Chapter Text
"Why do I have to go against Bakugou."
A few yards away, Katsuki felt his lips pull back into a jagged grin. The scar cutting across his cheek stretched tight, and as a few flakes of dry skin drifted away, he welcomed the stinging pain.
"Sensei, please! You just don't understand—"
Aizawa’s eyes didn't even leave his clipboard. "Pray tell me what I don't understand."
"Bakugou! Sensei, he’s been salty about being benched all week!" Kaminari gestured wildly at the blonde, who was currently slamming his gauntlets together with a metallic clank.
"And?"
"And now that you’re finally letting him off the leash, he’s going to kill me in his joy! This isn't training, it's a sacrifice!"
"Denki, calm down," Aizawa sighed, the exhaustion in his voice heavier than usual. "Put on your support items. Hurry."
"Sensei, sensei—"
"Kaminari."
Denki scrambles toward the equipment rack, still throwing desperate glances over his shoulder. “Bakugou, man please, I'll do your laundry for a whole week."
“You done crying or should I give you another five minutes to write your will?”
Denki swallows hard. “Sensei, can I at least get a five-second head start?”
"Ready, Sparky?" Katsuki's voice was a low, gravelly rasp. He didn't wait for an answer. He took a predatory step forward, smoke beginning to curl from his palms in rhythmic, rhythmic pops. "I’ve had five days of 'light recovery.' I’m overflowing."
"I can tell! Believe me, I can tell!" Kaminari yelped, finally snapping his gear into place. He dropped into a defensive stance, sparks dancing along his collar.
His voice hit a new octave. “Sensei, please! He’s gonna turn me into street yakitori! Look at his face—he’s happy about it!”
Aizawa sighs heavily. "Bakugou, no quirk usage."
Oh what the hell.
Denki whoops.
"Wait, really?" He straightened up, a cocky smirk finally replacing his terror. "No explosions? Sensei, you’re a lifesaver! Okay, Bakugou! Let’s see how you like it when I’m the only one with the firepower!"
"Stop screaming Kaminari," Aizawa warned. "Get in position. Hurry."
"Ready when you are, Sparky."
Aizawa dropped his hand. "Begin."
Kaminari didn't hesitate. He thrust his hands forward, a jagged arc of yellow electricity tearing through the air. "1.3 Million Volts!"
It's easy. Katsuki wanted to be offended he was paired with Kaminari, easily the weakest in their group but he was far too excited being happy about starting training.
Whatever, atleast they didn't stick him with Mineta. He looked over to where Izuku was dodging the slimy purple balls. Poor Deku.
He twisted mid-air, his boots skidding across the concrete as he pivoted behind a training pillar. The electricity slammed into the reinforced stone, sending sparks flying, but Katsuki was already gone.
Kaminari spun around, panic rising again. "Where'd you—"
"Right here, Dunce Face."
The voice came from directly above. Bakugou had used the momentum of his run to wall-kick off the pillar. He descended like a hawk, his shadow falling over a wide-eyed Kaminari.
Kaminari panicked, letting out a frantic, omnidirectional discharge. "Get back!"
It was a wall of gold light, but Katsuki knew this routine well. He had timed the interval perfectly. He waited for the split-second dip in the current, the moment Kaminari’s output flickered—and dove through the gap. He caught Kaminari’s extended wrist, twisting it behind his back with enough force to make the boy yelp.
"Your aim is trash," Katsuki hissed into his ear.
Before Kaminari could channel another shock, Katsuki's foot swept his legs out from under him and Kaminari hit the mat, the air leaving his lungs in a wheeze. In one seamless motion, Katsuki's knees were on his chest, pinning him down, as grabbed both of Kaminari’s wrists, slamming them against the floor above his head.
Aizawa stepped forward, his eyes returning to black. "Match over. Bakugou wins."
On the other side of the room he hears Izuku's training being stopped too. He waits.
Izuku looked like he’d been through a blender, sweaty, slightly dazed, and covered in a few lingering purple adhesive orbs that he was currently peeling off his forearms with a wince.
"Pathetic, isn’t it?"
Izuku jumped, nearly dropping a stray ball. "Huh? Oh! Oh, Kacchan! Hi. What’s pathetic?"
"The training," Katsuki grunted, nodding towards the door where Kaminari was likely still curled in a ball on the gym floor.
Izuku paused, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Kaminari-kun, right? I saw a bit of that. I was actually telling Sensei earlier that it would be too easy for you, even without your Quirk."
Katsuki smiled.
"Jokes on you. You were the one stuck with the worst one of all."
"Mineta-kun?" Izuku laughed softly, reaching down to massage his calf. "It’s really not so bad. Since I broke my legs, I have to focus on my evasion and footwork. His Quirk is actually the best one for it."
Katsuki rolled his eyes, a huff of disbelief escaping him. He pushed off the wall and headed toward the stalls. Typical. The nerd could find a "silver lining" in a literal pile of garbage. He didn’t see a perverted short-stack throwing sticky purple balls; he saw a high-precision tactical obstacle course.
"Wish they’d let me fight you instead," Katsuki muttered.
Izuku hummed, the sound echoing off the tiles as they stepped into the shower area. The spray of water hissed against the ceramic, turning his voice distant and airy.
"Not for another week, at least," Izuku called out over the splash of the water. "Aizawa-sensei wants to be sure the bone density is back to 100% incase I take a direct hit from you."
It's a lie. Katsuki knows they won't let him fight Izuku. He's barely been cleared for physical, they won't stick him with someone who bounced back instantly after the war. Still, old habits, and old routines.
"Incase?" Katsuki smirks.
Izuku mirrors his expression. "Incase Kacchan."
Katsuki laughs because fuck confidence looks fuckin' amazing on Izuku. He stepped under the stream, the hot water hitting the scar on his face.
"I'm not gonna hold back just 'cause you were on crutches, Deku."
"I'm counting on it," Izuku replied, his voice steady through the steam.
It takes three weeks.
Three weeks of drills that feel like placeholders, of matches that end too quickly, of watching from the sidelines with his jaw set and his palms itching and that tight, coiled thing in his chest winding further and further until it feels like it might snap something vital if it’s left alone any longer.
Three weeks of waiting.
The training grounds were cleared, the rest of the class ringed around the edges like spectators at a coliseum. Aizawa stood off to the side, scarf loose but ready, eyes half-lidded in that bored way that meant he was watching closer than anyone.
Katsuki rolled his shoulders, gauntlets heavy on his arms, palms already crackling with small pops he didn't bother suppressing. Across from him, Izuku bounced lightly on the balls of his feet—green sparks flickering along his skin, full control, no more broken bones.
"Ready, Kacchan?"
Katsuki's grin was all teeth. He's been born ready, didn't Izuku know? Been born ready for Izuku.
Aizawa's voice cut through. "No destroying the gym. Begin."
The world narrowed to just the two of them.
The roundhouse kick is entirely expected, and frankly borderline boring, Katsuki thinks as he block with both forearms. He expects the counter too, and oh what is this? Before Katsuki’s brain could even register the redirection, a hand caught his shoulder and a foot hooked his lead leg. Izuku was countering, alright. He was using Katsuki’s own explosive forward drive against him.
Katsuki felt the world tilt before the centrifugal force came. He was airborne for a split second before he was flung.
Holy shit man, he hears from the sidelines where the class is watching.
The impact with the reinforced gym wall was a dull, heavy thud that rattled his teeth and knocked the breath clean out of his lungs and he can't breathe, he can't breathe-
He hit the vertical surface flat, sliding down the concrete until his boots hit the mat again.
He threw him. The nerd fucking threw him across the gymnasium.
He sat there for a heartbeat, hair falling over his eyes, chest heaving. His shoulder throbbed where it had taken the brunt of the collision and a low, guttural sound started in his throat and built into a jagged, manic laugh. He looked up through the fringe of his hair, looked up to see Izuku and a truly terrifying grin splitting his face. The scar on his cheek felt like it was on fire and Katsuki had never felt better.
"Fuck," Katsuki rasped, spitting a bit of copper-tasting saliva onto the mat. He pushed himself up, his muscles screaming in the best possible way. "I've been waiting for that."
He didn't wait for Izuku to reset because yes he enjoyed having competition finally, but also the nerd fucking threw him, he's going to get him back just you wait. He launched himself back into the fray, his palms finally popping with the first real sparks of the afternoon. "Again, 'Zuku! Do it again!"
Bright bubbly laughter came up as Izuku repeated the moves. This time, it was a little better but Katsuki still took the damn hit.
"Fuck, that is hard to pinpoint."
Izuku is a laughing green whirlwind around him. For a moment Katsuki wants to stop, and just observe Izuku, who's fluttering like a butterfly, and his laughter sounds fairy-like to his one good ear. He's a hero in his element and Katsuki finds a little bit of the fight drain out of him. But the excitement in his chest is too much and he's smiling too wide and ah there's the opening.
"I'm coming Izuku."
Izuku avoids it. Barely, but he avoids it.
Katsuki laughs gleefully. "That's what I'm talking about. Dunce-face fucking sucked."
Kaminari threw his hands up in surrender. "All right man, you guys are monsters anyway."
Izuku doesn’t pull back far. He stays in it, eyes following Katsuki's feet swiftly.
Katsuki shoves forward quickly. Quirk power in his bad arm is still half of what it was, but it managed to drive Izuku back a step, then another, forcing him to adjust, to compensate, to work—
Smokescreen goes up. What's Izuku doing? Tch is he stupid, his Quirk literally created smoke as a side effect so a little visual impairment wasn’t gonna change shit, especially not when his opponent was a green firecracker. Speaking of-
Katsuki rolls to the side and finds him standing there already.
Izuku’s mouth curves. "You're wide open Kacchan," he rasped, his lips brushing the shell of Katsuki's ear.
"Oh yeah? Then take it Izuku," Katsuki challenges. His quirk is better than ever now that he can explode from literally anywhere and he calculates how much and how far he would need to go to prepare himseld. The green eyes on him go dark. They are fixed on his with a defiant hunger now, and Katsuki pulls.
"DETROIT-"
"I said. No destroying the gym."
"Fuuuuuck, that was good."
"You hit my face Kacchan."
"Yeah and you destroyed my fucking back, get over it."
Iida and Todoroki walked in through the door, laughing together.
"What's Midoriya looking so glum for? Oi, didn't you win?"
Katsuki bristles.
"Look, there was no winner, first of all- because Aizawa called the fucking match off. And he's mad cause I hit his pretty little face," he throws him a nasty look. "Dumbass."
“I—I’m not glum,” he muttered, arms crossed tight over his chest like he could physically hold the pout in. “I’m just... you didn’t have to hit me that hard, Kacchan.”
Katsuki barked a laugh because that was rich, that was hilarious because he remembers getting fucking flung. “The fuck you mean ‘that hard’? You came at me with one-hundred-percent Detroit Smash like you were trying to mail me to Musutafu General. I gave you a love tap in comparison, you melodramatic piece of shit.”
“Love tap?!” Izuku's voice cracked up an octave. “You literally yelled ‘eat shit, nerd’ while you did it!”
“Yeah, and you screamed ‘Kacchan nooo’ like a Victorian maiden seeing ankle. We both looked stupid. Move on.”
Todoroki, leaning against the doorframe with his usual unreadable calm, tilted his head slightly.
“…I thought it was a very passionate fight.”
"Dude it was straight up porn."
Katsuki groaned. Fuck, when did Kaminari get here?
Iida clears his throat like he’s attempting to impose order on something fundamentally incapable of it, glasses catching the light as he gestures sharply between them. “If I may—violence directed at the face during a regulated exercise can be considered excessive depending on—”
“It was regulated until he tried to take my legs out,” Katsuki cuts in immediately, jerking his chin toward Izuku, who flushes, because yeah, he did do that, and they all know it. “What was that, huh? Thought you were slick?”
Izuku's mouth opens, shuts, opens again, heat climbing up his neck now for an entirely different reason. “You left an opening.”
“Oh, so now you admit it.”
“I didn’t say it was a good idea!”
“Didn’t look like you were regretting it when you had me on the ground.”
“But Bakugou, you were literally smiling.” Todoroki says, calm as ever, which somehow makes it worse. “It didn’t look like either of you were particularly distressed.”
“Shut the hell up, Half-and-Half.”
Iida adjusts his glasses again, clearly deciding to abandon that line of discussion before it derails completely. “Regardless, Midoriya, if you are injured, you should report to Recovery Girl immediately. Facial trauma can—”
“I’m fine,” Izuku insists, too quick, and then, because he cannot help himself, shoots Katsuki a look. “Unlike some people, I know how to pull my punches.”
"You threw me!"
“You were coming at me full force!”
“That’s the point of a fight!”
“You didn’t have to enjoy it that much!”
Katsuki’s grin cuts wide and vicious and a little too bright. “What, you didn’t?”
He lunges forward just enough to crowd into his space, ignoring the way Iida immediately starts protesting about personal boundaries.
“C’mon, say it,” Katsuki goads, low and needling, eyes locked on his. “Tell ‘em you hated it.”
Izuku's breath catches, shoulders going tight, and for a second it looks like he might actually try to lie—
—but then he huffs, shoves at Katsuki’s shoulder, but it's not nearly hard enough to move him.
“I didn’t hate it,” he mutters.
"Truth or dare, Bakugou."
Katsuki didn’t look up from his book. "I’m not playing your nursery school bullshit."
“You don’t get a choice—pick or we pick for you.”
“Fuck off, Shitty Hair.”
“Truth?” Mina questions, a shit eating grin already spreading across her face.
"Let's just give him Truth," Kirishima agrees, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish laugh. "We all know Bakugou would jump off the Heights Alliance roof if we dared him to. There’s no risk."
“Obviously. He’d do any dare.”
She leans forward, chin in her hands, eyes bright. “Alright then… who do you have a crush on?”
Oh what the hell. Katsuki drags a hand down his face, already exhausted, already regretting sitting down with them at all. “Are you all actually in middle school or did you just never grow out of it?”
“I don’t hear an answer, Bakugou.”
“No answer, no passing go,” Sero sing-songs. “Spill it, dude.”
“The rat,” he says flatly. “Our principal.”
The circle went dead quiet. "What the hell?" Kaminari gagged.
“What?” Katsuki shrugs. “Don’t ask dumbass fucking questions.”
“That’s not even true, that’s just gross—”
"It's true," he drawls. "I especially love it when his long pink tail is dragging through the floors and he just," he swoons, "tucks it in. Makes my dick jump"
"Ew man. Fuck, shut up. Stop."
“Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.”
“Ugh, you’re such a bore,” Mina groans, waving him off like he’s personally offended her. “Whatever. Your turn. Spin it.”
Katsuki flicks the empty soda bottle with more force than necessary. It whirls, clinks against someone’s knee, and slows…
…pointing straight at Kirishima.
Kirishima’s whole face lights up. “Ooooh hell yeah.” He cracks his knuckles. “Hit me.”
Katsuki stood up, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, he was going to fucking leave after this. "Who has a crush on me?"
Kirishima’s grin faltered into a deadpan stare. "That's not how the game works, idiot. You have to ask 'Truth or Dare' first. I didn't pick Truth, so I’m not saying anything."
Katsuki’s eyes narrowed. "Truth or dare, Shitty Hair?"
"Dare," Kirishima countered instantly, laughing.
“I dare you to tell me who has a crush on me.”
“Oh, fuck off, Bakugou.”
It’s a miracle Eijiro Kirishima hasn’t choked yet, but he’s currently treating a jumbo bucket of movie theater popcorn like it’s a competitive contact sport, shoving handfuls of butter-soaked kernels into his mouth with such reckless manly abandon that his cheeks are bulging out like a very determined, red-headed chipmunk.
"I’m tellin’ ya, Bakugo, you gotta—munch crunch—you gotta understand the thematic resonance of why the giant lizard didn't just fire-breath the helicopter immediately because if he did, there wouldn't be a second act, and honestly, the cinematography of him just standing there looking moody in the rain was—aggressively swallows—totally reminiscent of that one time you got stuck on the roof during training and refused to come down until the sunset looked 'intense' enough for your aesthetic!"
Katsuki looks like he’s about three seconds away from detonating the entire row of seats, but Kirishima is undeterred, spraying a few stray bits of salt into the air as he continues his breathless, muffled monologue.
"And don't even get me started on the sidekick’s character arc because even though he tripped over that wire and nearly blew the whole mission, his heart was so incredibly manly and his dedication to his friends was—shoves in another fistful—literally the most relatable thing I’ve seen since we tried to bake that cake for Ashido and you ended up using an industrial-grade blowtorch to 'speed up the process' which, in hindsight, was probably why the fire alarm went off for three hours straight!"
He pauses only to dump the bottom of the bucket into his mouth, looking like a human woodchipper, before leaning in close to a visibly vibrating Katsuki.
"Anyway, do you think they sell refills, or should I just try to lick the remaining butter off the cardboard, because I feel like I'm finally reaching my peak nutritional form for the boss fight in the sequel?"
"I'm only here because I have to prove I'm not oblivious. And I'm fucking good, I knew she was checking me out."
"It's Midoriya, man."
"Huh?"
"Like at first I thought Izuku just liked everybody and hell- maybe it's Uraraka, y'know, with the way they..."
"Hah?!"
"But he obviously likes you." Kirishima went on. "It's you and it's always been-"
"Wait. All that oblivious nonsense, and you were talking about fuckin' Izuku the whole time?"
"Yes?" Kirishima looks puzzled. "You wanted to know right?"
Katsuki groans.
"Yeah no fuckin' shit I know it's Izuku. He's been practically in love with me since he was two years old."
"Huh?!" It was Kirishima's turn to gape. "What the fuck do you mean, you knew?"
"See? What did I fucking tell your ass, huh shitty hair? I knew I wasn't fuckin' oblivious. There's no one else, is there?"
Kirishima shrugs, blinking back his confusion momentarily. "I mean there was Ayoyama for a while and-"
"The twinkle bastard liked me?!"
"Well, Bakugou, dude, everyone likes you until you open that mouth. It's such a fuckin' turn off, I question Midoriya's sanity sometimes."
Katsuki snorts. He's been there.
“Why haven’t you done anything about it?” Kirishima asks, tilting his head, eyes narrowing just a little like he’s trying to solve something that should be simple but isn’t. “What's the hold-up, you don’t like him or something?”
Katsuki says nothing.
Which, coming from him, is already an answer, just not one Kirishima’s satisfied with.
“Dude,” he presses, stepping closer, voice picking up that familiar incredulous edge, “there’s no way you’ve got someone like Midoriya basically orbiting you and you’re just… not gonna go for it. Half the class would be jump on that instantly. Hell, I’d go for him even—”
“Shut the fuck up, shitty hair.”
“So you don’t like him?”
Katsuki let out a sharp, jagged breath, looking everywhere but at his friend. “Everybody likes the fuckin' nerd. It’s a goddamn plague. Course I fuckin’ like him.”
Kirishima actually barked out a laugh, a hand flying to his chest. “Man, I think that’s the first time you’ve ever uttered a positive sentence in your life.”
“Shut the fuck up, ugh.”
“So what’s the matter then? Wait—” Kirishima squinted, leanng in. “You do know what I mean, right? Like, like-like him. Relationship-wise.”
Katsuki rolled his eyes. “Like-like?" he echoes, mocking, disgusted. "You’re such a fucking child, Eijirou.”
"Did you just-"
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Oh, I’m making it weird,” Kirishima grins, delighted now. “You just called me Eijirou. That’s—nope, I don’t like that. That’s terrifying. Don’t ever do that again.”
“Tch.” Katsuki stands up from his seat, already turning to leave.
“No—no! Bakugou, wait!” Kirishima scrambles up, blocking the door with his shoulder. “Come on. Tell me what it actually is.”
“I can’t fucking date him, alright?”
“Why? It’s Midoriya! You said it yourself, he’s incredible.”
“That’s exactly why!” Katsuki snarled, his palms starting to smoke. “He’s him. There’s… there’s someone better out there for him.”
Kirishima stared at him for a long beat. “Man, what the hell? That is some dramatic-ass nonsense, Bakugou. He likes you, you like him. It’s that easy. I can’t believe you’re actually being a sap about this—I gotta go tell Mina—”
“You tell her,” Katsuki hissed, stepping into Kirishima’s personal space, “and I’m gonna tell her how you said you’d go for the nerd yourself.”
Kirishima held up his hands, retreating. “Okay, okay! Jesus. Fine. My lips are sealed. But seriously, man, why?”
Katsuki’s shoulders slumped, the fire going out of him. He looked down at his own hands—the ones that spent years pushing Izuku away. “He’s Izuku. He deserves someone like… I don’t know, fuckin’ Round Face. Someone soft."
“I mean… Uraraka is not soft,” Kirishima said softly, his voice losing its edge. “But he doesn't look at her like he’s found the North Star. He only looks at you like that.”
“I can’t do it,” Katsuki whispered, the words sounding like a defeat. “I can’t be the thing that holds him back.”
Kirishima looks at him again and he sees something close to pity in the red head's eyes.
I drew a line
I drew a line for you
“Bakugou."
He didn’t look up. “What, Round Face?”
She slips inside, locking the door behind her and Katsuki stares at her with a raised eyebrow.
"Wrong room? Izuku's room is that way."
"The fuck?"
Katsuki shrugs. "You were looking for me?"
"Yes I was looking for you." She studies him for a second, before continuing. “Did you know,” she starts, almost casually, “that you had to be airlifted after the war?”
“…what?”
Uraraka tilts her head. “You didn’t, huh.”
“No, I fuckin’ didn’t,” he snaps, irritation snapping back into place because that’s easier than whatever this is. “What kinda question is that?”
“Do you wanna see?” she asks.
“See what? No idea what the fuck you’re talking about,” he muttered, but he was already sitting up straighter, eyes flicking to her phone. “Show me.”
She turned the screen toward him. Holy fuck, there was so much blood... how on earth had he survived this? No wonder he needed a fucking machine stuck to him. His arm looks shattered, and for the first time in his life he feels sympathy for himself. No wonder he can't use it the way he used to anymore. His legs are in an awkward position like a ragdoll and his face is so swollen and bruised and so much skin split open, he’d have trouble identifying himself in a morgue.
His lifeless looking body had been dragged into Izuku’s lap, arms wrapped around him, head pressed firmly over his heartbeat. The picture is heart breaking really, Izuku, by way of flesh and mind, at least looked alive, but Katsuki sees that look in his eyes. It's not the eyes of the boy he knows and loves.
“…oh,” Katsuki says. "There's... that's a lot of blood. It's not all-"
"That’s your blood," Ochaco corrected quietly. "And those are his hands. They tried to move him, Bakugou. They tried to tell him he needed surgery for his own arms, that he was going to lose his Quirk if he didn't let the droids take him. Do you know what he did?"
"I can fuckin' guess," he muttered.
"Really? Because he stayed with you for twenty-one hours Bakugou."
Katsuki drops the phone on the bed, presses the heel of his palms to his eyes.
"He wouldn't move no matter what we said to him," Uraraka goes on and her voice is soft and distant as she recollects.
“Why did you let him do that?” he demands. He doesn’t know when he started full-on bawling, but here he is. “Uraraka, he hadn’t slept for days, he was probably- he was–”
“We know,” she says gently. “He wouldn’t move. Trust me Katsuki, we tried. I swear, in that moment, I felt like I didn't know Izuku at all.”
"I had no idea."
"We didn't know how to tell you, and honestly I didn't even want to," Ochaco said moving closer to him. For a moment there, he can understand why Izuku likes her "And Deku-kun sure as hell wasn't gonna tell you."
She sits by him and lets him cry like a loser for what feels like hours. Katsuki’s staring at the screen again, but it’s not really the image anymore. Not just that.
“…why are you tellin’ me this,” he mutters.
Uraraka exhales, tucking her phone back into her pocket. “Because I don’t think you get it.”
“Get what.”
“You two,” she says simply.
He scoffs, automatic. “The hell does that—”
“I think,” she continues, talking over him for once, voice still gentle but unyielding, “that you and Midoriya have all this… history, all this weight, all these things you’ve done to each other and for each other, and you just—” she gestures vaguely between them, frustration flickering through her expression, “—walk around pretending it’s not there.”
“That’s not—”
“He waited,” Uraraka cuts in, sharper now. “Do you get that? He stayed. He wouldn’t leave. Even when they told him to rest, even when he could barely stand, he stayed because it was you.”
"I fuckin' know that, OK? I know it's because of me."
"You're getting this all wrong. You think he wants 'soft'?"
"Kirishima told you?"
"He merely confirmed."
Katsuki just shakes his head. "He, um. He would've done it for you too."
Uraraka shook her head. "Maybe. Maybe he would have. You and I both know his kindness is endless- but Bakugou, I've spent months watching him watch you, and sure," she shrugs, "sure I liked him. Could've maybe he loved him too. Would've as well... but the war. The war taught me a lot of things and showed me a lot of things, and I want you to know that you've got it all wrong, man. Even if you think it's not gonna work, you need to try. You need to do atleast that for the sake of your inner-peace."
Katsuki blinks owlishly at her. God, his head hurts and his hands hurt. He felt like a silly cartoon animatronic and all this new information was a comically large anvil bashing his brains in.
“Who the fuck told you that? Gunhead?”
“Shut up,” Uraraka rolls her eyes, sniffling, and shoulders him, and ow. Ow. Fuck, she really was jacked now.
“I’m not saying you have to confess tomorrow. I’m just saying… don’t pretend this—” she gestured vaguely at the dark screen “—didn’t happen. Don’t pretend he didn’t almost die waiting for someone to tell him you were okay. Don’t pretend you didn’t spend every second after that pushing yourself harder so you could stand next to him again.”
“I know. I just don't know hHow to be what he needs without fuckin’ it up worse.”
Ochaco’s expression softened. “Maybe start by believing you’re allowed to try.”
Katsuki huffed a laugh that had no humor in it. "Fucking Gunhead”
“Yeah, well. He’s not wrong.” She stood up, brushing her hands on her thighs. “Just… think about it, okay? Before you decide he’s better off without you. Because from where I’m standing? He’s been waiting for you since we were kids. And he’s still waiting. He doesn't want soft or whatever the fuck else you seem to think. I’m tired of watching my best friend wait for a permission slip you’re too proud to sign. Or too scared to, whatever. Take a chance, Bakugou, just do it. Take the leap, you know what I mean?"
“No,” Katsuki says even though he does feel lighter, from the crying, from the kinda girltalk he was starting to realise was far preferred than the kind Pinky gave him. “You sounded smarter when you were quoting Gunhead.”
“You are such a jerk.”
“—m’ sayin’, man—” crunch crunch crunch “—you can’t just—” another handful, because apparently the first one wasn’t enough “—keep starin’ at him like that—people are gonna notice—”
Katsuki doesn’t even look at him, which is probably the only thing stopping this from escalating immediately into violence.
“Shut the fuck up. You're going to go blab it to everyone anyway.”
Kirishima nods like this is a completely reasonable response, still chewing, still talking, somehow doing both louder now, gesturing wildly with the hand that is not currently full of popcorn, which just means the other hand immediately corrects that oversight and grabs more.
“I’m serious—” crunch “—it’s like—” crunch crunch “—every time Midoriya moves you’re—” he makes a vague, wiggly gesture with his fingers that sends two kernels flying onto the table “—like that—”
"Why do we always have a conversation when you are in the middle of stuffing your face?"
"Not always. You don't see me when I'm stuffing my face in Mina's-"
"Oh my God."
If sunlight had a body, it would look a lot like a green haired freckled idiot.
Katsuki had always thought people were full of shit when they talked about warmth, about light, about someone being the kind of person who could change the air just by walking into a room, but when Izuku smiled—hell, even when he just stood there breathing all soft and uneven, muttering and mumbling like the nerd always fuckin' did—there was something about it that hit him right in the chest, made it hard to look away and even harder to stay still, like every instinct in him was tuned to that one boy who never learned how to stop caring. Katsuki, who’d sworn he was immune to that kind of thing, who’d thought he’d built walls high enough to drown in, found himself shaking, hands betraying him, because somehow he’d ended up holding something too damn precious, something that could burn him alive if he wasn’t careful, and he couldn’t make himself let go.
Katsuki watched the way Izuku’s lashes trembled when he laughed, how his mouth tilted when he was embarassed but couldn’t help it, and when he leaned in close, whispering, “Kachhan sugoi!” Katsuki’s breath stuttered, because he wanted to tell Deku he's equally amazing, always was and Katsuki wasn't running anymore, not from this, not from him, not with Izuku’s hand pressed against his shoulder like that, thumb brushing the old scar that had once been a line of anger and now felt like a mark of forgiveness.
And when Deku laughed too loud at lunch the next day, Katsuki looked away before anyone could see the corner of his mouth twitch, and when Deku had spent the whole afternoon hanging out with Uraraka, Katsuki had seethed, seethed so hard his hands itched, chest tight with something he didn’t want to name, until—oh, oh.
And when Deku had shyly reached for his wrist, just barely brushing his fingers there like he wasn’t sure he was allowed, Katsuki had folded, folded, like every wall he’d built, every hard thing he’d told himself about not caring, not needing, had suddenly turned to dust. He didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. He just stood there, heart beating so loud it drowned everything else out, and Deku looked up at him through those lashes, all uncertain and glowing and Katsuki was gone, gone, gone.
"You have to get it. You get it, don't you Kacchan?"
“Izuku,” Katsuki shakes his head, fully intending to tell him to cut it out despite what Uraraka said. Take that look of adoration elsewhere dammit he does not deserve it. “Not after everything.”
“Lapse of judgment,” Izuku says.
“Fuck you, that’s not funny.”
Izuku steps even closer and Katsuki's mind goes blank. From this close all he can see is him.
The faint scatter of freckles across Izuku’s cheeks, darker where they bunch near the bridge of his nose, the way his lashes clump slightly like he hasn’t slept enough, which, yeah, no shit, it's his fuckin' fault again, and there’s a thin, healing cut just under his lip that Katsuki doesn’t remember being there before, which means it’s recent, which means he wasn’t there for it, which means—
Fuck.
His gaze drops before he can stop it, tracking the line of Izuku’s throat, the collar of his shirt, the place where the fabric dips just enough to hint at bandages underneath, stark white against skin that’s still not fully healed, and Katsuki’s chest races. No, literally, his pacemaker starts beeping loudly, and it’s embarrassing as fuck. Izuku looks down and bites back a smile, and it’s so cute he forgets for a moment.
Fuuuuuck , what the fuck was he supposed to do when this happened? He scrambles to stop the alarm, reassure it that he is safe yes, he is with a fuckin' guardian, he is getting first aid, blah blah blah.
His palms are sweaty. He never had plans of telling Izuku anyway, but if he did, it would’ve been more suave than this, what the hell. How many fucking times was he going to debase himself in front of this nerd.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Izuku says quietly. “Not unless you tell me to.”
"If- if we... it's for real isn't it? It's for real for me Izuku and I can't. I can't-"
Izuku pulls him in suddenly, and kisses him. He pulls back almost immediately looking comically surprised at his actions.
Katsuki is soaring.
The fucking monitor is beeping again.
"Please just ignore that."
"Mhm," Izuku groans as he buries his face in Katsuki's neck and his face is warm, woah. His curls, damp with sweat and smelling of home, tickled Katsuki’s jaw as he tried to disappear into the heavy muscle of Katsuki’s shoulder.
“Izuku,” Katsuki murmurs, into his ear. “What happened.”
Izuku shakes his head, words muffled into Katsuki’s collar. “Can’t. You have to know, it's too embarrassing.”
"No I know." Katsuki huffs a quiet laugh and tilts his head to press a kiss to the shell of Izuku’s ear. Izuku shivers, fingers curling tighter into the back of Katsuki’s shirt. "Do you not remember your middle school bowlcut-"
"Oh my God, shut up Kacchan."
“Look at me, 'Zuku,” he says between kisses, slow and deliberate. He finds the freckles on Izuku’s temple, presses his lips there. “C’monnnn.”
He tilts his head, trying to catch Izuku’s face, but Izuku just presses closer into his neck, stubbornly refusing, like he can disappear there if he tries hard enough. “Tch. Idiot.”
Katsuki’s hand slides up, fingers brushing along Izuku’s jaw, then his cheek, trying to nudge him back, to get him to look at him. Izuku doesn’t budge an inch, and jesus christ does he train his neck too?
“Oi,” he mutters between them, breath warm against Izuku’s skin, “quit hidin’ from me.”
Izuku makes a strangled noise, half protest, half something worse, shoulders tensing under Katsuki’s hands. “You’re making it worse—”
Katsuki clicks his tongue, pressing one more kiss just under his eye when he finally manages to catch a glimpse of it, thumb hooking under Izuku’s chin to tilt his face up and- “There you are,” he murmurs, almost to himself. "There's my Izuku."
Izuku lights up green again. “Umm, just ignore that.”
“Sure,” Katsuki says, pulling him in and kissing him on the mouth. Whichever of Izuku’s fifty Quirks is acting up right now, he does not care.
Izuku melts into him instantly, and he kissed the way he fought- reckless, desperate, and without any idea how to stop, but underneath the hunger was something almost reverent, a disbelief so deep it ached. Time froze for Katsuki like everything before this moment had been leading here, to the taste of Izuku’s breath, to the feeling of his pulse under Katsuki’s fingertips, to the soft sound Izuku made when their foreheads touched and the world went silent. So sweet.
Bip, bip, bip, bip, bip—
“Ignore that,” Katsuki says immediately, dragging Izuku back in the second he even thinks about pulling away, grip insistent, almost irritated. Pacemaker, fucking cockblocker.
“Kacchan,” Izuku says softly after what feels like hours, and he swipes at the spit on Katsuki’s chin, and kisses him once more before leaning back against the wall with a finality.
"Hi nerd."
"Hi yourself, Kacchan."
Katsuki wants to kiss him again. He thumbs his cheeks around the scar under his eye and pouts. He will never admit this ever. "Stupid fuckin; war. Look at what it did to your freckles."
Izuku smiles. "It's alright, I have lots more."
"Oh yeah? Where?"
Izuku's eyes on his is hot.
"Everywhere."
Katsuki crowds into him against the wall once more, his hands on Izuku's belt. "Looking forward to that," he rasps.
and you know, for you, I'd bleed myself dry
Mina had been at it for almost forty minutes now, methodically filing, buffing, and painting nails one classmate at a time while humming an old pop song under her breath. She’d started with Ochaco first, and her nails were now a soft bubblegum pink with tiny floating zero-gravity dots floating across each finger.
Since then, she had moved on to the boys. Right now she was carefully applying a matte black base coat to Kirishima’s thumbnails while he flexed his fingers experimentally every few seconds to make sure the hardening polish wouldn’t crack when he hardened later just for fun.
Behind them, the rest of the class milled around in loose groups, adjusting ties, re-pinning boutonnieres that kept falling off, or just scrolling through their phones one last time before the ceremony actually started. Izuku sat a few chairs away with his cap already perfectly straight (of course), scribbling last-minute notes in the margins of Iida's valedictorian speech. His nails were already painted.
Katsuki lounged in the seat directly beside him, arms crossed, one leg kicked out. He was debating whether the whole event was worth getting dressed up for—but he hadn’t taken the cap off, so that was something. His nails were painted too.
Across the room, Tsuyu is standing with a small pencil held like it is a matter of principle.
“It’s important,” she says, completely calm, completely immovable, “if we are dressing up, we should do it properly. Eyeliner suits everyone, kero.”
“You are not putting that near my eye,” Kaminari says immediately, backing up like she’s threatening him with a weapon.
“You will look good,” Tsuyu replies, already stepping forward.
“I already look good.”
Katsuki half expects Tsuyu to scoff at him like usual, but Graduation day seemed to have everyone in high spirits so-
“You will look better.”
Someone calls them to line up eventually, the ceremony starting whether they’re ready or not, and there’s a shuffle of bodies and fabric and last-minute adjustments.
It's mostly just teachers saying things about potential and responsibility and futures that feel too big to hold properly yet, words that land somewhere but not quite where they’re supposed to, because the real thing is standing shoulder to shoulder with people who have seen you at your worst and didn’t leave.
He watches Izuku laughing softly at something Uraraka is saying, something about how he has to hold his diploma carefully later or he’ll smudge everything.
“I’ll be careful,” he promises, which means absolutely nothing.
“You won’t,” she says, fond and resigned.
“As has been tradition at UA for many years,” Principal Nezu announced in his steady, slightly gravelly voice, “we now present the Class Awards—voted on by your peers, your teachers, and the support staff who’ve watched you grow these past three years.”
The class whooped, because this part is theirs, this part is ridiculous and loud and entirely unnecessary, which is exactly why it matters.
The first few went quickly. “Class Clown…” A dramatic pause. “Denki Kaminari.” The blond jumped up with a whoop, nearly knocking his cap off as he jogged to the stage to collect the little engraved plaque shaped like a cartoon lightning bolt. Everyone clapped and laughed, Sero wolf-whistling from the back row.
“I knew it,” he says, pointing at himself like this is a victory of the highest order as he came skipping back.
“You absolutely did not earn that,” Jirou says, but she’s laughing.
“Excuse you, I worked very hard to be this stupid.”
“Best Dressed…” Another envelope opened. “Momo Yaoyorozu.” Polite applause turned into genuine cheers as Momo rose gracefully, her gown tailored to perfection, the fabric catching the light just so as she walked up to accept her award with a small, pleased smile and a bow.
“Class Scholar…” The room looked on expectantly.
“Midoriya Izuku.”
Izuku’s face immediately went bright red and he stood up too fast, almost tripped over his own feet, and had to catch himself on the back of the chair in front of him. Katsuki snorted beside him, because what the fuck kinda prize was that, and it was loud enough for the people nearby to hear, but he reached out and steadied Izuku’s elbow anyway before the green-haired boy hurried to the stage. When he returned, clutching the heavy plaque that said something about academic excellence and heroic analysis.
Katsuki wheezed. "Look at you babe, you won a prize for being a nerd!"
"Shut up Kacchan."
“And now for the Class Hero... or should I say, heroes?”
The auditorium lights seemed to brighten just a fraction more.
“Midoriya Izuku and Bakugou Katsuki!”
"WOOO!" There's a yell and it's Pinky, of course it's Pinky, but he looks over at Izuku who is smiling brightly at him and a smile breaks out on his face. Fuck yeah. To be on there with Izuku... Katsuki understands what it means to finally win.
Man he had victory understood all wrong.
"Come on Kacchan."
A few more scattered awards went around—Sero for Most Creative Use of Quirk in Everyday Life, Jiro for Best Soundtrack to Training Sessions—and then the principal cleared his throat again, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
“And finally… our fan-favorite award, decided entirely by write-in votes from the entire student body, faculty, staff, and even some very persistent parents…”
He didn’t even get the chance to finish the sentence.
“TODOROKI! TODOROKI! TODOROKI!”
The chant started somewhere in the middle of Class 1-A and spread like wildfire, every single voice in their section joining in at full volume. Even the people in other classes turned around, amused. Shouto Todoroki, who had been sitting quietly in his chair looked around, alarmed.
The announcer laughs, because there’s nothing else to do at that point.
“Shouto Todoroki.”
Izuku is clapping when Katsuki drags him away. "Come on," he doesn't care about sounding desperate. He's already fucking hard. "You said graduation."
Izuku follows without a word.
For you, I'd bleed myself dry.
Ochaco stood at the head table, her fingers trembling slightly as she smoothed out a piece of crinkled notebook paper.
"Hi, everyone… wow. Okay, I'm going try and keep this professional. I promised myself I wouldn't cry before the first sentence, but… here we are." She laughs as she sniffles. "I'm Ochaco, for anyone here from Katsuki’s side who somehow missed the entire last decade of our lives. I'm the maid of honour, which means I’ve been witnessing… whatever this has been,” she gestures between them, laughter already rippling through the room, “for a very long time.”
She glances at them again, softening.
“And I mean a very long time.”
She took a deep breath.
“Five years ago we were at a party. We were celebrating ourselves, for it had been a hard year, and I'd like to ask our dear Aizawa sensei to please cover his ears for what I’m about to admit involved a very questionable amount of alcohol.”
Aizawa waves her off with one hand, covering his teary eyes with the other. Beside him, Mic is cheering.
"So, anyway. We were all painting our nails because Mina insisted it was 'team bonding.' Izuku," she turns to him. "We dragged you upstairs, and pooled all our makeup together to give him the best girls night of his life. Tsu-chan was the one who had brought out the nailpaints, and we had the brilliant idea to paint one nail for each of our friends. But Izuku was so determined to make sure sure Katsuki had the largest real estate on his nails, that we ended up fighting over it for the rest of the day."
People chuckle; Mina somewhere in the room groans in recognition.
"So, very dramatically, Izuku painted all the fingers in his left hand with orange and black, the iconic colour scheme of our hero here."
Izuku is already covering his face. Ochaco’s voice softens again.
“And today…” she says gently, “today I watched Katsuki claim Izuku’s left hand all over again.”
She lifts her own hand unconsciously, mirroring the memory.
"Except this time, it's not with some dollar store nailpolish, it's a beautiful ring."
"Except this time, we did not fight over fair share, because when Izuku's hands are in his Kacchan's, he is home."
Ochaco raised her glass high, her smile bright enough to rival the chandeliers.
"To the angry boy who painted his heart orange and black before he even knew how to say it out loud, and to the now no longer angry, patient, gentle man who finally realized he was the only one allowed to hold the hand."
“To Katsuki and Izuku— may the polish never smudge, the hands never let go, and the arguments always end with one of you holding the other anyway.”
“Cheers.”