Chapter Text
“Bakugou, I want to propose to Izuku.”
It takes all of Katsuki’s insane hero reflexes not to drop his cup of coffee. He curls his fingers tighter around the ceramic, lets the residual heat burn through his palms, takes another long sip to steady himself. Katsuki cannot decipher the look in Shouto’s eyes, he isn’t a mind reader like Izuku is, but he’s getting thoughtful and resolute vibes.
The first thing Katsuki says is, “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’re Izuku’s best friend,” Shouto answers as if it’s the plainest truth in the world, like how the sky is blue and the sun is gold. Clear as crystalline. Katsuki doesn’t know how that makes him feel, being recognised as Izuku’s best friend by the love of Izuku’s life, by Izuku himself. The label doesn’t settle nicely in his chest, frayed around the edges, lacking all the solidity that Shouto had uttered those words with.
“The recent attack made me think a lot about the fragility of life, about settling down. You- no, we of all people should know that,” Shouto continues speaking in his unnervingly honest way, “It’s one of the reasons Izuku decided to stay in Tokyo. He hasn’t spoken about it explicitly but I know.”
Memories from years ago flash haphazardly in Katsuki’s head, split second visuals of being pierced through with a bladed tendril, of Izuku falling into his arms. It draws an ache deep from his gut, intensifying with each image that plays like a screen across his brain.
“I got permission from Inko-san a few days ago. I’m hoping to propose within the month and ask Izuku to move out with me. I’m thinking of staying in Japan for good,” says Shouto simply, while Katsuki takes in each word blow by blow. He tries not to crumple at the thought of not living with Izuku anymore—because he doesn’t deserve to, because it’s a given that he and Shouto would end up married and have their own place eventually. But Katsuki’s heart is betraying him, a shattered muscle hammering in his chest.
“I think it’s time that I start a family of my own.” And Katsuki comprehends the gravity of the word ‘family’, thinks of the time he stepped into the gaping wound that is the Todoroki residence, closed in on all sides by blood and sinew. Over some of the best mapo tofu he’s ever had, bleeding through another person’s wounds.
“Look,” Katsuki starts, “this sounds great, okay, I don’t know. What I’m struggling to see is how I fit into the picture.”
“I’m not the most romantic person,” Shouto explains, and Katsuki wants to scoff, because love is spelled in the letters Midoriya Izuku and Todoroki Shouto, everything that exists in the space between them, transcending time and dimension and the frankly pathetic concept of romance, “so I would like to ask how do you think I should propose.”
“You’ve been dating him since we were seventeen. And you’re asking me how I think you should propose?”
“You’ve known him since you were three,” Shouto answers matter-of-factly.
“We hated each other.” Saying it aloud expands the crevice in Katsuki’s chest, years of residual guilt spilling from the fissures.
“Izuku didn’t hate you.” For a brief moment, Katsuki wonders what Izuku had told Shouto about their friendship, if he had someone to share the pain with. The blonde man fervently hopes so.
“And hate is too simple a word for what you felt, Bakugou. I’m just- asking for your input, from one friend to another. I asked Uraraka-san and Iida-kun and Asui-san and Yaoyorozu too.”
Hate is too simple a word for what you felt, Bakugou.
“What did they say?”
For a quiet moment, Shouto pauses to backtrack all their opinions. He uncurls a finger for each one he reads out. “Uraraka-san said I should do something super romantic and grand, fly him to Okinawa, fairy lights at the beach. Yaoyorozu said something along the same lines, bring Izuku to a fancy Michelin restaurant, somewhere with a view. Asui-san said I should make a card and Iida-kun thinks I should bribe him with All Might merchandise.”
That makes Katsuki crack a laugh. He ponders over it. When he thinks of Izuku, he sees bruised hands scrawling furiously over paper, translating intent and observation into syntax and lexicon, something tangible. He sees brilliant smile after brilliant smile directed at the smallest of things—azure skies, candy apples, little children. A homemade meal of katsudon. He sees little moments stacked upon little moments, blocks of diligence and honesty compounded into the person that is Midoriya Izuku. The image makes him shiver.
“There’s no need for grand gestures,” Katsuki breathes out instinctively, “Fuck the fairy lights and the Michelin restaurant, no offense to Round Cheeks and Ponytail. Also, I can’t think of any All Might merch you can give that he doesn’t already own.”
He sees Izuku baking cookies and roll cakes and shortbread, sleepy-eyed in the mornings, bruised hands wrapped around another pair of bruised hands.
“The toad is right though, he might like a card.”
“She has a name,” Shouto deadpans, “they all have names.”
“What I mean to say is Deku’s all about the little things. He doesn’t need what money can buy,” Katsuki pauses here to exhale a breath, cheeks flaming up at having to translate these sentiments into words, “The nerd likes the everyday things, y’know. Likes sincerity. It doesn’t have to condense into one single grand moment society deems as a fucking proposal. Write him a card, be sincere about it, then ask him straight up, Icy Hot. That’s what I think, at least.”
Shouto keeps quiet for a long moment, eyes fixated on Katsuki. It makes him nervous, and Katsuki chugs the rest of his coffee, heart palpitating rapidly as he wonders if he’d sounded too open, too honest.
Then Shouto breaks the silence and says, “You know what, Bakugou? I think you’re right.”
☼
Two weeks later, Shouto proposes to Izuku. A three-page letter, a ring, and the living room. Katsuki stares at the Instagram photo for a long time, fingers curled around his phone in a vice grip. Shouto’s genuinely happy smile, the corner of his lips pulled upward to reveal a flash of teeth. Izuku’s eyes completely dissolved into crescents, tear tracks magnifying, liquefying the spattering of freckles underneath. The back of his hand faced towards the camera, the golden band circling his fourth finger. Studded with a ruby in the middle, shaped in a teardrop, which Katsuki will later come to learn is the Todoroki family heirloom. Surrounding the opal are little sapphire and emerald gems, blue for Shouto, green for Izuku. These, Katsuki will also come to learn that Shouto has added to the original ring, with the help of that support girl from their batch whose name he cannot remember.
The caption reads, I said yes, embellished with so many heart emojis he’s sure Izuku has reached the word limit. Katsuki stares and stares, until the image is all he sees, imprinted like a burn behind his eyes.
But it’s not the white-hot, wildfire kind of burn. It’s not blazes of red and gold, not the explosions blasting off his skin. This burn is bluer, quieter, and it enshrouds Katsuki’s chest in flames that’re reminiscent of winter instead of summer heatwaves. So cold that it burns.
Izuku is ridiculously happy in the weeks that come after. There’s a spring in his step everywhere he goes and he’s constantly smiling at his ring, smiling at the letter on his table, creased from folding and unfolding. Katsuki sees Shouto a lot around the house now, hears quiet laughter from the room next door, and it amplifies the burn, the heat. The couple try to include Katsuki in their activities, especially Izuku who exclaims: Kacchan, come play Hanafuda with us! Kacchan, come watch Tokyo Revengers with us! But Katsuki always comes up with some excuse to escape. How do you tell someone they make you feel like an outsider in your own home?
Izuku is moving out in two months’ time. The wedding is in four. Every single day, Katsuki struggles to make sense of the numbers. When the digits make themselves known in the emptied shelves, the new stockpile of cartons, when they begin lining all his thoughts with a blue-hued sadness, Katsuki chases the feeling with an ice cold Asahi Dry.
One of the evenings after work, Shouto has returned to Musutafu and Katsuki is stirring curry on the stove. Izuku ambles into the kitchenette, wearing an upcurl of lips. “Smells good, Kacchan.”
“What did I say about entering the kitchen?” Katsuki grumbles half-heartedly, tossing chopped carrots into the pot.
“I wanted to ask you something.” The serious tone to Izuku’s voice makes him slightly flustered but Katsuki grounds himself in the constant motion of stirring his spoon, curry bubbling underneath. “Shoot.”
“Kacchan, I want to ask you to be my best man.”
Katsuki almost drops the utensil into the pot. “What for?”
The green haired-man whines, leaning into Katsuki’s space, attempting to dip a finger into the curry while Katsuki quickly swats his hand away. “What do you mean ‘what for’, Kacchan? You’re my best friend. ”
There it is again, that stupid label, said with so much plainness and clarity, like the sky is blue and the sun is gold. Suddenly, Katsuki wants to fling the curry onto the floor, smash his fist into the nearby refrigerator. Turning unsaid words into screams into an ache that’s physical. I told you to kill yourself. I threw your notebook into the water. I made your life a fucking living hell.
How do you call me your best friend? How do you do it, every single day?
“I’m not,” he says through gritted teeth, turning down the gas. Izuku rolls his eyes. “I’m not even gonna debate with you on this, Kacchan. You are my best friend, that’s final. And I want you to be my best man.”
Katsuki attempts to swallow the lump in his throat, to no avail. “Why don’t you ask Round Cheeks or Four Eyes instead? They’d make a lot more sense.”
“Tenya’s going to be Shouto’s best man! And Ochako is someone dear to me, but I want you, Kacchan. They’ll all be groomsmen and groomswomen but I want you to be the best man,” Izuku chimes, beaming.
Forest green hair, eyes of the same shade. Those stupid, stupid freckles. A smile so wide it burns to look at, as if you’re staring straight into the sun.
Katsuki attempts to say no, to no avail.
☼
A two-bedroom apartment in Ebisu that overlooks the city, facing the east where the sun rises in the morning. The bathroom is tiled in turquoise ceramic, and it features a bathtub that could fit the both of them if they squeeze. Floor-to-ceiling windows because Izuku likes sunlight-dappled spaces, a king-sized bed that feels like clouds, Kacchan. But also futons for the times they have friends and family over, and you better come visit lots, Kacchan. The smallest kitchenette known to mankind, a given as they both suck at cooking, but there’s a Panasonic oven for Izuku’s baking ventures and, don’t worry Kacchan, there’s a lot of good food around the area, I'll promise to eat well. A genkan by the door, a kotatsu for the winter. The general colour scheme of beige and nude, interspersed with the striking reds and blues of Izuku’s All Might merchandise, and the dark greens and browns of Shouto’s bonsai plants.
From where Katsuki is now going to live alone, Izuku’s new apartment is thirty minutes away by train, twenty minutes by car, and ten minutes by blasting at full speed ahead.
Whatever remaining items there are have been packed into carton boxes, ready to be loaded into the moving truck. Izuku’s room is as bare as the day they’d first moved in together.
“I’m gonna miss this place,” the green haired-man sighs, running his fingers over the couch rest, “and all the movie nights we had here, Kacchan.”
Katsuki can still conjure the image, clear as day —homemade cookies on the table, glass of milk rimmed with crumbs, the bluish glow of their TV screen illuminating the planes on Izuku’s sleeping face, the weight of his head against Katsuki’s neck.
Izuku saunters along the living room to the kitchenette, a trip down memory lane, and Katsuki follows quietly behind. “You don’t let me cook here, Kacchan, but there are so many fond memories. Baking all sorts of pastries, watching you make dinner…”
Katsuki thinks of sharing conversations in the kitchen, stirring into a pot of seaweed miso soup while Izuku blabbers his ear off about work at the side. He thinks of waking up to the scent of saccharine apple pies and buttery castella cakes, Izuku feeding him bits and pieces until the morning grumpiness seeps out of his body.
A few steps ahead, the four-seater dining table. Izuku smiles wistfully. “And we’ve had so many wonderful meals here! Kacchan, you’re seriously the best cook I know. I’m gonna miss your food so much.”
Steaming bowls of curry and udon and ramen and katsudon. A chorus of itadakimasu! Trading anecdotes over the dinner table, the feelings of domesticity that Katsuki tried so hard to push down. The contented smile bracketing the curve of Izuku’s mouth every time he digs into the food.
“You better eat well when you’re there,” Katsuki finds himself choking out, “I’m gonna call Icy Hot and make sure you don’t end up skipping meals or having konbini dinners.”
“Shouto wouldn’t let me,” Izuku lilts, a little quieter than before, “Besides, we could always have dinner together after work. You could always come visit.”
Katsuki aches and aches, tries not to grasp for straws, to hold onto that dangerous sense of hope.
“Don’t be a stranger, Kacchan.”
It takes everything out of him to spit the words, “You too, shitty nerd.”
They reach the porch where all the boxes are piled waiting for the truck to arrive. Izuku will leave with them too. All around them, spring presents itself in blooming trees and the light breeze that flutters through the air. Izuku gazes up at Katsuki, an indecipherable look in his eyes. “Thanks for everything, Kacchan.”
Katsuki shrugs. “I didn’t do shit.”
And then Izuku brings up his hands to cup around Katsuki’s face, squeezing his cheeks. Just like how Eijiro would envelop Katsuki in a bone-crushing hug, or how Hanta would dig his fingers into Katsuki’s waist and tickle his ribs. The kind of affection that’s outlined by platonic love. But Katsuki’s heart is stuttering in his chest and everything aches.
“Kacchan, you know that I forgive you, right?” Izuku asks breathlessly. Katsuki is at a loss for words, the only sound he’s capable of hearing is his pulsating heartbeat.
Izuku presses his hands deeper, delivering his words like a riptide. “I forgive you, Kacchan. I’ve forgiven you a long time ago. But all of this wouldn’t matter if you can’t forgive yourself.”
When Izuku leaves, Katsuki returns to the apartment and stands motionless in the other’s now emptied bedroom, breathing in, breathing out, breathing in, breathing out, until he’s sure that every trace of Izuku’s scent has faded away.
☼
Katsuki exists upon the great divide between seeing Izuku at work, having dinners together, fulfilling best man duties, then coming home to an empty apartment, prepping meals for one, sinking in the quietude. Everything is the same and then, everything is so different. Izuku reminds him to find a new housemate and Katsuki has put up a listing, but he doesn’t have the heart to scour through the applications, meet new people. He’s never liked meeting new people.
Everyday, the wedding date draws nearer and nearer. Katsuki is in charge of the decorations and the food —the former clearly not being his forte, and he leaves that mostly to the hands of Ochako, who teases, Deku-kun should have asked me to be his best woman instead! Katsuki delves into the catering side, sampling various menus during their lunch breaks, because there are many things that Katsuki feels strongly about, but the strongest of them has to be food.
Katsuki gets through everything with sheer will alone. The suit fitting, the bachelor’s party. He cooks up a storm in his apartment and everyone’s there—Izuku, Ochako, Shinsou, Mirio, Eri, Eijiro. It’s a wholesome affair, no chugging of alcohol or midnight dance parties at the club because Eri may have turned eighteen, but she’ll always be the sweet little sister in their eyes and they don’t want to taint that perception of her. So it’s all food and music and hearty conversations, not that it matters to Katsuki who sits in a corner sulky and quiet, while Eijiro prods him teasingly every few minutes. He briefly wonders if they’re going wild over at Shouto’s side, though he’s sure Tenya and Yaoyorozu will keep the crazies in check.
Watching Izuku in his element is a reminder of all the other great divides Katsuki exists upon. A people’s person, someone born to be loved—that’s who Izuku is, even if Katsuki had spent their entire childhood trying to defy that truth. As Izuku’s sharing a laugh with Eri over candied fruit, as he’s poking and prodding at Shinsou to make sure the other hasn’t drifted too far from the conversation, Katsuki is brought back to his schooling years at U.A. He chances a look at Eijiro, who’s stayed friends with him throughout, despite all of Katsuki’s half-hearted attempts to push him away. Denki, Mina, and Hanta, too. Then Izuku, again, the shape of his forgiveness. It’s still too abstract, too big in Katsuki’s hands to hold. Katsuki sits in a corner at his own apartment sulky and quiet, because he doesn’t know if he has the right to share laughter with everyone else.
Izuku looks up and smiles at him anyway.
When everyone has fallen asleep sprawled out over the futons, Katsuki retreats to the kitchenette to do the dishes. He hears approaching footsteps, a yawn. It’s Eijiro.
“You good, bro?”
“Go to sleep, Shitty Hair. Or at least make yourself useful and help with the dishes.”
Eijiro hums obligingly, joining him at the sink. They work in tandem with practised ease, Katsuki scrubbing the plates and bowls, Eijiro rinsing them. The atmosphere is supposed to be comfortable, and yet, it’s as though all the things on Katsuki’s mind weigh so heavily they’ve sparked the air between them.
And then Eijiro says, “Katsuki, you know you deserve to be happy too, right?”
Katsuki doesn’t know. He really doesn’t know.
They have one final rehearsal before the wedding day. Katsuki’s seen the location in pictures but it doesn’t compare to seeing it up close—marbled floors stretching out endlessly beneath his feet, rounded windows that let in lots of natural light, benches cut out of glass, refracting the midafternoon sun rays, circling the center stage. Ochako’s already fussing about, the roses go here, the hydrangeas go there. Katsuki just stands there, drinking it all in.
Tomorrow, he’s going to wear a suit.
Tomorrow, Inko's going to walk Izuku down the aisle, and Rei will walk Shouto from the other end. Then, they’ll meet in the middle and say their vows, on the center stage where friends and family will make their speeches, and celebrate the love of two high school sweethearts. Katsuki will stay at his end with Izuku’s team of groomsmen and groomswomen, and watch this love unfold before his eyes, take on a new shape, a new name.
“Okay, we’ll do one final test run,” Yaoyorozu commands, “let’s go, team!”
Katsuki lines up with Ochako, Eijiro, Mirio, Shinsou, and Eri. Standing nearest to the entrance, he’ll be the first to see when Izuku walks in. On the other end, Tenya, Yaoyorozu, Tsuyu, Fumikage, and Inasa are parting in a line, throwing up petals and shadows and snowdust as Shouto strides in, arm laced with his mother’s. Katsuki inhales, takes this as his cue. Three, two, one, and then Ochako is floating up the flowers, the lights, and Izuku is ambling in with Inko in tow.
In hindsight, this shouldn’t be the moment where Katsuki snaps. Izuku’s not even wearing his suit, the white one with the green tie which made Katsuki tongue-tied during the fitting. Just skinny jeans, that stupid viridian sweater. Just—forest green hair, eyes of the same shade, rosy cheeks. Stupid, stupid freckles. Just a smile that feels more blinding than the sun. They’re just rehearsing, it isn’t even the actual wedding yet, but Katsuki’s heart cleaves in two, shatters to the floor. Veins, muscle, blood, and all. Utterly, utterly shatters.
The first thing he does is clutch at his chest, like that could hold his heart from spilling out. From beside him, he hears Ochako hitch a breath, already tearing up as Izuku strides past them, still smiling so brightly. So devastatingly. Katsuki presses his fingers deeper, feels the ache spread beneath his hands. Hears a ringing in his ears, soft cries and laughter beyond like background noise to the whirling thoughts in his head. Everything hurts.
A nudge at his shoulder. It’s Eijiro. Katsuki thinks he hears him say, “Are you okay, bro?” Of course, I’m okay. Of course, I’m fucking okay. But the words are stuck in his throat. Years and years of childhood, middle school, high school, living together, working in the same agency, and now, not living together anymore, watching Izuku get married. That immovable rock. Something rattles through his lungs, stealing his breath. It quivers through his ribs. Everything hurts.
“Bro? Katsuki?” Eijiro asks again, tugging on his sleeve. Katsuki’s eyes begin to water and he needs to get out of the room, now.
“I-I need to go to the bathroom.”
Katsuki stumbles out of the hall and then he’s skidding as far off as he possibly can, tears streaming down his face. It’s like a dam has broken inside him, and Katsuki is bursting at the seams, shaking with its force. Because he knows this feeling has always lived under his skin, carving a home out of his heart, and now it’s out there in the open, after watching Izuku walk down the aisle. Because Katsuki had foolishly thought, that as long as he didn’t give it a name, he could pretend it wasn’t there. Because it feels like just yesterday when he’d thrown Izuku’s notebook into the water and told him his life was meaningless without a quirk. So how could he hold this feeling in his chest, now?
Katsuki can’t stop crying. The tears won’t stop falling, everything hurts, feels like razor-sharp nails have sunk into his skin and torn his flesh apart. He’s heaving with the weight of his sobs, air punched out of his lungs, his ribs. Still running. Running until he cannot run anymore, until his knees crumple and he’s falling to the ground—
A pair of hands catch him from the back. Katsuki sinks into the press of those hands. “Eijiro,” he croaks out, wincing at how broken he sounds, even to himself.
Gingerly, Eijiro flips Katsuki to face him. His eyes are burning with concern and Katsuki feels like running again, like screaming into the void: Why do you care? Why do you care? I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve any of it.
“Katsuki. Breathe.”
And Katsuki tries, but his legs feel like they’re going to give out. His crimson haired-friend grips onto his shoulders even tighter, grounding him. “Breathe, Katsuki, you gotta breathe for me.”
When the entire villain league incident was over, all the classes at U.A. were mandated for therapy. Katsuki draws up the breathing technique he’d learned back then. Four, seven, eight. Four, seven, eight. He’s still sputtering, but it helps.
“Izu-”
“They think we’re using the bathroom, it’s okay,” Eijiro reassures.
Four, seven, eight. Four, seven, eight.
“Y’know, Katsuki, you’re always going on about how we don’t know how to take care of ourselves. But look at you, taking on the weight of the world on your own.”
The weight of Katsuki’s world, the weight of his feelings. Midoriya Izuku.
“I meant what I said that day, y’know? During the bachelor’s party. You deserve to be happy too.”
Why do you care? Why do you care? I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve any of it.
“You didn’t answer me, back then. I’m waiting for you now.”
Katsuki inhales deeply again, lets out a shuddery breath. Eijiro’s gaze is so focused, deep red eyes shimmering under the sunlight, and Katsuki can see the scar running across the right one, remembers the story behind it, when Eijiro had rubbed it accidentally with his hardened hand. I’m waiting for you now, he’d said. And Katsuki might not deserve many things, but Eijiro definitely deserves his answer.
“It took me ten years to realise that I don’t hate Izuku,” Katsuki breathes out, “and another ten more to realise that- that I love him.”
Love. That’s what it is, the unnamed emotion. The weight of the world, the weight of his feelings. Midoriya Izuku. Everything seeps out of him and he crumples onto Eijiro, falling over his shoulder. Eijiro rubs tiny circles onto his back, whispering, “It’s okay, Katsuki. It’s okay.”
It’s okay. It’s okay.
Katsuki, you know you deserve to be happy too, right?
I forgive you, Kacchan. I’ve forgiven you a long time ago. But all of this wouldn’t matter if you can’t forgive yourself.
“I know,” Katsuki finally says aloud.
The world starts spinning again.
☼
The wedding is a resounding success. Everyone’s laughing, everyone’s crying, and really, literally everyone is there. Their batchmates, their seniors, their juniors. Their teachers. Izuku would’ve loved it if All Might were around for this. The thought of it makes Katsuki’s chest ache. Both the grooms’ families, even Touya. Some of the people whom Izuku has saved, who then became close friends. The entire fucking pro hero industry. And of course, anywhere with Izuku and Shouto becomes a 1A reunion.
Izuku looks like a dream in that pristine white suit, lapels embellished with intricate silver patterns, viridian green tie hugging his collar. Hair gelled up, eyes lined with kohl, glittery highlight on his cheekbones. When he walks into the hall with Inko by his side, Shouto instantly bursts into tears, which in turn makes Izuku cry, too, make-up smudged underneath salt and moisture.
They meet halfway on the centre stage and everyone’s laughing, everyone’s crying.
“Todoroki Shouto —” he starts, then stops, breaking into another sob, drawing sniffles and laughter from the guests around, “When I first saw you, you had that look in your eyes, and I thought to myself,” another pause, another sob, “that I would break all my bones for you.”
“He did though! Broke all the bones in his arm!” Denki shouts from where he is in the crowd and everyone bursts into laughter. Izuku lets out a shivery chuckle.
“Back then, I couldn’t name this feeling. I just knew, you looked at me like I hung up all the stars in the sky, and for you, I thought I would. I knew I would. Years later, I would learn to name this feeling, that it meant I’ve loved you since we were sixteen. When things fell to dark, you were there, reminding me that I didn’t need to shoulder the weight of the world on my own. You were there in every crevice, every crook and nanny. You were there, in all the little moments, giving, giving, giving, without expecting anything in return. You bared your whole heart to me, and how could I not love it? How could I not love you? ”
Katsuki feels his eyes prickle. Everyone’s crying.
“You make me want to become a better person. To absorb all of you, the little moments, the little gestures, each and every word, and you make me want to return all of them tenfold, a hundredfold, a thousandfold. For you, I’ll chase the infinities in love. And look at us now- we’ll have the rest of our lives for that, right?”
Everyone’s crying, everyone’s clapping. Shouto breathes into the mic, and Katsuki can hear the slight tremble to his voice. “You were always better with words,” he starts, tears streaking down his cheeks, “Midoriya Izuku, I think it’s funny how you say that I’m a giver, when you’re the gift that never stops giving. A light that never stops shining. You reach the darkest places. You’ve reached the darkest places inside of me.”
The mic captures Izuku’s sob and it echoes throughout the hall, piercing through Katsuki’s chest like a dagger.
“The day I met you, was the day my life was changed forever. In an instant, you transformed my perspective of the world. In an instant, you saved my life. You gave me the gift of purpose and from then on, I knew I had to share this purpose, this life, with you. You and only you, Izuku. Forever.”
“Forever,” Izuku repeats.
“Yaoyorozu helped me with the script by the way,” Shouto deadpans and there’s laughter again. Katsuki can’t help cracking a smile.
They kiss and exchange rings. Everyone’s cheering. Then, friends and family take turns to go up on the stage, sharing testimonies on how Shouto and Izuku’s love story has touched their lives.
“Deku-kun was driving me nuts in high school,” mocks Ochako, tears in her eyes, “he wouldn’t shut up about Todoroki-kun. I had to force them together somehow or I would just lose my mind with the way he was muttering all the time.” Class 1A hollers in agreement.
“You look at them and think, they just make sense. Like the natural laws of the universe, they were made to be,” states Fumikage matter-of-factly.
“I empathise with you, Uraraka-san. Todoroki-san wouldn’t, pardon my language, shut up about Midoriya-san all the time either,” adds Yaoyorozu.
“I still remember when Midoriya and Todoroki came to save me, back in our first year. Midoriya sent a mass message to the entire class and Todoroki appeared instantly. That was the first time I learned, when it comes to Midoriya, Todoroki will never hesitate. He’ll always be there,” says Tenya.
“Before Midoriya, I never knew Shouto could smile like that. I’m so glad we could see him smile like that everyday now, for everyday Midoriya’s with him,” cries Fuyumi.
“Midoriya-san taught me how to smile,” says Eri, sweetly, like an ultimatum, “and when I saw him together with Todoroki-san, they taught me what love was.”
Warmth blooms in Katsuki’s chest. Maybe, just maybe, Eijiro’s right. Everything’s going to be okay.
There’s a luncheon after the reception for which Katsuki handpicked the caterer. They make incredible zaru soba and tonkatsu, and everyone’s digging into the food with relish, but he finds himself not having much of an appetite. Instead, Katsuki meanders to the gardens outside, ambling alongside fuchsias and bougainvilleas, soaking in the afternoon sun. Azure blue skies stretch endlessly above him, and he thinks of what Izuku said, about chasing infinities in love.
“There you are, Kacchan.”
Katsuki’s heart skips a beat. He whips around and there stands Izuku, smiling wistfully. There are tonkatsu crumbs dotting the corner of his mouth.
“You’re supposed to be eating,” Katsuki says.
“And so are you.”
Izuku takes a step beside him and they stroll along the path aimlessly, sounds of eating and laughter from the hall growing distant.
“You didn’t make a speech today. Some best friend you are, Kacchan,” the green haired-man complains, but there isn’t any genuine anger weaved into his words. Katsuki groans, “You know how I am with speeches.”
“Or you can just tell me now,” Izuku taunts, “in private. No one’s gonna listen to us out here, Kacchan.”
There’s an entire shared history between them, Katsuki notes. Like the endless skies above, their lifelines have overlapped ever since they were children, twining and extending with all the years passed between them. The befriending, the bullying, the falling out, the reconnecting, the healing. Katsuki thinks of the words that’ve been trapped in his throat for two decades now, that immovable rock. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Izuku beaming up expectantly at him, and thinks of what Shouto said, about Izuku's light reaching even the darkest of places.
“Come on, Kacchan. Don’t make the groom wait!”
And Katsuki considers it, seriously considers it. The world around them blurs into watercolours, spilled haphazardly over a blank canvas, abstruse around the edges. Reduced to a focal point, where it’s just Katsuki and Izuku, only. A man and his best friend. The forgiver and the forgiven.
That immovable rock: Thank you, Izuku. Thank you for being alive. I’m happy for you. I love you. And I know what you meant that day. I can only be happy for you, I can only love you, with forgiveness in my heart. With forgiveness, to myself.
Katsuki doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he throws his arms around Izuku’s shoulders, pulling him close into a hug. Chests pressed to each other, exchanging warmth, exchanging unsaid words. Katsuki hopes they spill out of him, seep into Izuku’s skin, through the micro-spaces between their bodies. Hears Izuku let out a gasp by the curve of his ear, Kacchan, and Katsuki holds him tighter, closer.
Just like how Eijiro platonically cuddles Katsuki in his bed, or how Mina presses a friendly, playful kiss to Katsuki’s forehead. Like how Denki drops by Katsuki’s apartment with gyoza and draft beers, or how Hanta digs his fingers into Katsuki’s waist, tickling his ribs.
“I hear you, Kacchan,” Izuku says.
There had been a crevice somewhere in Katsuki’s chest, borne out of drifting within years of residual guilt. Today, it mends.