"Back so soon?" His aunt inquires the second he's through the door. Kota grunts because he's in a bit of a mood, and talking seems like too much. He doesn't want to be upset that Midoriya booted him out. He understands. Sometimes, Kota feels bad for taking up Midoriya's time. It's clear that the only reason he lives alone on the edge of the Pussycats' property is because he wants to be able to see. Kota can't help but feel a bit burdensome when they sit on the porch together. It's a slippery slope, their friendship.

"Everything okay? Something wrong with Midoriya?"

Kota considers shutting down and sequestering himself in his room, but he promised himself he'd limit his sulking. Maybe he ought to try talking.

"He got a letter. Wanted some time with his eyes—eye."

"He really only has one eye? I thought that was a rumor." Her eyes widen, eyebrows shooting up into her bangs, and it's right then that Kota realizes that he's the only person in the whole village to actually speak with Midoriya. It sends his sullen thoughts screeching to a halt. Midoriya has been their charge for seven years.

"You've never talked to him?" Kota is, perhaps, disproportionately outraged, but it's honestly so ridiculous. His aunt looks sad for a moment, maybe a bit guilty. She shrugs, but the motion is heavy.

"The commission picked us because of my Quirk—and Search. They wanted to make sure we never had to look at him."

"That's… so fucked up."

Everyone knows the hero commission is shady and secretive on some level, but Kota's never felt that he actually hated the organization until now. Midoriya already hates himself enough to yank his eye out. He doesn't deserve to be treated like a criminal. Though, technically, he is one.

"Watch your mouth, kid. It is messed up, and we never planned on honoring those rules, but he didn't want to interact with us."

Kota grunts, suddenly over talking things out. Rage simmers under his skin, and chokes him, lodged like a stone in his throat. Kota's never been able to come to terms with just how unfair life can be. He's always had a chip on his shoulder about losing his parents so young, but even something as monumental as that pales in comparison to the injustice of everything that's happened to Midoriya, who, by all accounts, is a paragon of kindness that's almost disgustingly innocent.

"I'm going back tomorrow," he mumbles, jaw tight. He's ready to take himself and his shitty mood off to his room, but his aunt stops him.

"Could you give him these?" She rifles around in a cupboard for a paper sack. Kota's curiosity gets the better of him, and peeks inside to find ten disposable cameras.

"They still make these?" Kota grimaces at the old world relic. He's never actually seen one in person. Briefly, the image of the inside of Midoriya's cottage pops into his head. The wall of pictures.

"There's one store in the city that still sells them. Don't tell him that, though. They're the only things he's ever asked us for, and if he knows how difficult they are to get he'll stop."

"Yeah, that sounds like him. Idiot," he adds, but not unkindly. "I'll make sure he gets them."

Kota's not sure what possesses him to do so, but he takes one for himself, and snaps a photo of himself, scowling in his dimly lit room. He checks the dial at the top of the camera—twenty four frames left.

—

With everything I am…

Izuku lays on his threadbare sofa, the light September wind ruffling his hair from the open windows, as he cradles the letter to his chest like it's the most precious thing he owns. The ache he feels is familiar. Izuku would never call Kacchan emotional—at least not in the weepy, romantic sense that Izuku tends to be—but his letters are so heartfelt. They never talked like this when they were younger—when they were together, and Izuku sorely regrets not being more forthcoming with his own lovestruck feelings back then.

He never dared to dream that Kacchan might feel the same way. At least, not until it was too late. By the time he realized, Kacchan was busy with school, and Izuku was all but a prisoner in the extended stay psych ward after the incident—but the proof is here, in writing. Something about the distance makes speaking from the heart easier, and that might be the only thing his seven year stay in obscurity has given him that he'd thank anyone for. He reads the letter until he can almost recite it from memory, and falls asleep with Kacchan's words, curses and all, bouncing around in his head.

—

Despite sleeping on the couch, Izuku wakes feeling light and well-rested. Not only is he riding an emotional Kacchan-fueled high, but today might be the first day he doesn't wake up sweating. Fall is a magical time of year, especially for someone without air conditioning. Kota should be here some time today, so Izuku decides to bake bread. It's cool enough that the oven won't make the whole of the cottage unbearable, and Izuku feels like he owes Kota something of an apology for kicking him out yesterday. He doesn't have much to give, but he's an adequate baker after picking it up as a boredom hobby about five years ago.

Unfortunately, Izuku is elbow deep in sticky dough when he hears the gate rattle. He's thankful that Kota has a habit of slamming it—it gives him adequate time to hide his eye. He has just enough time to get the dough off and put a hand towel over his face before Kota calls from the porch. This is the first time since they've met that he hasn't been out there waiting for him.

"Midoriya?"

"You can come in," he calls, momentarily caught between attempting to go greet him at the door, and hiding, like he did the first time he was in the house. Before he can make a decision, the screen door opens and shuts. Izuku is struck with a wave of frustration. He feels utterly useless without his eyes.

"What are you doing?"

"Baking bread. Um, I was trying to get this done before you came."

"Hmm. Keep going. I'll stay out of your eye line."

Having someone around while his eye is uncovered is strictly against the rules he's set for himself. The thought of what he could do, just by accident, fills him with sick unease.

"I— That's—"

"It'll be fine," Kota says, and his tone implicitly rings with trust. The realization fills him with warmth. Kota shouldn't trust him—not after what he told him. He sighs, giving in because if he waits much longer he'll have to scrap his dough.

"What will you do?"

"Snoop around."

Izuku has no idea what Kota looks like, but he knows he's smirking. He laughs.

"Not much to see, unfortunately."

Kota doesn't say anything else, but he can hear his footsteps on the rickety wood floor. Though it terrifies him, Izuku removes the towel from his face, and sets to kneading his dough again.

"All this needs is some red string, and you'd have a sick murder board," Kota says absently. Of course, he's looking at the picture wall. It's really the only thing to see in his meager living quarters. "Is this angry blond your boyfriend?"

"That's Kacchan," Izuku says, grateful no one will see his blush. His kneading gets just a bit more frantic.

"Smooth deflection," Kota says wryly. Izuku snorts. The action sends a puff of flour into the air.

"You look just like your mom."

And so it goes on like that. Kota continues making off-hand comments while Izuku works, and Izuku scrambles a response that doesn't fill his eyes with tears or knot his stomach with guilt and grief. By the time Izuku has his bread in the oven and the countertops clean, they've blown through an exhaustive amount of topics.

"I'm going to come out of the kitchen now. I need to get a shirt from my room."

"Why bother? I've been here an hour and I haven't turned to stone yet."

Izuku finds Kota to be far too flippant—almost stupidly so. He wants to cuff Kota on the back of the head for being an idiot.

"I'm dangerous, Kota. I'd never forgive myself if something bad happened," he says. He doesn't know how to make Kota understand this. He already knows the worst of what he's done. That alone should be enough to send him running for the hills. Kota is silent for a long time, and Izuku thinks he's finally got it.

"I've never seen your face, you know. It's weird. You're probably one of the only people I can stand, and I don't even know what you look like."

Izuku knows what he means. He feels similarly. Izuku hasn't had a conversation with anyone but Kota in seven years, but when he tries to conjure up what he might look like, he draws a blank. Izuku sighs, and ties the tea towel around his head.

"Can you help me? Just… guide me to the bureau over there?" Asking for help in this way bothers him. He used to have a walking cane when he was younger, but he never really had occasion to use it. His world got a lot smaller after his Quirk manifested. Whenever he did go outside, it was usually for school, and Kacchan was always with him. Kacchan has always had a presence Izuku never had to see to feel, and he never once allowed Izuku to stumble over a step, or run into a stationary object.

Kota puts a tentative hand on his elbow, and gently guides him across the room. Izuku gets the sense that Kota isn't really one for touching, and he feels bad for forcing this on him. Maybe he should request a cane, so things like this don't happen. He hates how surly the thought makes him. They slowly move across the room, and when Izuku's hand makes contact with the drawers on the old bureau, Kota's hand quickly disappears.

Izuku rifles through the top drawer, going by memory for what he's looking for. There's a small tin of keepsakes within, and inside it is the only picture he has of himself. The edges are frayed from years of handling. It's a photo of his first moments with Tama, on his fourth birthday, before his Quirk ruined his life and his parents' marriage. That's the last time he ever allowed anyone to take a picture of him. He knows, logically, that a picture of his eyes could never hurt anyone, but fear isn't always logical. Even now, when he takes photos to send to Kacchan, he keeps his eye out of frame. His only real attachment to this photo is that it's the only proof he has that Tama wasn't always a statue, that his dad once loved him and his mom, but he can part with it if it'll give Kota some peace of mind.

"This is the only photo I have of my face. It's old, but… well, my face now is a bit grotesque, to be honest. This is better." He holds it out for Kota, and he does nothing for so long that he almost thinks he's no longer next to him. Then, blessedly, he takes the picture from his hand.

The silence spans for what feels like a decade. That's one thing about losing his sight that he'll never get used to. There's so much nuance in silences. They're full of things he has no use for, like facial tics and body language. If Kota doesn't speak, Izuku has nothing.

"Midoriya," he says, voice low, almost breaking. Izuku can't fathom why he's so upset. "Why are you here? You should be home with all these people that love you."

Izuku thinks Kota is so upset because his parents are in the photo. He imagines Kota must think Izuku's an idiot to give up something that was forcibly taken away from him. He's not entirely wrong, either. He answers in the only way he knows how.

"It's not that simple."