Cross the Divide

The Weight of the Past

The next day was as surreal as Midoriya had feared. Walking into the classroom, he felt the weight of dozens of eyes on him, none heavier than those of his former classmates—now Class 2-A. It was the same room, the same seats, but the faces told a different story. This wasn't his class anymore.

Shinso had taken Aoyama's seat. He gave Midoriya a brief nod, trying to break the awkward tension, but the rest of the class wasn't as subtle. Ochako, Iida, and even Todoroki stole glances at him. Some looked like they wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. They didn't know if they were seeing a ghost or someone entirely new.

Midoriya took his usual seat near the front, but it didn't feel right. Every movement was heavy, weighed down by the knowledge that, in this world, the seat once belonged to someone who sacrificed everything for them. The stares, the whispers, the tense air—it all made him feel like an imposter.

Class went by in a blur. His mind couldn't focus, and even Aizawa, with his usual bluntness, didn't call on him. He simply gave Midoriya a look, one that said more than any lecture could. Aizawa understood, even if he didn't know the whole story yet.

Lunch was no different. The conversations were hushed, the usual laughter and noise of the cafeteria drowned by the uncomfortable silence. Midoriya picked at his food, feeling more out of place than ever. His classmates, his friends, kept their distance, unsure how to approach him. He couldn't blame them. What could anyone say in a situation like this?

As night fell and the dorms quieted down, Midoriya found himself alone in the common room, staring out the window at the dark sky. The quiet was oppressive, filling the space with thoughts he didn't want to confront.

Footsteps broke the silence behind him—heavy, deliberate. Midoriya's heart sank. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

"Kacchan," Midoriya muttered, still staring out at the night. He could feel Bakugou's presence like a storm brewing behind him.

"So, you're just gonna sit there like an idiot?" Bakugou's voice was sharp, but there was no malice behind it. Instead, it sounded... tired.

Midoriya sighed. He didn't have the energy to fight, not tonight. "What do you want me to say, Kacchan?"

Bakugou stepped closer, his boots scuffing the floor. "I don't give a damn what you say, Deku. You're here now, and nothing's gonna change that."

Midoriya turned to face him, eyes tired but still burning with the confusion and guilt that had been eating him alive since he arrived. "I didn't choose this, Kacchan. I don't know why I'm here, and I don't know how to be him."

Bakugou scoffed, crossing his arms. "You think I care about any of that? You think anyone does? You're here, and whether you like it or not, that makes you our Deku now."

Midoriya winced at the words. "I'm not him. I didn't make that sacrifice. In my world, we... we won differently. I survived. I don't know if I would've been brave enough to do what he did."

Bakugou's eyes flashed, but there was no anger in them, just frustration. "Don't give me that crap, Deku. The you from here died a hero. But you're still the same idiot. You always fight, no matter what. That's what pisses me off the most about you."

"Kacchan, I—" Midoriya started, but Bakugou cut him off.

"I'm not here to hear your sob story," Bakugou growled, stepping even closer. "I'm telling you right now, you're gonna figure this out, and you're not gonna sit here wallowing in self-pity. Because if you die again, I swear to god, I'll kill you myself."

There it was—the Bakugou Midoriya knew. Blunt, brash, but underneath it all, a desperation not to lose someone again. Midoriya's chest tightened, but this time it wasn't just from guilt. It was from the weight of their bond, one that had been tested and strained across worlds, but still held.

"I don't know if I can do this," Midoriya whispered, his voice trembling.

"You don't have a choice," Bakugou shot back, his eyes blazing. "We need you. I need you. And you're not getting out of this, not again."

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The room was thick with the tension of unspoken fears and old wounds. Then, Bakugou turned away, his back to Midoriya.

"Don't make me bury you again, Izuku," Bakugou said quietly, his voice raw. "I can't... I won't do it."

The words hit Midoriya harder than any punch Bakugou had ever thrown at him. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he didn't know what to say.

"I'll try," Midoriya whispered. It was all he could manage. "I'll try not to."

Bakugou didn't respond. He just stood there, his shoulders tense, before walking toward the stairs without another word.

As Midoriya sat back down, staring out at the quiet, empty night, the weight of the world pressed down on him once again. But now, at least, he wasn't carrying it alone.