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The Underworld is a place of extremes.
Life, or so he hears and remembers, is a spectrum. Light to dark, softness to hardness, all things not one or the other but between. Color and breath, warmth and cold, mingling, blooming, coming together in bright bursts before they wither and fade, and new things take their place.
All things come to him in time. By then, they are always missing that light, that color, that everything. Only the dead find their way to his realm of scorching heat, bitter cold, and darkness.
He would leave forever, if he could. But his father fed him the fruits of this place when he was young, too young to say no or to make a decision for himself. He is bound to this place, the ruler of a kingdom of dead and dying things.
There are others—other young gods who look in on him, visit briefly, and leave. The land of the dead is not meant for comfort, and few ever stay long. But they all carry with them the whisper of life, crumbs to a starving man, and they never linger longer than necessity or politeness dictates. He is glad—their light taunts him, and the harshness of flame and ice keep visits short.
“You could come up and visit us,” quiet Knowledge tells him once. Yaoyorozu is wise enough to understand the cruel truth of death, and thus the least unsettled by the Underworld. “I know you’re bound to return here, but… you can leave briefly, can’t you?” She tries an encouraging smile. “It’s not comfortable here, but we don’t dislike you, you know. The others ask after you a lot.”
“I’d rather not,” he says.
“Just try?” There’s a hopeful look in her dark eyes—Yaoyorozu knows all things within mortal ken, but she also knows that he is lonely.
“I have.”
He had been young then, but not young enough that he was not yet bound. He still remembers the joy of it, the wonder of stepping out into a summer morning, of looking up into a blue sky and feeling the sun on his face. Smelling flower petals on the breeze, stepping barefoot onto grass and soft moss. He remembers running like a rabbit through the woods, watching clouds and sunsets as he scampered through the world of living things, evading Father’s attempts to catch him until the unsmiling god of war and calamity finally gave up the chase.
He remembers laughing, remembers his childish vow to never return, to stay forever in this place of warm light and cool wind and color.
He remembers when his time ran out, and the binding tightened nooselike around his heart. Screaming, crying, pleading as he was pulled back, ice and flames darting from his fingertips as he clawed against the pull, burning and freezing the green around him to black, before he was finally torn from the world of life.
This is not mortal knowledge, so Yaoyorozu knows nothing of it.
“It’s not something I care to repeat,” Shouto says, and she asks him no more.
It is rare but not unheard of for mortals to find a place among the gods that favor them, but rarer still for mortals to become gods. Few know that all gods of life were once mortal themselves.
“Our secret,” Toshinori says with a wink, when he chooses Izuku to help bear the burden. “Most of the others wouldn’t mind, but some I could mention…” He lets it trail off there, shaking his head.
Izuku has a lot to learn about life. Birth, growth, decline and endings. The facts that war and rot and death are not enemies but in excess, and in fact they are necessary allies. Izuku listens to his lessons with rapt wonder, eager to please, determined to leave the world better than when he found it.
For now, at least, his training is finished for a time, and he is free to do as he pleases until Toshinori sends for him again. And so, as he often does these days, he explores the world he once thought he knew so well, and looks about him with fresh eyes. A god’s eyes.
He can see things he never could before, colors and depths that he was once blind to. It’s as if the world is new, and his to explore.
The breeze is behind him, the sunset paints the sky in soft shades, and flowers spring up wherever Izuku’s feet touch the soil. There is a bounce in his step, buoyed by the buzz of life all around him—in the air, in his veins, in the beating heart of the earth.
A chill washes over him.
He stops, shuddering a little, and moves on again. Technically he shouldn’t be heading this way; other gods have implied but not stated outright that this was not the sort of place for a young god of life to venture alone—especially not one who was so recently mortal.
But the cold draws him, burning curiosity in his veins, until he finds one of the gates that only the gods know of.
The buzz dies to a soft hum as each step takes him closer to the threshold. When he takes his last step, his feet touch bare earth. Blossoms sprout around where he steps, only to wilt when he moves away.
He crosses the threshold.
His body feels heavier now, and he is reminded of his mortal days. It has been so very long since he last felt weary, but the dry, heavy air of this place makes him want to curl up in some quiet corner and slip into a long, dark dream.
Izuku shakes himself awake again and walks on. Flowers sprout and wilt in his wake.
The spirits here pay him little mind. Their time in his world has come and gone, and only the recently dead look to him with longing eyes. The rest are at peace with where and what they are, and pay little mind to the curious little god that walks among them.
He’s not alone, even disregarding the spirits. There’s something—someone following him, watching him from afar. But he can’t sense any menace from his shadow. Only curiosity, just like him.
It’s odd, this world. Equal parts sweltering and freezing, a desert and a frozen wasteland rolled into one. Izuku gathers the warmth of life around him, shaping it into a shield and a comforting blanket to wrap around his shoulders and keep away the Underworld’s burn.
His heart is light again when he halts, wildflowers blooming around his feet, and turns back to where he feels eyes upon him.
“Come out?” he calls. “You’re… you’re the ruler of this place aren’t you? Iida told me about you.” His friend is another young god, training under the tutelage of his elder brother. Iida has visited this place before, but no one knows much about the young lord of the dead.
Perhaps that’s because no one ever tries to find out. But perhaps it is fitting, that Life would run after Death so readily.
This new one is blinding.
The others carry the whisper of life about them, meager drops of it that taunt him. This one is bursting with it, until it overflows and trickles into his world, bringing fragile living things to even the bare, packed earth of the Underworld.
And then he turns, and Shouto looks upon a tanned face studded with freckles, with eyes as green as summer, the color of the moss he felt under his bare feet as a child.
Life calls to him, sweet and cloying, dancing just beyond his reach.
When those eyes meet his, Shouto turns and runs.
When Izuku’s eyes light upon the ruler of the Underworld, he sees the only bright thing this realm has to offer.
Eyes like the sky widen at him—crystal blue and cloud gray, so full of longing that Izuku’s beating heart aches. The ruler of death has hair like rose petals, pure white on one side and flaming scarlet on the other.
He calls out when the other flees, but to no avail. He searches, but when the other proves not to want to be found, he reluctantly gives up.
Izuku returns to the world of the living with the memory of sad eyes lingering with him.
When the young god of life returns, Shouto steels himself. He knows all that goes on in his realm, especially something so absurd as flowers sprouting from the barren ground. The spirits stir—the newer ones are restless in the presence of life, with memories of their mortality still fresh.
Somehow, he manages not to run this time.
Instead, he does his best to offer hospitality. There is little he can do; most gods or mortals would offer food and drink, but Shouto will not dare. To offer the food of the Underworld to anyone would be to offer them the same shackles that bind him.
Lonely he may be, but only a truly pathetic god would chain a being of pure life to this realm. It would be like burying gemstones in a bog.
Still, this time he forces himself to go to meet his guest. He finds the young god wandering the caverns and halls, shielded from heat and cold by the blanket of life that hovers around him.
His fingers itch to touch, at the same time as his heart twists the closer he gets. He halts at a safe distance, wanting and shying at the same time. He feels as if his heart is pulling itself in two.
“Hello,” the god of life says. “My name’s Izuku.”
“Welcome,” Shouto replies. He does not offer his name. “You’re… you’re new.”
Izuku stands a little taller. He has flowers in his hair, and Shouto wonders if they grow that way, or if Izuku plucked them and threaded them into his wavy green locks himself.
Part of him wants to reach out and touch them.
“I’m a student of Toshinori,” he says, and Shouto tries not to start visibly at the name. There are few gods that Father hates more than that particular god of life. Shouto has never met him, but likes him on principle for that reason. “But like I said before, I’ve heard of you. I thought I’d say hello.”
“Life gods don’t come here often,” Shouto says. “Too hot, or too cold. Too dead.”
“Well, spring’s my domain,” Izuku says with a smile. “I’m used to the cold. I… hope you don’t mind all the flowers.” He glances back sheepishly, at the trail of wilted stems he’s left, and at the still-fresh blooms at his feet. “I can’t really help that. It just sort of happens. You don’t mind, do you? Some people don’t like the smell, but I’ve never really noticed.”
Shouto blinks. The other god talks in a stream of words, as if he has so many thoughts in his head that he’s trying to get them all out at once. Even Yaoyorozu speaks in measured sentences. “It’s fine,” he says at length.
“Would—would you like one? I know they keep wilting when I leave them behind, but maybe you can press a few—I don’t know if it’d work, but I can try. I mean, I guess I’m sort of trespassing since this is your realm and everything and I didn’t really ask permission to be here, so the least I could do is bring you a present, right?”
Izuku holds out his hand and produces a single blossom, soft red-pink with round petals. Shouto doesn’t know what kind of flower it is. He reaches out to take it.
The flower wilts in his hand, red-pink to gray and black.
“O-oh. Sorry! I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine.” Shouto doesn’t drop the dead flower. He slips it into his pocket, and turns away before he can see the way the other god’s face falls.
He expects Izuku to leave then, to realize how little he belongs in this realm, but the other god lingers. Shouto feels his presence like a prickle up his spine.
“It’s better for you in your own realm,” Shouto says. “You may be Spring, but I’m Death. Nothing you make will last long here.” Better to help convince him, so he can return to the comforting familiarity of solitude.
But Izuku dithers, still humming with his cloak of life. “Do… you want me to leave?”
“Do what makes you comfortable.”
And instead of leaving, Izuku smiles, lingers longer, and fills the heavy stillness with his words.
And instead of never returning, Izuku comes back to call on him again.
Izuku realizes, a bit belatedly, that there is a reason he keeps returning to the Underworld. He finds himself watching the eyes of the lord of the dead. Every time he sees the lingering sadness in those eyes, he finds words crowding in the back of his throat. He lets them loose with a kind of eager desperation, longing to drive back that sorrow.
Sometimes, just for a split second, he sees it begin to lift, but never for long. His friend (they are friends, are they not?) never smiles, never touches him, never moves too close. He says little, but he is welcoming and kind, in a distant sort of way. He shows Izuku the realm of the dead, introducing some of the older spirits and denizens. He shows Izuku the rivers of the Underworld, which all mortals must cross—which Izuku would have crossed himself, had Toshinori not chosen him. He shows him meadows and fields, bare of living things but teeming with souls.
Izuku still curses himself for the mistake with the flower, and wonders if his friend might be less uncomfortable if he hadn’t done that.
“Izuku,” his friend says one day, as they walk together in the barren halls of the Underworld. “Why do you keep coming back?”
“Do you want me to stop?” Izuku asks.
“I told you,” is the reply. “I want you to do whatever makes you comfortable. You shouldn’t…” He purses his lips. “You shouldn’t force yourself to be here, just for my sake. I know this isn’t a pleasant place to be.”
“You are, though,” Izuku replies, a bit shyly. “Pleasant. Most others, they… tolerate me, when I talk the way I do. But you listen—I can tell.”
“You have a lot to say.” The lord of the dead pauses. “But still… I know it must be difficult for you. A god of life in the land of the dead.”
“This place is alive in its own way,” Izuku says with a smile. “There’s so much here. The rivers and the denizens. All the souls, whispering amongst themselves. I’ve heard them singing a few times.”
“They… they do that, sometimes.” His friend pauses. “It’s nice.”
Izuku smiles. “And besides that, I like you.”
The snow-white eyebrow rises skeptically at him. “You don’t know a thing about me.”
“Then I’m curious about you.” Izuku locks his hands behind his back, because if he doesn’t do something with them, then he’s going to reach out and try to take hold of the other’s hand. “Besides… you seem to like what I have to say. You look a little less sad sometimes. I’d like to try and make you less sad all the time.”
His companion is quiet for a while. “That’s… a greater task than you might think.”
“I accept the challenge, if you’ll let me.”
A wry smile plays about the ruler’s lips. “Something tells me I couldn’t stop you even if I wished to.”
“You could,” Izuku says. “If you were happier with me gone, I’d leave in a heartbeat.”
“I wouldn’t be.” The reply is hasty, and the lord of the dead looks almost surprised to hear it from his own lips. “Er. I… wouldn’t be happier, if you were to stay away.”
The low hum of life around Izuku nearly builds back to a buzz, and his heart swells with pleasure. “Well then,” he says. “I suppose I’ll have to keep coming back.”
He reaches out, and his hand brushes against the other’s.
His friend pulls away with a muffled cry. “You—you shouldn’t,” he says, eyes wide, pulling the hand behind his back. “You shouldn’t, Izuku, I might—”
“What do you think I am?” Izuku asks. “One of my delicate flowers?” He turns his head and nods at the trail of wilted stems behind him. “I’m a god the same as you. You won’t hurt me.” He holds out his hand, only to pull back uncertainly. “Unless… I don’t hurt you, do I?”
His friend looks at his hand, and Izuku can see the ache of longing in those eyes. He reaches out, until his fingertips nearly brush the other’s hand. It’s a silent offer.
Izuku waits, and after a moment, his friend reaches back. The touch of death’s hand burns at first, until the warmth of life tempers it. Their hands fit together, and Izuku slips his fingers into the gaps between the other’s.
“Is that all right?” he asks.
His friend looks into his eyes for a moment, and for a split second the sadness gives way to soft wonder.
“My name is Shouto,” he answers.
Izuku doesn’t return to the Underworld for a time. Simply put, he’s far too busy. Between hanging on to Toshinori’s every word and learning all he can about the nature of life, he pays visit after visit to another of his friends among the younger gods. Hatsume doesn’t specialize in the sort of craftsmanship he’s looking for, but she does have knowledge of it, and she’s willing to help him in return for helping her test some of her creations.
The next time he visits the Underworld and its lonely ruler, he is eager. The flowers bloom bright, cheery yellow beneath his feet.
“Shouto?” he calls, as he darts through the dead realm. His friend appears to him before long, and the look on his face is almost a smile.
“Izuku. It’s…” He hesitates. “It’s good to see you again. You’ve been busy?”
“Sorry I didn’t visit for so long,” Izuku replies. “I hope you weren’t too lonely.”
Shouto blinks. “It’s nothing I’m not used to,” he says.
“O-oh. Well, anyway, I brought you something!” Izuku tries not to bounce as he moves to Shouto’s side. “I always see how much you look at my flowers, so I thought maybe you liked them, and I—”
“It’s no use anyway,” Shouto interrupts him, face falling. “They wouldn’t… they don’t last long down here, and… it’s not like I need to touch them, to appreciate them. Y—they’re beautiful enough just to look at. It’s something to look forward to, when you visit.”
“O-oh.” Warmth fills Izuku from toe to tip, and it has nothing to do with Life or his power over it. “I-I. Um. Well… thank you. I like visiting you, so, I…” He mentally shakes himself. “Anyway, I asked one of my friends for help… Hatsume, she’s one of the craftsman goddesses, and… well, here.” He holds out his gift.
Shouto hesitates a moment before he takes it by its delicate stem. His fingertips slide gently against the fragile petals, but the flower in his hand does not die.
“It’s beautiful,” he says softly, holding the glass flower in his hands as gently as he would a bird’s egg.
“I hoped you’d like it,” Izuku says bashfully. “It’s… it’s a flower that can’t wilt. Ever. I-I know it’s not the same as the real thing, but…”
“I like it,” Shouto says. “I really do. Thank you, Izuku.”
The sadness has lifted, at least for now. Izuku smiles.
They tell each other things—secrets that neither of them thought they would reveal. Izuku tells Shouto that he was once mortal.
Shouto tells Izuku about the time he ventured into the world of the living.
“You’re bound here,” Izuku says softly. Shouto almost regrets telling him, wishes he could take it back if it would chase away the sadness in those green eyes.
“You didn’t know?”
“Not for sure. The others… they don’t talk about you much.” Izuku clasps his hand warmly, caressing softly with his fingers. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s why I never leave food lying around,” Shouto says dryly. His tone turns serious. “You mustn’t eat or drink anything here,” he warns. “Or the same will happen to you. You’d be tied to this place, and… and even if you could return to your world, this realm would always call you back.”
Izuku hums softly. “Have… have you ever thought of trying again? Leaving, even if it’s just for a little while?”
“I don’t… I don’t think I could. It was too much.” Shouto closes his eyes. “It was so much to have, all of a sudden. All that beauty and color, and… and then it was gone. This world dragged me back. But I wanted to stay. I wanted to stay. That’s why I don’t go out anymore. It hurts too much, to want something I can’t keep.”
With his eyes closed, he feels Izuku’s hands sliding against his face, cradling it between soft, gentle palms. Izuku wipes away a tear with his thumb.
“What if you weren’t alone, when you went out?” he asks.
Shouto’s breath shudders in his chest.
“What if you weren’t alone when you had to go back?”
Shouto opens his eyes. For a moment his view of Izuku is blurry, until he blinks and the tears fall away.
“Come with me,” Izuku says softly. His eyes are bright. “You’ve shown me so much of your world. Let me show you mine.”
He holds out his hand.
It gets easier to reach out and take it every time.
The world of the living is every bit as bright and sweet and achingly beautiful as he remembers it, and yet… softened, somehow. Perhaps he has spent so long in the presence of Spring itself to be blinded by life for its own sake. With Izuku’s hand in his, Shouto feels as if he can see it properly. He’s not a child dazzled by a brand-new world and the first taste of freedom.
If he’s dazzled by anything, it’s Izuku. For the first time, he sees the god of Spring truly bloom.
With Shouto’s hand in his, Izuku all but drags him around the world of Life. He shows him rivers and ponds—not the murky waters of the Underworld, but clear waters teeming with life. He shows him forests and streams, meadows and hills and towering mountains. Izuku pulls him eagerly into the presence of other gods, quite a few of whom Shouto recognizes. Yaoyorozu and Iida greet him with surprise and delight. Kirishima grins and laughs uproariously at the sight. Overwhelmed, Shouto smiles and offers what pleasantries he can manage, but follows Izuku’s lead and stays close to his side. Izuku pulls him along, laughs when the others tease, and leaves them behind to show Shouto more of his world.
As night falls, Izuku takes him to the top of a grassy hill. The sky turns inky black, and he tells Shouto about the stars. Shouto tries to pay attention, but it’s hard enough to look away from the constellations on Izuku’s face.
This is what a god of life looks like, he thinks as he watches the glowing smile and the life that has grown from a quiet hum to a buzz to a song.
It still aches to see it, he finds. Because this—even more than the world, than the living realm, than Life itself—this is something he cannot keep. This is something he should not keep.
Izuku is not like him. He is not meant to be kept bound and caged.
But it is difficult, nigh impossible, not to wish that he could share in that light. He cannot help what his heart longs for, and in this moment, with a warm hand in his and bright moss-green eyes—
So very close to his—
Izuku kisses him under the stars, gentle and hesitant at first, as if he’s afraid that Shouto will shy away like he did the first time they touched. But Shouto is not afraid anymore—cannot be afraid, not with Izuku smiling against his mouth, touching Shouto like he’s something unspeakably precious. Shouto surrenders to the touch, to the tenderness, lies back in the grass, and lets Izuku be the one to fill him with fire for once.
He wakes the next morning with the sun peeking over the horizon, with Izuku curled against his side, with a feeling in his chest like he’s being pulled—down, down, toward the threshold, away from this realm. He suppresses a sigh and starts to rise—his time is up, it seems.
Izuku stirs, and awakens when Shouto strokes his cheek. Izuku’s soft lips against his dulls the ache of his shackles.
“I told you,” Izuku whispers. “You don’t have to be alone when you go back, either.”
Shouto smiles, and wishes that were true.
Izuku has been thinking. He has been talking. He has been learning, and there is not much left to learn.
More than anything, he has been hard at work. Whenever he isn’t visiting Shouto or learning more from Toshinori, he sequesters himself deep in the thickest of woods, in valleys ringed by towering mountains. The goal he sets before himself is a difficult one. Perhaps it is even impossible.
Regardless, he will see it done.
He has false starts, setbacks, terrible mistakes. It is a frustrating task, and he is only a young god, recently mortal. There are moments that he doubts himself, that he doubts the possibility of success.
But then Shouto kisses him, touches him, looks at him with shimmering eyes full of wistful love and longing, and Izuku finds his determination and tries again.
And finally, near summer’s end, Izuku reaches it. A glade deep in the woods plays host to a joyful, solitary little dance, and Izuku all but flies down to the Underworld.
He catches Shouto by surprise; he knows he does, because he finds his lover sitting at a table, cutting into fruit. Usually, Shouto is careful to keep food away, but now he glances up and sets it aside, face lighting up at the sight of him. Shouto rises to meet him, and Izuku steals a kiss before he can even speak.
“I have a gift for you,” he says, inches from Shouto’s mouth.
“And here I thought your coming was a gift.” Shouto’s eyes widen.
Izuku steps back, holding both of Shouto’s hands. “You were right, before,” he says. “That living things wilt down here. But—you can’t have life without death. Life is only precious because there’s death. And it’s not right that someone like you can only have death without life.”
He focuses his power into a single effort of will, and feels flowers bloom at his feet like always. These ones look strange, not like any flower he’s ever shown Shouto before. They grow in clusters, snow-white petals with red streaks, the same colors as Shouto’s bright hair. Shouto’s eyes soften at the sight.
“They’re beautiful,” he says softly. “Part of me wishes you didn’t have to move from that spot.”
With a smile, Izuku steps away. The flowers remain, red and white and untouched by rot.
Shouto goes still.
“It wasn’t easy, making a new flower,” Izuku admits, growing a few more where he stands. Once more, they fail to wilt when he moves away. “It took a while to figure it out. If I’ve been acting oddly busy lately, well… that’s why.”
“I…” Shouto stares at them, at the soft, living flowers growing from the barren ground of the Underworld. “Izuku, I… I don’t know what to—”
Izuku kisses him again, and Shouto returns it desperately.
“Tell me how I can repay you,” he says between kisses. “Anything—anything, Izuku—tell me what I can possibly give you—”
“There’s only one thing I could ever want.” Izuku speaks against his lips. He holds Shouto’s face between his hands, running his fingers against his skin. There’s no need to think, or to decide. He’s thought about it for long enough, and he’s made his choice.
He reaches past Shouto and picks up one of the halved fruits, admiring the red seeds glistening at the core.
Shouto follows his gaze, chokes when he sees it. “No. No—Izuku you mustn’t, please, put that down—” He takes hold of Izuku’s wrist, halting him. “You don’t—you don’t know what it’s like, being shackled down here alone—”
“And I won’t,” Izuku says. With his free hand he cups the side of Shouto’s face, makes Shouto look at him again. “I won’t know what it’s like to be down here alone. I’ll have you, won’t I?”
Tears gather in Shouto’s eyes. “You—you don’t have to do this. You don’t—Izuku, you don’t have to let me ruin you.”
“Shouto.” Izuku’s smile hurts, and he feels his own eyes stinging and watering. “You aren’t ruining me. You could never ruin me. I love you. And that means I love every part of you. And this place, your realm, your power—they’re a part of you. I want to share that with you. I want to share everything with you.”
“But—” Shouto trembles, pressing into Izuku’s hand as the tears fall. “You belong up there, in that world—with the living, not… not down here.” He smiles desperately through his tears. “You’re too beautiful to be trapped in a place like this.”
“I’m going to make it beautiful,” Izuku told him. “We’re going to make it beautiful. You and me. See that?” He looks to the flowers, still blooming freely in the barren earth. “That’s the first step. And the next—that’s up to both of us. Shouto, death exists in the world of the living. Flowers wilt, animals die, things rot. So why can’t there be life here, too?” He leans forward, pressing his forehead to Shouto’s, willing him to understand. “I want to be a part of your world, Shouto. Even if—”
“How—how about this,” Shouto says hoarsely. “Half the year. Your spring and summer, you spend it among the living, and… and I’ll visit, when I can. And then in—in fall, and winter, when you’re needed less…” He raises his eyes, full of hope. “You stay with me then?”
Heart swelling, Izuku lets his eyes drift shut. He smiles so wide in hurts. “Half the year then. Will you keep me warm in the winter months?”
Shouto takes the fruit from him, plucks a seed from it. His hand shakes, but Izuku’s face, pressed so close to his own, stills it. He holds it to Izuku’s lips.
Their next kiss is stained deep red, as sweet as wine, as flowers bloom in the realm of the dead.