does or doesn't do.

"Deku, take off your shirt."

He startles at Katsuki's easy command. They don't speak much. When they do it's full of chattering teeth and stuttered complaints. Deku's entire jaw is shaking, teeth clattering against each other, and his lips are slightly blue in the low lighting. They need to find a house with a hearth and actual insulation soon. A fire would do wonders right now, but they're too cold to even think of moving. Even like this, Katsuki can't help but note how beautiful he is. He never thought much of him when they were younger, but now he's all he has in this world, aside from sparse canned goods and a crossbow. Deku looks shy and unsure, and if he had any extra heat to divert to his cheeks, Katsuki's certain he would be blushing. Katsuki pulls his own thermal shirt over his head and it's immediately lost in a sea of blankets.

"It'll help. You're too cold like this." Katsuki tries not to sound desperate or worried. The thought of closing his eyes and waking to Deku's frozen corpse spikes a different kind of cold through him, the lonely, dreadful kind of cold you never come back from. But he has to appear strong. If he loses his cool, Deku loses his goddamn mind. When Deku says nothing—apparently so transfixed with Katsuki's naked skin that his brain has shut off entirely—Katsuki pulls roughly on his shirt.

Deku lets him do it, but avoids his gaze the whole time. Katsuki doesn't have time for things like butterflies in his stomach or the thrill he feels in the lowest, most secret parts of his being, but he feels them. When he's dispensed with Deku's shirt he pulls him to him, and he's shocked at how much colder he is. The exposed skin between them is already helping though. He feels warmer, even with Deku's popsicle lips and fingers tucked against his bare chest.

"K-Kacchan," he says, and Katsuki can feel the tremors running through him with every syllable.

"Try to sleep, Deku." This sentence is murmured directly into Deku's matted curls, close as they are. Deku shivers again, but Katsuki can tell it's not from the cold.

It's going to be a long, frustrating winter.