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Chapter Text

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Katsuki has decided to be himself (whatever the fuck that even means) but that doesn’t mean he’s going to advertise it to his loser classmates. He leaves the bobbypins out and shrugs on an oversized sweatshirt the night he heads back to the dorms. The prosthetics are not optional, in Katsuki’s opinion, as he’s only been getting more used to their grounding weight by wearing them around the nurse’s office. He’d even taken them for a spin by sparring with his annoyingly fast homeroom teacher on the roof. If it’s light fighting, he figures it’s all right to wear them. The aerodynamics don’t matter if he’s not blasting through space. Even then, as he kicked himself up and over his teacher’s head, he’d only felt more weightless for their presence. Choosing to be a version of himself that knocks down this dysphoria shit means not opening a hole in his chest for no good reason by leaving his chest off, even if he does cover their shape to reunite with his classmates.

Aizawa says nothing when he sees Katsuki, only walks back to the dorms in a lope that always comes off meandering.

“We didn’t discuss it, but do you want to move dorms to the girl’s section?”

Katsuki splutters. “What?” That would mean bathing with the girls and all of that annoying shit. He can barely put up with the guys’ nagging. “Hell no!”

“Okay. Just know you have the option. The girls were given a blind vote and it was a unanimous yes.”

This reeks of Ashido’s campaigning. Even still, a creeping vine of gratitude comes around his throat and he looks accusatorily at his teacher. Aizawa’s putting him off balance before he gets back to the dorms, which is annoyingly strategic.

Aizawa doesn’t even look sorry, or even stare at Katsuki’s furious glaring.

“We told everyone,” Aizawa says, instead.

Katsuki feels a lump in his throat. “I know. You said you would, right?” It’s better than Katsuki trying. He still hasn’t been able to say the word trans about himself. Even to Uchiyama, he crossed his arms, hair pinned to perfection and said it ‘seemed so.’ Uchiyama smiled and took it as it was, only telling Katsuki that while he had training in these issues, Katsuki could always switch to a dedicated topic-specific therapist. Katsuki almost threw a chair at him.

(“And say all this shit again to a different extra?! You must be fucking kidding!”)

Owning who he is doesn’t mean making pronouncements, or at least that’s what Katsuki’s been saying to himself. Besides, putting that word to it… well, it feels more real than Katsuki is prepared for. Stop-gaps and measures to stop the fucked-up feelings are only logical, only make him a stronger hero. Besides, labels have only ever felt confining, like they harass Katsuki with their limitations. Female model, male modeling, deaf kid, prodigy. None of that shit ever comes close to capturing him.

Still, Katsuki cracks his neck and considers that not all labels are fucking useless. Because at least for other people (like his dumbass classmates), labels can explain shit like owning female clothes in a way that doesn’t immediately mean pervert.

Speaking of, “they said some stupid shit in that meeting, huh?”

The night is silent for a moment, Aizawa’s head leaning back as if searching for stars amid the light pollution.

“It went well, I think. Your generation is a lot more open. Conversation about these topics is actually possible.”

Katsuki scoffs. “We’re just not willing to be nobodies.” Ashido’s been out since she was eight, apparently, making trouble and not giving a damn about being a nice little nail flat in her place. Most of Japan is still group centric, unwilling to disrupt the和 wa, that damn harmony of a space where shit never gets spoken about. Not UA. All of them, in some way, are shaking things up, from Kirishima’s dyed hair to Yaoyorozu’s miniscule skirt. Well, everyone except maybe Todoroki, who plays it so cool and by the books. Katsuki still isn’t sure he wasn’t programmed somewhere.

“Hn, maybe so,” Aizawa grunts back. “If you have any trouble or weird questions though, let me know and I’ll handle it.” Eraserhead has always been a hero suited to the nighttime, and in the golden streetlights and shade he seems like the kinda guy who would help and fix the world only because he genuinely wanted to and has the time on hand. The kinda asshole who helps his students because he wants to and regrets not doing better sooner.

“They always have weird questions,” Katsuki grumbles instead of trying to wrangle a thanks where it doesn’t want to be. “Don’t keep trying to be so responsible, it’s fucking weird.”

As they toe off their shoes at the dorm entrance, Aizawa says, “if there’s anything else, let me know immediately. If not, please don’t bother me before the morning.”

Katsuki’s chest twists in reluctant gratitude. Aizawa could have been a lot more of an asshole about this in a lot of ways, and not just about the trans stuff.

When Uchiyama cleared Katsuki’s mental health after six days of intensive treatment, with a caveat that Katsuki attend twice weekly therapy sessions, Aizawa only nodded and said Katsuki was welcome back into the Heron program whenever he was ready. He opened Katsuki’s future back up without needing proof or detailed, intrusive notes from Uchiyama. It means a lot, because Katsuki can barely talk about this feelings bullshit with Uchiyama, let alone an actual hero he admires.

“Hey.” Katsuki jerks his head to the kitchen. “I think there’s still some pumpkin gratin in the freezer that’s still good. Just nuke it first.”

“Hmm.”

“Eat something besides convenience store cardboard, why don’t you?!”

Aizawa blinks, then sighs. Still, when Katsuki sees him ghosting towards the kitchen, he considers it a success.

Katsuki turns, hefting his duffle full of sweaters, hakama pants, and jewelry and braces himself to pass by the main room. Naturally, almost everyone is there, a smear of surprise and faces Katsuki is quick to walk past.

“Ah, it’s Bakugou-kun!”

“Observant as ever, four eyes.”

Everyone’s turned to him inquisitively, even Todoroki who’s usually too dense to look the right way when drama’s happening. Katsuki’s eyes skate past them before he can really register too much on their faces. The disgust he found the last time Aizawa escorted him back to the dorms, well, it’s hard to forget. The way they’d spilled open his trunk of clothes, handling his private things with ghoulish, voyeuristic judgement. Katsuki tightens his grip on his bag. They could fucking try.

“Wait, stay a while! We missed you!” Kaminari whines.

“Fuck off, I’m going to bed.”

“It’s only eight…” Uraraka says, bewildered.

“Just because you assholes treat your bodies like shit doesn’t mean I have to!”

He steers through all of them, dodging Kirishima’s open eyes and Izuku’s drilling gaze as he reaches the stairs and ducks down the hallway to his room.

With the door shut, Katsuki lets the rapid speed of his heart take him away. Did they see? Did they notice his chest? The earrings he hasn’t taken out?

Fucking hell. Katsuki crouches on the floor for a few moments before scraping himself up and depositing himself in the shower for a long, hot rinse.

Whatever he’s gotten into, it’s a lot more than he thought it would be. He clenches his trembling fist. Even so, he ain’t gonna back down from a fight.

The next morning, Katsuki hesitates at the mirror. His prosthetics are on, which is good, but the bagginess of his blazer means you can hardly tell. Beyond that, he didn’t change anything else except the earrings which hide behind his spiky hair. It’s a good thing, he reminds himself. He doesn’t need the class full of gawkers staring at him all day. Even still…

No. It’s enough, he tells himself, glaring his insufficient reflection into submission.

“Knock knock!~”

What the fuck does Ashido want.

“I’m not making tempura for breakfast!” he shouts through the wood. “Eating fried shit before breakfast is only gonna slow you down anyway.”

“Let me innnn!” she whines, banging on the wood in an obnoxious pattern from a pop song he half recognizes from a reluctant karaoke session with her.

He yanks the door open, brows furious, but she ducks under his arms, lithe.

“Come on! Sit down so we can do your hair!”

Katsuki shuts the door quickly, lest anyone else hear this madness. “Go fuck yourself. I’m not some doll for you to mess with!”

“No come on, I brought some special stuff too!” She waves a mesh bag which holds big black barrettes and clips. “Recommended from this friend who has a hair quirk which makes her hair as unwieldly as yours, blasty!”

Katsuki lets the sparks go off in his hands, even as she yanks him down and into the chair. “Go die!”

“Yes, yes,” she hums. Her hands are soft in his spikes despite his bristling growl. He’s never minded other people fucking with his hair but those have been professionals. He’s never had friends do it before, all clumsy earnestness. His fingers drum across the chair, eyes hyperalert as he watches her pin a few pieces of hair back with thick clips. The black compliments his short but dense eyelashes and reveal the opalescence of his earrings.

It’s a nice effect.

“I wasn’t gonna do my hair,” he protests when she starts tilting his head to the side, considering.

“Oh.” Ashido says, losing steam abruptly. For a moment she bites her lip, awkwardness that she doesn’t give time to settle. She shrugs. “Well, you can take it out then, I just thought it looked nice. Before, I mean. But those bobbypins were fighting a losing battle.”

Katsuki sees himself in the mirror, and the look is a lot clearer than before, as if by pulling back the hair he’s been able to find the in-betweenness that settled his unsteady heart.

“You didn’t do as shit a job as I thought you would.”

She grins. “Thanks, Blasty!”

His eyes evaluate himself in the mirror, quick. He’s not a masterpiece but he looks better than 100% of the fuckers in his class, so it will have to do. The clips are fine, he tells himself. Anyone who thinks otherwise is about to get his boot in their face.

-

Ten minutes later, Katsuki heads down the stairs, Ashido in tow. His shoulders are slouched in his best, “fuck off” posture. Most people have left or are barely getting their breakfast in now, so the common area is empty, except for Kirishima who scratches his head as he flips through a manga. He glances up as they reach the bottom.

“Ah, good morning!” he calls, and everyone around Katsuki is really too cheerful for this bullshit.

Katsuki shoulders his bag and heads for the genkan to slip his shoes on.

Ashido and Kirishima buzz over him, talking about the latest manga chapter and the supposed death of the deuteragonist. All the normal stupid shit they’re always going on about but that Katsuki’s been cut out of for months. Stacked on top of each other, their annoyance only doubles, but so does their vivacious energy and Katsuki wouldn’t be caught dead with people who didn’t give a damn.

“I’m telling you, she’s dead!”

“She’s not dead! She’s the love interest, she has to live!”

“She’s not a love interest.”

“Anyone can tell that they’re in love!”

“Maybe in a shojo, but in manly comics—“

“Are you really asking Takehashi and Takeuchi-sensei to smite you?”

“Hey,” Katsuki says, interrupting.

“Oh? You agree with me don’t you,” Ashido presses.

“Who gives a shit!”

“I forgot, Katsuki only reads literature,” she teases.

“Manga’s literature… just sort of spread out,” Kirishima reasons. “With manly pictures!”

“Did you do the Japanese homework?” Katsuki asks, only to see Kirishima sweating. “Yeah, then manga’s stupid.”

“Do I… I somehow feel like I didn’t win that one either,” Ashido says, head tilting sideways in consternation. “And I didn’t do the homework either! That’s bad, huh?”

“That’s what lunch is for,” Kirishima says, sweat building on his face. “Man, I totally space this stuff. This is why I need you around Bakugou!”

“Invest in a planner!”

But Katsuki only tsks as Kirishima’s hand falls on his shoulder and squeezes.

Katsuki grunts. “What exactly did Aizawa say about… things?”

“Trans stuff?” Kirishima asks and Katsuki rolls his neck.

“Whatever stuff,” Katsuki says, deftly ducking under the word. He watches Kirishima and Ashido carefully, waiting to see if they start looking at him strange with this reminder. Nothing though, Ashido keeps trucking along, her and Kirishima’s eyes steady.

“There was a big lecture! All the grades were there actually, and they brought in a specialist.”

“Sounds boring as fuck.”

“No, it was actually kind of interesting,” Kirishima protests. Under Katsuki’s disbelieving look, he laughs. “I know, I’m not usually into the intellectual stuff, but we did activities and it was really fun! And it was like… something that I hadn’t really ever thought before which was cool.”

“Yeah, the activities were super cool, but the end was soooo long. There was an hour scheduled for questions and Midoriya used the whole hour cross examining the poor woman!”

“Xgender person,” Kirishima corrects.

“Oh right, duh. My bad, not woman,” Ashido corrects, bopping herself on the head. “Still, Midoriya really knows a lot! Did you talk to him before?”

Katsuki shrugs. His backpacks rolls under his shoulders. “No, but he’s a nosy little prick.”

…No way he was going to tell them that Izuku had an inkling about Katsuki’s problems before Katsuki did. And that fucker better not mention anything about it either.

Katsuki gets to the classroom before most everyone, as usual. He sits down, taking out all his shit for the day. He actually more than caught up with the material, skipping to the next chapter in math with how bored he was in the hospital. Still, he acts busy as though he’s sloppy enough to need to double check his work.

Even with Ashido and Kirishima hovering around him like some fucking neighborhood watch squad, that doesn’t deter people from approaching him as they filter in.

Katsuki lifts his eyes when a tall, overly square shadow falls over his desk. Katsuki sticks out his chin, tilting his head to let the opalescent earring flash.

“As class president, allow me to welcome you back to the class,” Iida says, shoving his glasses up. His eyes flicker around Katsuki’s hair and face before settling back on his eyes, flustered. “If there’s anything we can do to help—”

“You can fuck off,” Katsuki fills in. A smirk comes to his lips, and he feels better for confronting the looks, seeing discomfort and being able to sit back and sneer. Yeah, he still has all the power here. Making people uncomfortable has been a casualty of living such an awesome and victorious life. No reason to make a big deal about doing it now.

“Don’t take it so hard,” Uraraka says, patting Iida’s gloomy back. “I’m sure Bakugou-kun appreciates it in his way.” Her brown eyes land on Katsuki and then she colors briefly. “Uh, since you’re back, I wanted—”

Uraraka steps forward and trips over the leg of the chair almost faceplanting at Katsuki’s feet. Hagakure catches her with a little spin.

“Oopsie, there you go!” Hagakure sang.

“What is it, Klutz?” Katsuki smirks.

“Ugh, nevermind!” Uraraka settles at her desk with a huff and buries her head in her elbow.

“Hey.”

Katsuki flinches at Ashido’s flick against his neck. Her eyes show exasperation.

“What?” Just ‘cause Katsuki wears a different getup doesn’t mean he’s soft or some shit.

She looks like she wants to say something but is cut off but Todoroki’s mild sound of surprise.

“Oh you’re back.” He blinks.

“And you’re still fucking stupid!” Katsuki spat.

“Are you staying around this time?”

“Fucker! Obviously I am! You think anything could fucking stop me? I’d like to see them try!” If fire could leave his mouth it would be.

Todoroki (immune to fire) just nods. “That’s good. We should spar sometime.”

“You bet I’m gonna beat you good for that! Asshole!”

Katsuki bristles and Sero laughs as he enters the classroom, Kaminari filtering after him.

“Oh man, I missed that yelling in the morning. Really keeps you awake for first period.” Sero’s teeth are wide, his big eyes unflinching. “Welcome back.”

“W-welcome back!” Kaminari echoes, his face red. Like Iida, his eyes dart everywhere but obnoxiously long on his chest. God. Katsuki remembers how bad he felt when he made his own father uncomfortable, but somehow when it’s his stupid classmates it’s different. He knows them, knows their naïve flaws and it makes it easy to scoff at them, at their ignorance and stand his ground. To be himself, or whatever

“I’m not even wearing any provocative shit, geez,” Katsuki says, bluntly. “This is pathetic.”

“P-provocative,” Kaminari splutters.

“You got something you wanna say?” Katsuki prods, letting pops float off his hand. Yeah, this confrontation shit feels good.

Kaminari looks pale as he looks to Sero. “Is there something I should be saying?? Did I miss something in the meeting?”

 Sero quickly pulls him under an arm.

“He was a little shocked to learn about multiple genders.”

“It took me so long to learn the difference between two!” Kaminari owns, in his particular brand of brainless bluntness. “And once I learned it, I was dedicated to it! I worship girls!”

“Should you really be declaring that?” Hagakure asks, turned in her seat, even as Ashido laughs.

“And now I have to decide if I’m attracted to a whole other group of people—”

Katsuki puts his foot in Kaminari’s face. “I’ll make it real simple for you about me. Hell no, fuck off.”

Kaminari twitches and pulls himself off the floor. “Yeah, that is simple.” He quirks a smile at Katsuki. “Thank you.”

“Yeah whatever.” Katsuki feels a little irritated and flush at the sentimentality. Figures Kaminari’s too stupid to be a bigot.

“Welcome back!” Yaoyorozu says. Like Kaminari, she’s a little flustered by even this much outside of the gender binary, but a briskness takes her tone. “Your hair looks nice today.”

“Who asked you, ponytail! You look like a hedgehog!”

“I never noticed, but it’s kinda true. Welcome back, Baku-chan,” Asui murmurs through sleepy lips, barely even giving him a look as she slumps to her seat.

And it keeps coming like a fucking parade of people here to see the monarch. And Katsuki is fucking royalty, but still, it’s exhausting and relieving in even tone. Once he looks at their faces he can tell everything of their thoughts, seeing through them easily like weak glass. And most of what he sees is… his clumsy classmates whose hearts have always been bigger than their brains.

And here comes the king of that himself.

“Uhm, morning Katsuki.” Izuku hedges closer, a nervy grip on his bookbag. “Did you, uhh, did you get my notebook?” Katsuki dead-eyes him, enjoying the slight shiver.

“You. Me. Training room after school.” Izuku looks resigned until Katsuki drawls on, “Gotta see if you made any progress while I was away or if you’re just spinning your wheels like a burn out.”

“R-right!” Izuku smiles then.

Katsuki’s hand shoots out and he bops Izuku on the head with his Gender Notes.

You’re a fucking nerd. Katsuki signs, letting the book slump down into Izuku’s lap. Izuku laughs, tucking it back into his bag.

You don’t want to keep it? Izuku looks like he wants to add more, his eyes skating apppreciatively from the natural line of Katsuki's hair clips to his shining earrings.

“I swear to god, if you sign” congratulations “at me, I will kill you.”

Izuku splutters. “I wasn’t going to— I know that’s patronizing! Geez!”

Katsuki smirks, watches a thread of red sneak over Izuku’s face as his eyes dart across him again.

“You look good… I mean, nice! You just—”

“Shut up, Izuku.”

“Yep,” Izuku turns in his seat, a red flush still creeping around his neck. What a dumbass.

“Class,” Aizawa murmurs from the front where he’s heaving himself off the ground and out of his sleeping bag. Ashido bumps his shoulder as she goes back to her seat, Kirishima tapping his fist. If he ever needed a pump up squad, he knows who to call.

“As you can see, your classmate Bakugou is back with us, please help him catch up.”

Katsuki glares at everyone who makes the mistake of looking at him, relishing the shudders he earns. Mineta’s under his desk, even.

And Katsuki doesn’t mind all their eyes on him actually. Doesn’t mind seeing him there with his face uncovered and a little realness peaking from his blazer.

“It’s whatever, don’t make a fucking big deal about it,” he announces. “But if anyone thinks I’m gonna go soft on them, they got news coming for them.”

“Please ignore the threats, but yeah, that,” Aizawa says. “Please be decent people and model heroes. Direct any questions to me so I can point you towards the correct resources.”

Katsuki shoves his seat back for an extra loud screech as he puts his feet up.

It’s good to be the ruling class.

Still, they don’t even make it through the day before somebody makes this shit weird. And despite all the odds being on Kaminari or even Izuku, it’s their steadfast teacher.

“For today’s exercise, we’re splitting boy and girl for practice scaling buildings— Midoriya, I haven’t even finished. You can’t possibly have a question.”

Izuku is practically vibrating, green hair ruffled.

“What about people who aren’t boy and girl?”

“You can just say my name!” Katsuki spits. “Stop being so indirect!”

The anger fills him for a moment, only growing as he sees the stupid look on his teacher’s face. God but he wants to blow everyone up. A few classmates shift on their feet. Katsuki looks to his teacher, expectant, because Katsuki doesn’t know what to do.

“I apologize for my mistake. Bakugou can choose which group to be in.”

Ah fuck. That’s somehow even shittier than being assumed to be belonging to the boys group. Fucking hell. He can feel that furious, embarrassed anger spilling out even as he feels displaced. Weird in the middle space he occupies, in that no space has been made for it.

“Fucking whatever. I’ll just join the boys.”

He starts to shuffle over, ignoring Kirishima’s soft fist bump that felt more sympathetic than a masculine gesture should. Katsuki just wants to get this over with so he can go home, maybe spend some time with the make-up kits his mother got second hand from modeling studios and unearth himself in the mirror.

“As I was saying, we will be practicing team scaling a building— Yes, Yaoyorozu?”

“Sensei, I was just wondering why we were splitting the groups based on gender.”

Katsuki raises a brow. That’s something he’s never thought of. Boy-girl is just how it’s always been done, right? Except, now that he thinks of it, Aizawa is usually better about splitting it up, not letting them rely on a gender crutch or bias against gender. This mission is odd of him, would be more typical of midnight.

Aizawa takes a moment to assemble his response. “We wanted people in a similar height and weight class to partner up because this is a body weight relevant challenge. Many of the male students are larger, and need to be paired up with someone who can handle the weight without damaging themselves."

“Eh? But isn’t Yaomomo taller than most of the guys?” Ashido asks.

“You’re definitely taller than Tokoyami,” Kirishima says, tacking on a, “no offense man.”

“…None taken.”

“And everyone’s taller than Mineta,” Asui drawls. Grapeheaded pervert mumbles something, not that anyone minds.

Aizawa opens his mouth, but is cut off once again.

“We should divide up based on height then, right?” Kaminari says, already holding his hand out and comparing himself to Sero and then whining. “Geez, is plastic lighter or what?”

“Just good genes!” Sero crows, copying him with Todoroki who takes it blandly.

“I wish I had my notebook,” Izuku whines.

“No one gives a shit that you stalk their stats!” Katsuki says, holding a hand out just so he can see how much ground he still has on Izuku… though it’s shrunk a little more than it used to be. Gotta up his milk intake. “Still below me! You’re down the line, pip-squeak!”

Aizawa watches faintly as the class wrangles themselves into a rough order by height, squabbling all the way, and does nothing to stop this use of class time.

Katsuki crosses his arms, settling taller than Kirishima but four tiny, fuck all centimeters below Todoroki.

“How does it feel to be taller and yet so below?” Katsuki asks, fingers ratcheting, but Todoroki is distracted by a cat lurking by the door of the gym. “Don’t ignore me!”

“Um, Bakugou…” Yaoyorozu. “It looks like I might be, uh, next to you.” Yaoyorozu stammers and points to a spot… but its on the other side that’s taller than Katsuki.

“Haah? You’ve gotta be kidding.”

“I… I’m quite tall. 173, actually.”

Katsuki feels like his teeth might crack. He’s 172.

“You? You haven’t stood straight a day in your life. No way you’re taller than me.”

Even as he says it she curls into herself instinctively, a smallness that seems to possess her in moments. But then she meets Katsuki’s eyes and her spine straightens and she looks like maybe she could occupy every bit of 172 centimeters of space.

“It’s all hair! And take your damn shoes off. We’re doing this shit properly.”

“Oi, your hair’s pretty big yourself,” Sero murmurs, amused.

“Fuck off!”

Katsuki presses himself against Yaoyorozu, feeling her squeak as he arches to achieve his perfect posture. People have crowded around and it makes him puff up even more. He’s not about to lose to some wilting fucking flower.

“Stop straining so much, it’s not gonna make you taller in thirty seconds,” Ashido laughs.

“Beat him, Yaomomo!” Hagakure cheers.

“As if!”

Iida, official expert of all things pedantic, lines his head up on Katsuki’s hair (trying) to press down on the hair. It travels back and Katsuki feels it bump on Yaoyorozu’s head.

“The winner is Yaoyorozu Momo.” Iida declares.

“Fuck!”

“Is winner the right word?” Uraraka wonders, sweatdropping. Still, everyone disperses to reorder themselves by height.

Katsuki spits as she takes her place on the right of him. “Don’t think you’ll beat me next time!”

Yaoyorozu’s posture slackens and she seems quite embarrassed.

“I-I tried to tell you I’m quite tall! I often can’t even find clothes that fit me, actually.”

Katsuki scoffs. “That’s why you have to tailor shit.” He actually robbed his parents of one of the old sewing machines in the attic. They can’t expect him to just go to them every time he needs clothes fitted, do they?

“Oh that’s certainly a good point. I usually just shop at specialty stores for tall girls.”

Almost against his will, Katsuki finds himself asking, “specialty stores?”

Katsuki plucks at his cardigan for a few moments, trying to tear out the pilling. He really does need more clothes. These old ones work fine, but he’s literally had them for years and the wear is showing. Fortunately, Ashido jumped at the chance to go shopping with him when he mentioned Yaoyorozu’s recommendation.

Of course, Yaoyorazu asked, in an especially pathetic way, if she could come with. It was painful to watch especially since she tried to withdraw the request right afterwards, apologizing for her “ill manners.”

So. Katsuki’s going with both of them. He’s never really spent time with Yaoyorozu. She’s smart, sure, but she’s an idiot about her own confidence. He wants to shake her sometimes, tell her that if she chose to wear her daring hero outfit she should be ready to own her decisions. But whatever, Katsuki ain’t here as an advice column, he just wants to get some clothes and skulk home—

“Uh, hey Bakugou.”

Ashido’s here… and so are all the girls in their class.

“The fuck is this?” his lips curl.

“I’m sorry!” Ashido claps her hands together like she’s praying for mercy at the temple before a test. “I mentioned we were going shopping to Toru, who told Tsuyu, who really needs new rain boots and then Kyoka—”

“We can leave if you want us to,” Jirou adds, looking uncertain herself about being there. “We can just catch the bus down and then split up.”

Katsuki resists the urge to curl his posture. He planned on shopping for more feminine clothes so he’d worn a black v-neck with his burnished orange sweater and leggings. The hair clips accented the black and so those went on, and eyeliner because emphasis, duh, and of course his prosthetics… which they could probably see clearly for the first time.

He scans their faces; guilty, hopeful, the complex thing that seems to live on Uraraka’s round cheeks these days. What he doesn’t see is fascination, like he’s some show for them.

“What do I care?” He shoulders his tote.

“Yay!” Ashido cheers, quickly pushing him towards the girls. “Group trip!”

-

Katsuki blinks at the mannequin towering over him. Yaoyorozu wasn’t kidding. This is a tall girl store. Katsuki’s used to specialty fashion, he’s modeled a fair amount being somewhat tall for his age group. Kanon (179 cm), used to make bank doing gigs for one specialty company. The clothes were always a little bland, and uninspired, but also hella steady work. This though, this is a lot more stylish than the shit he’s used to seeing for “different” body types.

Then he looks at the price tag and almost sets it on fire.

“Goddamn, Ponytail.”

“Hm? What is it?” Yaoyorozu asks, five shirts already tossed over her hand, careless. There’s no point trying to mention the price to her, clearly.

Uraraka standing beside Katsuki, looks faint. “Sometimes I think she might be made of money, like the tale of the bamboo cutter, but the baby is born from money instead.”

They make brief eye-contact. Then, Uraraka’s heading into the store, cheeks red for whatever fucking reason. What a weirdo.

“Well, take a look anyway. I’m probably too short to shop here, but it’s always fun to browse!” Ashido says.

Katsuki lets himself pull through the racks. The clothes are nice, strongly made unlike the cheap stuff. So at least the price isn’t all talk.

“That’s why you have to tailor things,” Katsuki says again, because he’s the only one with any sense.

“Can you do that?” Jirou asks, from the next rack over.

“My parents are clothes designers, what do you think?”

“That’s so useful. I’ve always wanted to be able to do that.”

“Did you hear that?” Ashido shouts through the store. “Bakugou can tailor so if you see something you like that doesn’t fit, just grab it!”

“What?! I didn’t say that—”

“Wow, thanks Bakugou!” Hagakure skips on her way to a rack of clothes that are WAY too long for her. Fucking hell!

He digs his irritated hands into a rack of pencil skirts.

“So, your style is more like Yaomomo’s huh?” Ashido asks.

“No, these are just…” What is he looking at? He used to need lots of formal clothes for modeling. While a lot of companies and fashion houses did expect a certain wild spiritedness from their models, there were still many more who expected manners and good presentation, especially for first meetings.

“I used to need a lot of businesswear for… before I mean. I guess I don’t really now.”

“That’s good, those clothes are so boring!” Ashido picks up something neon yellow and grins. “This is more my speed.”

“If you’re trying to avoid getting hit by a car, I guess.”

Ashido laughs. “I always thought that your style would be more like Jirou’s.”

“M-mine?” Jirou points to herself.

“Yeah! You’re both all skulls and crossbones all the time. Black and death metal RAAAH!” Ashido gives her warbling imitation of a rock scream, eking a laugh from Jirou.

“It’s just a little more relaxed than frills.” Jirou hesitates just a second before turning to Katsuki with curious, but open regard. “What is your style?”

Katsuki finds his mind turning as no answer comes to mind. So many of his clothes for modeling were aimed at building his social media profile. He knows damn well what looks good on him. He never really considered the comfort side while dressing for that unseen audience.

“I just like what looks good,” he spits, anger rising but not quite smothering the dizziness. He doesn’t know… but he can figure out now. The door he was always trying to wedge open before, just a little make up, just a few more modeling gigs— the frame has been destroyed by his gender identity. He can really wear whatever the fuck he wants, can’t he?

“Yeah, I guess you’d know more about fashion than me.” Jirou laughs, a little self-conscious.

Katsuki sighs. These no-confidence posers. His eyes scan Jirou then dig through the racks. He finds a pair of white shorts that he throws at her head, and then a blue, translucent rain jacket.

“Eh? A rain jacket?”

“This dumb shit, this is fashion. Go put it on. Tuck your shirt in, don’t be a slob.”

Jirou’s eyes are a little wide, but she is actually capable of following directions unlike some of these idiots.

“Oooh, do me next! Me next!”

Katsuki doesn’t even blink as he shoves Ashido’s face away. She laughs, turns her head so her horns rub against his palms. The texture is hard, the spiral texture bumping against his thumb.

Katsuki looks down at her. “You need a lot more help than I can give.”

“Probably,” she agrees, standing straight. “But shopping is just so fun!” A hyper orange romper goes over her other arm.

Katsuki turns away, flipping through the clothes. A slit skirt catches his eye. He thought it was a maxi, but it parts under his hand. Soft, springy cotton heavier than the chiffon or rayon shells he usually sees. This would actually move with a body.

“Come on, I wanna try this on!” Ashido holds up the shirts and Katsuki rolls his eyes. He’s really getting dragged to a changing room?

“Don’t be fucking weird,” he says, earning her “yeah yeah.”

As they approach the attendant, Katsuki puts an extra serving of “fuck you” on his face, which seems to stop the attendant before they even have a chance to react to his low voice. Eyes pinging to his obvious chest, the attendant hands them the changing room key with shaking hands.

“Thank you!” Ashido says, turning towards the rooms where Uraraka, Asui and Hagakure are idling.

Jirou looks flustered under the attention, even as she looks bomb as fuck in the clothes. The shining plastic offers the perfect color and texture contrast to the mute matte black and white.

“It’s so cute, Jirou!” Hagakure coos.

“You don’t think it’s too short?”

“Isn’t that what tights are for,” Katsuki grouses.

“I… I guess. And it wouldn’t be too much because the shorts are white.” Jirou turns, examining herself. “I never really thought about wearing white shorts before.”

“They’re probably easy to get dirty,” Uraraka says. “But that’s part of why they look go good! Like white shoes.”

“I think you should get it,” Ashido says, even as she draws the curtain for her own changing room halfway. Katsuki yanks the rest of it shut.

“Close it all the way! I’m not trying to see anything I don’t want to!”

“Spoilsport!” Ashido croons.

“Go die!”

“Oh, are you trying something on?” Jirou stands out of the way for Katsuki. “You can use my changing room if you want.”

Katsuki can feel their gazes drilling into him and the slit skirt he’d hung over his arm without even thinking about it. Even Hagakure, whose gaze is invisible, feels like an awl, boring into him.

Jirou can actually read the room so she walks it back, but that’s worse, unfortunately. “Or… you don’t have to—"

“Not with this shirt, obviously!” he yells, digging on a nearby rack for a white shirt. Fuck them. Like he’s gonna back down. “The blacks don’t match!”

“Can blacks not match?” Uraraka asks, shocked.

“You have a lot of opinions about fashion,” Asui observes.

“Work in the industry for ten years and then talk to me!”

He almost breaks the rings off the curtain he shuts it so hard. In a fit of spite, he kicks Jirou’s clothes to the corner.

He lifts his head, meeting his own gaze in the mirror and some of the anger filters out when he sees the right him in the mirror. He looks fucking awesome, in the orange softness and slimming black leggings, eyeliner fucking perfect.

Yeah, it’s whatever. Other people may be awkward as fuck, but he himself is a goddamn masterpiece.

He peels off the leggings and puts the skirt on. Like he thought, the weight of the fabric has it clinging and swirling open along the split with each moment. He strips off his cardigan and shirt, though the blacks actually match closer than he expected, and pulls on the white shirt. It’s sleeveless, he realizes, and got a few starry constellations on the side. Nothing too loud thankfully. He tucks it half in, letting it slouch and evaluates the full look.

His arms are bare and bulging from all his hard work, but the taper from his chest into his stomach makes him feel all the more balanced for it. Harshly strong and sleek in the same breath. Though he knows he’s probably one of the few people who appreciates that strange balance for what it is in his life, how it’s him and all his brutal aerodynamics.

Whispering brushes the edges of his hearing and he turns up his hearing aids just to catch Uraraka and Asui.

“…rude to ask to see?”

“I don’t know. But it’s weird to set your standard of rude by Baku-chan.”

Fucking idiots. He hates this walking on eggshell shit. Don’t they know how weak it makes them look, when they try and treat Katsuki as fragile. His arms tense, in frustration, but before he can sink into it, there’s a knocking on the wall next to him.

“So, how is it?” Ashido, blunt and blessedly normal.

“It’s not a bad fit,” he says.

“Can I see?”

“Why the fuck would you want that? Weirdo.”

“Pleaaaaase?”

“I’m not gonna submit myself for evaluation. That’s just fishing for compliments.” He’s always thought that shit was strange.

“Just me, then?”

Just Ashido…

Katsuki groans. “You better be fully dressed.”

The curtain shoots open and shut before he even has a chance to see the outside, and Ashido slips in, all grins.

She is a traffic violation in a gray leopard print miniskirt and bright green crop top that draws the pinkest tones from her skin.

“That’s a crime, putting that together.” He tries to back up to make a little more space between them, but the booth is too small and he only ends up half against the glass.

He sighs and straightens up, putting an imperious hand on his hip as he takes in Ashido’s wide-eyed response.

“Wow. You look amazing! I love that skirt!”

“Obviously!” Katsuki feels his ego inflating. Fishing for compliments, now that’s pathetic, but if they come as deserved, he’s not gonna deny the truth of them.

He turns to look at both of them in the mirror, Ashido’s bright pinkness, strength and softness, and then his own dark neutral tones, harsh sleekness of a powerful calf slipping past heavy black fabric. In the reflection, he sees Ashido’s eyes on him, and for a moment he thinks he’s not the only one who appreciates the incongruous balance of him. A sudden redness fills Ashido’s cheeks when they make eye-contact in the mirror.

Before Katsuki can turn to look at her face, so close to his own, she’s turning and striding out of the changing room, curtain flapping behind her.

“Where’s Yaomomo?”

Huh.

Katsuki shoves the skirt off, frustration taking his lips. Didn’t he say she shouldn’t be weird. But does she listen? No.

Back in his leggings and cardigan, he opens the curtain to see Yaoyorozu’s ineffectual shuffling in black cargo pants.

“Wow! Cargos. This is a different look!” Ashido cheers.

“Yeah, they look comfortable for once,” Asui adds.

“I just felt like trying something new,” Yaoyorozu says, plucking at the belt tied tight across her belly button. “It’s not too coarse, right?”

“Not coarse enough, if you ask me,” Katsuki scoffs.

“Oh no,” Jirou murmurs faintly.

Katsuki shakes his head. “You still look like you’re wearing a straight jacket. Cargo pants are supposed to sag.”

“Sag?” How she can imbue so much prim shock into a single word is a goddamn mystery.

“Undo the belt.”

She does, and then wiggles the pants down incrementally. “Here?”

“No.”

“Here?”

“Just let me do it.” Katsuki crosses to the changing room. “This is gonna take years, otherwise.”

“Oh, but that’s hardly proper, surely.” Yaoyorozu hedges for a moment longer, fiddling with her hair.

“Whatever,” Katsuki scoffs, just as ready to stand and get the fuck out of the store.

She speaks quickly, the eagerness to break rules breaching her voice. “Though I suppose since you’re not a boy it would be alright.”

She looks stunned at her own daring, but also owning it. Owning him. It’s the best look he’s seen on her all day, that commitment.

“Damn right.” Katsuki finds a smirk on his face as he squats to grab the black fabric.

“Sag, sag, sag!” Ashido chants.

“We’re gonna be kicked out,” Uraraka says, but she pays eager witness.

Yaoyorozu’s hands cover her face, as if she can’t bear to look but also can’t stand not to peek.

Katsuki makes eye contact and waits for her nod before he shimmies the pants down well past her belly button to the absolute roundest part of her hip, the dip of her pubic bone and the final reveal of her navel is complete.

She squeaks, even as he yanks the belt shut.

“There, that’s better. Now you actually look laid back.”

Her torso looks longer this way, shirt cutting off 10 centimeters before the lip of the pants, showing her hard-earned fitness in a teasing glimpse. She looks a lot more in control of herself, in Katsuki’s opinion, compared to when she was all buttoned up.

Yaoyorozu’s eyes are wide, and he thinks he sees her recognizing that too, something powerful in baring herself. She turns, evaluating the loose pooch of her cargo shorts and long leanness of her torso.

“So?” Asui prods.

“I want five,” Yaoyorozu decides and Uraraka almost passes out.

“F-five?! What are you going to do with five, live in them like a tent?!” Katsuki can see the zeros spinning over Uraraka’s round head and admits that her theory about Yaoyorozu being made of money might have some credence. That’s unreal.

Katsuki leaves the skirt in the changing room and heads to the exit to wait for Yaoyorozu to pay, but Ashido catches his arm, leopard print skirt in her hand.

“You’re not getting anything?”

“Hell no. This shit’s expensive as fuck. Not worth it.” He shrugs off her whining to wait in line with him who would?! and heads out the door. It’s claustrophobic inside, all of them chattering.

Unfortunately, Uraraka follows him out. Worse still, she stands close enough that people would think they were standing together, even. Maybe friends.

“Those prices were insane, right?!” she says. Katsuki slinks down another level into hell. Small talk. No thanks.

Katsuki grunts.

“I mean the clothes were cute but…”

She fiddles with her fingers and it’s just painful to watch.

“Do you have anything real to say or not?!”

“I—”

“Oh wow, it’s Uravity! Daddy, Uravity!!!” Some extra with a screeching little girl on his shoulders starts making his way through the crowds, apologetic look already on his face for the disruption.

Uh, no, Katsuki’s not down to meet fans today actually.

He makes a point to put a little distance between them and look the other way. Thank god for phones, providing that perfect excuse. Still, from the side of his eye, he catches a wiggling girl sliding down the side of her father and stamp excitedly in front of Uraraka who looks flushed with pleasure.

“We saw you on TV that time! You did so good against that scary guy!”

Uraraka laughs. “Thank you. That person is my classmate actually.” Her subtle correction makes Katsuki tighten his grip on his phone. He can feel her eyes on him, but she reads his closed off body language correctly and turns back to the girl.

“Can you sign my balloon!”

“You betcha.”

Katsuki watches Uraraka’s fumbling effort to both keep hold of the balloon but also not press the magic marker she was supplied too hard that it pops. What hero has had to sign a balloon before? Civilian extras are something else.

“My daughter wants to be you for Halloween actually,” the father says. “It’s one of the costumes I feel good letting her wear at this age, you know.”

“Right,” Uraraka’s tongue pokes between her lips as she tries to get the last stroke on 麗 urara, lovely straight.

“We saw you fight and not give up! My wife and I, we appreciate you being such a positive role model for girls.”

The balloon squeaks, and Katsuki reflexively looks at Uraraka to see her grip tighter, her eyes bright and overwhelmed.

“Thank you so much for saying that. It… it means so much to me.” Her voice is heavy with it, so touched that it makes Katsuki feel uncomfortable even hearing that much genuine gratitude for an offhand comment.

“Just don’t give up!” The kid says, the kind of confident advice that only children and Izuku can cluelessly provide.

“I won’t,” Uraraka promises and passes the balloon back.

“Thank you, Uravity” the father says, also disgustingly sentimental.

As they walk away with one more over enthused wave from the girl, Uraraka’s bright eyes drift to the side to Katsuki and he immediately looks down, studying his feet.

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, clearly buzzing with the high of brushing against proper hero recognition.

Katsuki’s mind whirs though, and swallowing gets a little harder.

“You know,” Uraraka says, her voice calm and reflective. “We talked before about how wanting to be an icon is stupid.”

“It is stupid,” Katsuki says. Anyone reaching for fame as their dream will find themselves climbing a mountain that never gets smaller. Fame is never an endpoint because there will never be enough of it. That useless old man Endeavor is a good example of that. Perpetual number two, even when he’s number one.

“Yeah… It’s bad that I kind of want to be.” She twists her fingers together. “I mean, I know I’m here for the money, because I want to provide well for my parents. But part of me also…”

She meets Katsuki’s eyes, seems embarrassed and looks away. “My parents aren’t very rich, but they always make the people around them smile. I want to be the kind of hero who spreads that kind of mentality. I wonder if that’s being an icon, in a way.”

“Who knows,” Katsuki says. He’s not the icon police. “That dad was a fucking idiot, though.”

Uraraka sighs heavily, frustration and exasperation drowning out the tentative vulnerability of before. “Just when I think we’re getting somewhere—”

“If you’re inspiring, it’s not just for girls. That’s reductive bullshit.”

The frustration leaves her face and she looks at him, steady as a stone. Unlike Izuku, she’s always been pragmatic at her core. Easy to spin around at times, sure, but unlike his idealism, she is grounded in what is in the world.

“You’re Bakugou.” She gestures at him haplessly. “I think it’s easy to say that when you’re exploding peoples’ expectations all the time. Whatever your gender, I think you and Deku will be top three heroes in the future… But on the way, people are going to mark you. First trans hero to break the top ten. First to be big three. It won’t just be your name, your gender is always going to be attached to it.”

Katsuki swallows hard and scowls. He hates what she’s saying, like he’ll be defined by his gender and not by what he does. He hasn’t even thought all the way about whether his hero persona needs to come out. Change his uniform, maybe, even. It’s the kind of fucking exhausting things he’s putting off until not now ’o fuckin clock specifically.

Why the fuck does it have to change just because he’s not calling himself a guy anymore?

“Fuck that. I’ll make them all see me for myself, whether I’m that or not!”

“You should! And I’m not saying you won’t. It’s just… For people who are outliers, like the only two women in the top ten, gender still matters. And maybe to other trans people watching you climb the ranks, it will matter too. It’s not always reductive, is what I mean. Or maybe it is…” She huffs. “I don’t know, actually.”

Katsuki’s hackles lower, because the truth coming over him is that being a man is the only situation where gender isn’t attached to your name like an unwanted haunting

Katsuki thinks he does know what she’s saying. In a perfect world, gender wouldn’t matter for shit. In this one though… It’s not like he hasn’t noticed that there’s only six girls in his class of twenty. Midnight one of the few female teachers.

“I won’t define myself that way,” he decides. “…But I get it.”

She smiles, and some of that tension evaporates.

The door to the store slides open before Uraraka can say anything uselessly sentimental or worse, more small talk. They turn with mirror, deadpan looks at the dozens of bags lining Yaoyorozu’s arms like a cable sweater.

“I never get time to come here,” Yaoyorozu defends, not as miffed as she should be.

Katsuki meets Uraraka’s eyes and for a moment, there’s pure, unvoiced communication. Rich people really are different…

-

The afternoon drags on, developing to a mild though annoying success. The group tracks down rainboots for Asui in a rundown shop that mostly caters to the farmers in the area. Dark red boots that top off her shorts and leggings so well she wears them home. Katsuki does find a few shirts at one of the cheaper stores, and a soft taupe cardigan that he has to fight to purchase. Ashido keeps shoving a hot pink ones into his basket when he’s not looking. Hagakure employs her power to color bomb his shopping cart with annoying success.

“I’m fucking sick of all of you! Let’s go home!” he growls, pushing his overfull rainbow basket of clothes at a hapless shop assistant. “Put your clothes back on, Invisi-weirdo!”

Hagakure tsks, but a v-neck shimmies down an invisible torso.

“Okay, okay,” Jirou says, patting Katsuki on the shoulder and clearly hanging out with them is making his fierceness wear off because they’re starting to act as nonchalant as Ashido about his blow ups.

They load the bus in record time. It’s a small shuttle specific to the school that runs to the shopping plaza and back every half hour or so on the weekend. It only seats maybe ten, forcing them to sit together and earning Katsuki an elbow in the side as Uraraka tries to open the window above his head.

“Oh! Sorry!”

“Let me do it!”

“No, I got it!”

Air blows in the windows, the city sounds spilling in. The other windows are open and it’s loud and billowy in their bus.

“Geez, it was warm today,” Hagakure complains, fanning herself with a jangle of bracelets.

“It is unusual after the cold weather,” Yaoyorozu says, spiky hair whipping around as she picks through her multitudes (MULTITUDES) of bags. Katsuki leans his head back, feeling the sun shining on his neck. He could go for a nap. His social battery is all drained out after three hours with this bunch. Even if he hasn’t spent proper time with them in months, this has taken him out completely. Lowered tolerance to silliness, Katsuki guesses.

“Blasty~” Ashido sing-songs. Of course, a nap would be too easy.

“What?”

He cracks his eye open to see her smiling face thrusting a bag out to him. He looks down, then back to her smiling eyes.

“What the fuck is this?”

“It’s a gift, from all of us! We wanted to say sorry.”

Katsuki slowly peeks into the bag and sees the black skirt from the first shop, the one with the wicked slit and heavy fabric.

“Well, Yaoyorozu paid for most of it,” Uraraka admits, flushing. “But we all did chip in! As much as we could…”

Jirou wraps an encouraging arm around Uraraka. “Yeah, we all did. We hope you like it.”

Is Katsuki having a seizure?

“Sorry?” He shakes his head, hands vibrating from a sudden anger. “What the fuck are you losers sorry for. I’m the one who…” Who lied. Who was difficult. Who never even considered womanhood as mattering to people it directly affected. Couldn’t know that he was (probably) both.

“Sorry for being mean. It was… I think we might have been bullying you actually.” Ashido bops herself on the head. “It was so uncool, and I’m sorry about that.”

“You’re not the easiest person to understand, and you make it really hard to connect with you—”

“Oi,” Katsuki protests, because this is some apology, but Uraraka continues.

“But because we were confused, we took it out on you and that wasn’t fair.”

“Just take it,” Ashido teases. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Horn head,” he growls, hands shaking with a sudden overwhelmedness that makes him feel like he might vibrate out of his skin. It turns into anger, but he can recognize the underside of it, something bright and moved.

“Hey, you should really call me Mina from now on too.”

“What? No way in hell!”

“And me! I’m Toru.”

“Not that he’ll ever use it,” Asui says dryly, “but you can call me Tsuyu, Baku-chan.”

“Oi, stop! I’m not going to remember all these names!” Katsuki shouts.

“Kyoka,” she raises her hand.

“Ochako!”

“Momo, but everyone really like Yaomomo too. I think either is good.”

Katsuki really feels fit to explode now because he hasn’t been on first name basis with people since elementary school. Sparks build in his hand. They catch on the wind billowing in the bus, blowing into the streets like daylight fireflies.

“The fuck am I supposed to do with your first names!?” he seethes.

“Use them! Obviously!” Mina beams. She brushes her pink, wind-tousled hair behind her ear.

“I think we broke him…” Ochako observes. “Katsuki.exe wasn’t meant to execute this way.”

“Shut up round cheeks! And who the fuck said you could use my first name?!”

All of them stare at him. Ochako grins with teeth. “But we’re friends, Katsuki. Duh.”

“Go fuck yourselves!” His hands do go off then.

-

After they get off the bus, grey smoke following them out, he makes Kyoka promise to give him the jacket in a timely manner so he can hem the sleeves so she doesn’t look like a fucking 4 year old playing dress up. Ochako gapes at the ability, and he finds himself frustratingly permitting her to come watch him when he does it.

“Just don’t act like a fucking freak!”

“Thank you!” she bows. “It’s such a useful skill to have.”

“Fucking obviously!” He catches Mina before she can leave. “Hey, horn head.”

“It’s Miiiinaaaaaa.” She stops, letting the other girls head back up the main steps without them.

Katsuki makes a face and digs in one of his two bags.

“Here.”

Mina blinks at the chartreuse tube dress and slowly takes it from him. The shiny spandex blend complements the tones of her skin perfectly without washing the brightness of her own skin out like the neon colors do. He spotted it on a discount rack, probably due to the shit color and cold weather, and snuck the purchase in while she was helping Momo with her 10,000 bags.

“You bought me a dress?”

“Well, I burned the other one, didn’t I? So now we’re even.”

He expects her bright, overfull smile, but the one he gets is different. Less wide, it curves around her mouth more, making it feel more intimate. Genuine, and thrilled in a private way she shows him.

“Thanks Katsuki. I really love it…”

Katsuki blinks. “I didn’t say you could use my first name!”

But Mina’s already up the stairs, mysterious smile and dress flapping behind her like a flag.

-

The next day, as Katsuki’s finishing his afterworkout shower, he finds himself saying why the hell not. It’s cold as shit, but the skirt looks too good not to wear. He puts it on, adding the ankle boots he stole from his big-foot mom. He’ll put those on at the genkan. The new cardigan goes on top, and wow. What a masterpiece. He knew, of course, but still. Damn.

He goes downstairs, ready to tell anyone who even thinks something weird to shove it, but finds something much more unfortunate waiting in the common area.

Momo’s wearing her cargo pants and a loud red hoodie and croptop to pair with it, Kyoka with the translucent rain jacket, Toru in skin tight leggings and Mina in the chartreuse dress, white sweater over it. Even Tsuyu’s wearing her new fucking boots indoors with plastic covering the bottoms.

Katsuki needs to go back up and change into something else, anything else, but Mina’s already spotted him.

“Ah! Katsuki too!” Mina crows.

“Do we live on a fashion runway now?” Kaminari demands, tugging on his sweats in despair. “No one told me we were dressing up today!”

Ochako at least has the grace to look embarrassed. “I guess all of us were excited to wear our new clothes.”

“We look overdressed as fuck.” Katsuki huffs and trails past them, ignoring Izuku’s squeak as the skirt opens and his calves sneak out from the fabric, sleek.

“E-everyone looks so nice!” Izuku says, red all over, like he doesn’t know where to look anymore.

“I need to up my game,” Kirishima says, looking serious in his UA shirt and jeans. “It’s just so manly.”

“I can’t be the least fashionable in this class. My looks are all I have going!” Kaminari whines. Tokoyami looks particularly unmoved even as Kaminari shakes him back and forth.

“Then get something else to have going for you!” Katsuki shouts. His attention catches on Todoroki and the black clips pinning red hair back in little x’s. His brain stalls at the sight, a wave of anger overcoming him hot and welcome.

“Oi. Half n’ half. You think you can make fun of me?” Katsuki’s hands are itching for a fight. He knew everyone was way too tame about this gender shit and that it couldn’t last. Granted, he didn’t think Todoroki would be the shit stirrer among them, but it had to be someone, didn’t it?

Todoroki’s hand darts up to touch them. “I thought I’d try something different.”

“Oh you did, huh? Think it’s funny too, don’t you peppermint fucker?!”

Mina’s up from the couch, coming to pull on Katsuki’s sparking hand.

“Come on, he’s just trying it out. I think it looks cute right?”

“Thanks,” Todoroki says, bland.

“Yeah!” Hagakure agrees. And all of them have hints of defensiveness in their posture, expressions. Are the fucking kidding him?

Katsuki stares down at him in plain incredulity. After all the shit Katsuki got… “You think you can just ride on my coattails?! You wouldn't even be able to wear that shit without someone thinking you were toxic as shit if it wasn’t for me!”

He’s panting, and the silence feels more profound than he wishes it was for 9 in the morning. He didn’t mean it that deeply, either. Todoroki, ignorant of mood, only hums.

“Yeah, probably,” he acknowledges. “I really do like it though. So thanks.”

Katsuki throws his hands up, feeling flush and other shit that he’d like to wrap anger around and forget. “Go fuck yourself!”

He goes to the kitchen, not even sure what he’s mad about, just knowing that he is and it’s a nice safe place to be. Todoroki is only too lucky he has Katsuki here to do the hard shit.

Still… it’s how it should be, he realizes. No one should give a damn about someone else’s looks anyway, just their behavior. Who they are…

“Katsuki?” Mina comes into the kitchen a little sideways, like she might be blown away. “You good?”

Katsuki’s eyes slink down to the dress. It fits her really well for the most part, emphasizing her chest and her powerful thighs. It makes him feel… some kinda way. Glad at his own good taste, probably.

“You should let me take that in a little,” he says instead.

“Geez, you keep doing all these favors and people are going to think you really like us all.”

“All of you!” Katuski says, good and loud. “Can go and die!”

Various groans and distracted agreements sound from the space and Katsuki feels more ineffectual than ever. How is he going to keep people away now?

Mina’s arm comes around him to fix his hair and any fleeting wish for hierarchy’s and the privacy of stewing in his own issues melts away. There’s no going back now, is there?

Unfortunately, with all that Katsuki has learned about himself in therapy, he knows there is, in fact, no going back. So Katsuki makes breakfast, somehow starting an order of pumpkin tempura for Mina that she carries out to share with the whole group. Then, everyone’s downstairs, talking and clamoring for food and it’s too fucking early for a party, but there are a few shit simple food things to throw together and Katsuki does if only to get them to stop their whining.

“Pizza!” Kaminari shouts, running into the main room with his delivery.

Idiot better not trip. They just got this building.

“Katsuki.”

Katsuki almost jumps out of his skin at hearing Todoroki say that. They’re the only ones in the kitchen and Todoroki can be like a fucking cat sometimes.

“What the fuck, Half n’ half. Did I say you could use my first name?!”

“Oh, sorry. All the girls have been using it.”

“That’s their problem!” Katsuki wipes the flour off his hands. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I realized that you went through some bad stuff, because you had feminine things.”

Oh what hell is this? “Shut the fuck up freezer burn!”

“—And we were wrong for that. But now I am allowed to put things in my hair that aren’t masculine, and that’s because you had to struggle about it. So I realized that I should probably say thank you for your hard work.”

Katsuki has to squat for a minute and put his head in his hands to try and escape how cringey this entire exchange has been. Todoroki really is his greatest enemy.

“Don’t say shit like that. I swear to god. All of this was implied you icyhot bastard! Let some things just be unspoken. Fuck!”

“Because you’ll murder me?” Todoroki asks, and at least he’s been paying attention.

“I will murder you,” Katsuki agrees.

“Okay, I guess.” And blessedly, he leaves the room.

Katsuki lifts his head, vowing to train harder so that he can prevent conversations like that from ever happening. Destruction on sight, before words can even begin.

He stands, somehow building himself from the wreck of all that cringe and wedges the door open with his hip, looking out to see the exhausting sight of most of the boys changed into their best fancy dress. Tokoyami’s version of cuffed shirts and moody black jenko jeans is miles away from Izuku’s powder blue suit or Todoroki’s formal hakama.

“This is a clusterfuck, none of you know what fashion is!” Katsuki complains, but all of them wear it so loud and so proud that maybe they do, without knowing anything about fashion, technically.

Katsuki slams a pile of food down, glaring at everyone who only cheers when they see him.

“Huh…” Aizawa sounds ghostlike and properly bewildered as he enters their space, staring in frank disbelief. “I got a noise complaint…”

The roar of greetings, in bowties, and spandex, and chartreuse blows his hair back long enough for Jirou to maneuver him into a chair at the head of the table, yellow sleeping bag pulled around his shoulders like some king's cloak or a child's cape.

Shadows begin to settle around Katsuki as the sky dims and the streetlights flicker on around the minitown of UA. Katsuki’s skirt whips quietly around his heels, boots clacking as he goes to the gym. He’s been promising Izuku a beatdown for weeks now, but following (yet another) training accident for the idiot, they’ve had to reschedule. Recovery Girl apparently gave Izuku the go ahead, so Katsuki had tracked down their homeroom teacher who had grunted his permission and a “don’t go overboard this time,” before shutting his door.

Katsuki shoulders his duffle and enters the gym.

He’s earlier than Izuku, that’s always a given considering their usual contrast of on top of their shit, and not on top of their shit.

He hears movement though, and turns to sneer at Izuku, only to find the skeletal tower if All Might in the gap instead.

Katsuki’s verklempt in all his feminine clothes. The wind blowing through the door, rustling at his skirt, is not helping anything. All Might shuts the door and Katsuki shakes himself. He always knew that he’d see his idol wearing feminine clothes and prosthetics. He just kind of thought that he might have a chance to gird himself beforehand.

Since he doesn’t, he unleashes a scowl that swallows his whole face.

As usual, All Might doesn’t react, only smiles that hapless toothy gesture.

“Ah, Bakugou-shounen, you…Oh..."

Katsuki scowls harder and All Might seems to catch his mistake, if his sudden pause and rapidly growing sweat on his face is anything to go by.

The wind blows in, heavy silent awkwardness.

“…Shoujo?” he tries.

Explosions rip through Katsuki’s hand. “Why isn’t anyone at this school fucking normal?!”

“Sorry!” All Might scrambles. “They gave me the brief, I just— I’m an old man of habits. What should I—”

“Neither! Just call me Katsuki if it’s so fucking hard!”

All Might blinks at him and Katsuki tries to smother the crawling feeling of embarrassment with anger. It doesn’t work as well as it used to when he couldn’t recognize the feeling underneath, damn it. He’s wanted for years to be on first name basis with All Might, but not like this…

“Katsuki… I will try.”

Katsuki can’t help the little thrill that goes through him, despite himself.

“Whatever. You’re here to see us train, right.”

“Supervising, nothing else.” He looks horrible when he smiles, stupid skeleton head, and Katsuki scowls, heading for the changing rooms.

Aizawa made it clear that Katsuki can use the teacher’s office to change, but this late at night, there’s no one there to see Katsuki wriggling out of his prosthetics. The make-up comes off next, and then the hair clips. Don’t wanna get those jammed into his skull by a bad hit.

He puts the gym uniform on, tying his shoes extra tight. And if he feels a little well of sadness at the lack of comforting weight, and if he avoids his reflection, well, that’s his business.

Katsuki heads out, feeling a little raw, but determined to channel that into kickassery. He takes a few hops to start his warm up. Except that he feels All Might staring at him. God… No one can leave Katsuki alone, can they.

“What the fuck is it?” Katsuki demands. “You got something to say?”

“…If I made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry.”

“Forget it already, it’s ancient history.”

All Might is still staring at him with wide, doglike eyes that poke from his skull so beseechingly.

“You don’t expect me to work out in all that getup do you?”

“I supposed not,” he says at length, but there’s a guiltiness along with a haplessness that hides in his eyes. “That never stops Midnight, but ah. No, I see your point, of course.”

Your generation is a lot more open than ours. Aizawa’s words come floating to Katsuki between his heel touches on the mat and Katsuki grunts.

“It’s more aerodynamic, for me not to wear any extra shit,” he offers. Anything to get that stupid look off his face. “So there.”

“Aerodynamic,” All Might parrots. A frown takes his usually glued-on smile. He doesn’t say anything, which is somehow aggravating as Katsuki tries to stretch his sides out without feeling the lack of weight on his chest.

“Fucking what!?”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m not prying.”

“You already are! So just do it!”

“It’s only… I used to have a flying quirk.”

“Float, I know that. And I also know you used to wear skin tight fucking clothes and it wasn’t just for the aesthetics.”

All Might scratches his face at the reminder, as if saying I did do that, didn’t I?

“It did help to have tighter clothes, but your current outfit isn’t so streamlined, if I may say that.”

Katsuki pauses for a moment, brow furrowed, because he knows that somewhere in the back of his mind. His cargo pants were chosen on basis of badassery and wear and tear resistence, not because they were fit for flying. He knows that, has known that for a long time, really.

“So what?” Katsuki asks, feeling defensive and a creeping unease that manifests in violent twisting of his arms as he loosens his shoulders. This whole conversation is pissing him off so much.

“So… you could redesign your outfit to be more aerodynamic, and those corrections would allow, uh, more space where needed.”

Katsuki stares.

The more he stares, the more All Might sweats.

“Or you don’t have to. You could just be a little less aerodynamic than usual all over. I think you’d overcome it, you’re a resourceful young ma— young person. An adaptive youth. You'd fly regardless, I'm sure."

Katsuki feels the air coming harsh through his flared nostrils.

“Ah, sorry! Was that wrong?” The most powerful man scratches his head. “Ah, I really am old, aren't I?”

“Shut the fuck up.” Katsuki holds his hand up and All Might does immediately, a grimace on his face. All Might may be privately chastising himself for being an idiot, but it’s not him; it’s Katsuki. Searching for so many reasons to deny himself comfort just because it didn’t fit Katsuki's idea of himself. Hurting himself, because Katsuki felt like he was supposed to be a certain kind of hero. The kind like the man across from him, masculine, powerful, victorious— but even the skullheaded, ill man with a gentle smile across from him doesn’t fit that image. Is this idolic image he's striven singlemindedly toward for years yet another illusion of his mind, like loser Izuku, like a hierachy? One that twisted his mind so far to cut off a future for a whole version of himself as a hero. One both aerodynamic and whole. There’s never been any reason not to be, except his own willingnenss to picture it.

And for the first time, colors are flying to his mind. Different ideas for a hero outfit. Tight on top, streamlined black with fuck-you orange stripes lining the sides. Leggings instead of cargo pants, pockets replaced by utility belts crossing him in an ‘x’ for a quick grenade to someone’s face. And Katsuki in flat, battle-ready earrings, lips red and smirking. Hair pinned and expression victorious, chest intact.

He’d never let himself picture himself this way, hero crossed with this gender stuff. But more than that, he never let himself even try to imagine. For all this time, Katsuki realizes with a sickened sort of despair. He lied for so long he actually convinced himself to avoid the very thought. He’s a fucking idiot.

“Yeah,” he says, deciding then and there to stop punishing himself. If his voice is a little harsh with emotions, it’s nobody’s business. “Yeah, I may need to make some changes.”

All Might perks up slowly, yellow head turning like a sunflower to light.

“I have someone I could recommend for you. They do great suits.”

“Yeah. Gimme their contact sometime.”

All Might's expression is eager, almost exhausting “I have their card somewhere, I’m sure. In one of my rolodex’s. I’ll send it to you soon, Katsuki.”

Katsuki has to turn away. He turns and heads for the lockers. Fucking hell, training with Izuku isn’t even hard training either. He's not gonna break shit.

“Katsuki?”

“I’ll be right back, geez.”

And he returns, prosthetics on and a fuck you look on his face that only earns matching grins from All Might and Izuku.

-

Katsuki slings his bag over his shoulder, the night air skating over his tank top and cooling the sweat slipping smooth and shiny down his body, from his armpit, the crease of his elbows, around the curves of his chest. His body, in all its normalcy, in every moment. Even just walking back to the dorm, he feels it keenly.

“I feel like Katsuki was more levelheaded when we were sparring somehow,” Izuku muses, ruining the peaceful night. A bandage is plastered on his face, covering half his freckles but not the calculation of his brow.

“The fuck are you saying? I’m the most levelheaded fucker in the world,” Katsuki argues.

“Of course,” Izuku hums. During the fight, he didn’t react when Katsuki stripped off his jersey sweatshirt for a tanktop, only narrowed his eyes and readjusted for Katsuki to hammer into him in earnest. Met him blow for blow. Explosions bouncing off green sparks as they tore up the ground.

Maybe Katsuki was slightly more tactical tonight, wearing what he wanted. Not forced into a strange cage made by his unwillingness to wear his chest into battle. The sharp edginess that marked so many of his class praticals, absent. Tonight he’d let himself blast off and attack with his full body weight, not an ounce of his self missing as he struck out and lunged at Izuku’s head. Moving, stretching, falling in perfect grace. He’d really thought that he’d have to adjust more, but his body adjusted to the slight difference in weight, found a new fulcrum to fly through the air.

Outside of the battle, Izuku’s eyes drift to him and away in that annoying but tolerable habit of his. Always worried that people might disappear when things are going well. Katsuki’s too tired to go anywhere.

“What was All Might saying about a rolodex?” Izuku asks, and Katsuki indulges.

“Gonna find me a new suit designer,” Katsuki says simply.

Izuku’s face turns red, and anger strikes quick and hot in Katsuki. A yell building in his throat until he wrangles its explosion into check. He forces his jaw to clench as he looks at Izuku, looking for embarrassment or some kind of lewdness. It’s so easy to find the infuriating things he expects (stresses) about, but harder to see beyond his expectations to see what’s beneath his paranoia.

After a few moments, he finds that the redness on Izuku’s face isn’t lewdness, but instead a shameless, glowing sort of happiness, red all over for someone else’s sake.

Katsuki swallows the yell, manufactures it to a mutter. “What’re you so happy for? I’m the one getting a new suit.”

“Sure! And it’s going to be amazing,” Izuku says, hands waving to his red face, as though he could stymie the brimming happiness. “Just… I’m glad you’re alright.”

“Of course I’m alright. Better that alright, I’m awesome.”

“Katsuki is amazing,” Izuku says, wrote like a prayer. His smile turns smaller, more reflective. “I was really scared, when I heard what happened… I know you don’t want to hear it.”

Katsuki gives him a flat look. He has a handle on the anger, but it’s not a perfect control. Still, Izuku doesn’t back down.

“It was scary that night, thinking you were… That something was really wrong in your life. But, as expected, you’ve made it out even stronger. You’re just so amazing.” Green eyes glow in the night, admiring as ever like it’s Katsuki that turns the world in his free time.

And Katsuki is… or maybe, more than that, he’s becoming a version of himself with a long and healthy life on the inside as well as the out for once. Emotionally, and physically, with the changes he’s made with the people in his lift, negotiations with himself. All of it, to grow stronger, more himself. Becoming.

“I’m trans, not weak.” He means it to be a throwaway, but it comes off with more intent. Certain, sure of himself. And this is the first time he’s called himself trans, and he’s surprised at how well it fits, like a dress tailored for him. A space cut out for Katsuki to occupy in the world. Made for him.

Izuku nods, like he knew it all along. Izuku’s only more pleased for him using the word, unlike others who accept it without understanding, or who fight to make it make sense in their previously unquestioned worldview. Izuku is delighted at it.. Maybe only Mina has been as excited as him for Katsuki’s embrace of his gender, and surely no one else as been as staunch (if annoying) an advocate.

Katsuki stares at the side of Izuku’s face, his jaw which has been creeping out from round puppy fat and the arms building muscle that fits Izuku more than scrawny helplessness ever did. An equal, he’s an equal, Katsuki decides, feeling a helplessness about it.

Sensing his eye, Izuku glances over and stays captured by Katsuki’s gaze for a moment. Arrested in a space for them, where Katsuki sees Izuku as he is and Izuku for what Katsuki is becoming.

Katsuki smirks and Izuku smiles. Katsuki looks forward, feeling magnanimous enough to ignore Izuku’s flush or the way his eyes drop down to track Katsuki’s legs licking the edges of his skirt.