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Izuku’s life is a really funny story, maybe he’ll tell you sometime — all the shenanigans the Fates had decided to drag him into, it’s really, really funny. If you’re an outsider, that is, and Izuku is not an outsider, so his life is more edging unfortunate, or maybe even wretched.
See, the thing is, Midoriya Izuku had been born with a curse. It’s not a curse that’s particularly visible. He doesn’t have horns, or a tortured face, and it’s not the kind of silly curse like a friend of his had way down south in Diagnor, wherein the girl had been born without the ability to say the word duck. Midoriya Izuku is just extremely unlucky.
He was born, they say, and promptly managed to slip out of the midwife’s hands and into a tub of water. When he learnt to walk, he took one step and managed to knock over the entire contents of the bookshelf. He only had to be standing in the near vicinity of his mother when she was cooking and somehow the pan would be upset all over him.
Izuku has many scars all criss-crossing over his body, because while he’s always been unlucky, he’s never been able to die because of the escapades he’s gotten into. He also…doesn’t really know how to break the curse. He doesn’t even know why he’s cursed, except legend has it that the witch responsible for the curse had missed her actual target and hit pregnant Midoriya Inko instead.
In all honesty, because of how unlucky he is, this line of work he’s chosen isn’t really the best idea. But here he is, spreading a blanket in the middle of a busy town square and plopping his wares out. There’s the rare texts from Archia, all the way up north. It’d taken him several months to find that. Then the gold rings from Manchusa, the desert in the east. Those had been a gift from an admirer — because Izuku is that unlucky he always attracts unwanted attention — and well, they were worth good money.
Next to him is the bodyguard he hired about five or so years ago, Todoroki Shouto. He’s got an intelligent face with narrow eyes and a stiff build, but right now he’s leaning against Izuku’s shoulder and scanning everyone that passes by their blanket with a calculating look. Shouto is a blessing to Izuku — he’s magically retardant (much to the dismay of his very magic family), and so curses and other magic don’t bother the hired sword. The most important part is Izuku’s notorious bad-luck radius doesn’t affect him in the slightest — absolutely necessary, if he’s going to be wielding a sword. He’d started off as a mercenary running away from home when Izuku had found him by quite literally tripping and falling into him, pushing them both off the bridge and into the shock of icy river water below. Along the way, however, the mercenary had become a rather favoured friend. He was no longer paid in money, but co-owned the little trading business Izuku has set up.
Shouto's bartering with a mage over a dainty little crystal when a shadow looms over Izuku. Looking up hastily, he finds himself staring into a shock of slit-pupilled, crimson eyes that has him scuttling backwards — tripping over the corner of his blanket, hitting a pothole that was definitely not there before in the road and promptly rolling backwards, heels over head. Shouto looks over at him in alarm.
The customer makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. “The fuck’s wrong with him?”
Springing to his feet, Izuku fights past the blush on his face and scoots forward, shaking his head to let the grass blades fall out of his hair. Raising his head, he takes another good, long look at his customer. His customer is tall, with shaggy blonde hair that swoops over darker eyebrows. Various parts of his hair are lighter than the others, showing a life spent working under the sun. He’s clothed in a red cape that brushes the backs of his knees, and a light white cotton t-shirt with dark blue breeches. His belt is adorned with little jewels, and there’s a dagger slung through the scabbard on his right side. His boots are a light leather — this man has money. Izuku mentally ramps up the prices for his wares, then feels bad because the man is beautiful. He adds an extra crown out of spite.
“Hi!” he pipes up, scrambling, when he realise he’s been staring a little too long. The man is peering unconvinced at him — his eyes are normal pupils now, round and slightly dilated. Izuku wonders if he’d dreamt up the slit ones from before. “Interested in anything?”
The man snorts. His voice is gruff, his accent simultaneously squishing and dragging out his vocals. The “s” in his words is thin on his tongue when he says, “yes.” Izuku takes that information and the way he points with his thumb instead of his index and comes to the conclusion the man is from Manchusa, which is quite a ways from here. Izuku doesn’t like to go to Manchusa, because it’s hot and it’s the desert which is infinitely worse for him if he gets lost.
Looking to where the man is pointing, his gaze falls onto a toothed necklace he’d picked up when wandering about the Main City. He’d found it on the floor after he’d fallen into a canal (on accident), and decided to keep it when he realised no one in the vicinity lingered around or would come back to get it. The Main City is gorgeous, with glimmering marble towers and sculptures, but like all cities, it is only beautiful if you don’t look too closely.
“The dragon tooth?” he asks, and picks it up by the string. “It’s very beautiful, but we only have one,” Izuku’s voice drops into a low hum. “Dragon’s tooth necklaces are usually crafted on cruelty,” he sighs, and lets it dangle from his finger. “So I make it a point not to demand.”
“Do you care a lot for dragons?” the man asks, sounding funny, like he’s choking. Izuku looks up at him and smiles as best as he can.
“Well, they’ve got a reputation,” Izuku lets the necklace dangle between his fingers. “But they’re creatures that live and hurt like us, so I don’t see why we shouldn’t treat them with respect.”
The man crouches down to squat on his level and takes the necklace from him with a touch that seems more delicate than how calloused his hands are. “If you know what you are looking for,” the stranger says. “You’ll know this necklace wasn’t made on fucking cruelty. The dragon gave this willingly.”
Izuku stares.
“You’re fucking lucky,” he says, and straightens. Izuku stares some more. He’s never heard that before, and even Shouto beside him snickers a little before resuming his usual deadpan expression.
“Uh,” says Izuku, blinking. “Well. I —“
“I’ll give you fifteen crowns for it,” the man’s voice brokers no argument. Izuku chokes back a cough. Fifteen crowns. He was going to charge four.
“Yeah,” he says, trying not to splutter. “Fifteen crowns. Right. Shouto — could you?”
Leaning over, Shouto plucks the money out of the man’s grip. Once the exchange is done, the man puts the necklace on and immediately disappears into the crowd. Izuku stares after him, then at the coins in Shouto’s hand, then remembers the words lucky.
He tries not to think of it too much, because the next thing he knows, a bird flies solidly into his face.
=
The next day, he sets up shop in the town two hours’ walk from the town they day before. They came to pick up blackberries from the grandmother who loved Izuku too much — pinched his cheek at every opportunity, but he doesn’t mind — and they snack on the fruits while waiting for business to pick up. Winter steals into the air, and the cool breeze rustles Izuku’s hair. There’s already stains on his black shirt (eighteen years of living with this, you start to get prepared), and his fingers are dyed purple.
“Are those for sale too?” comes a gruff voice, the typical overlay of the Manchusa, and Izuku startles. The berry slips from his grasp and bounces onto the purple blanket. Shouto’s stiffening next to him, and Izuku realises as he looks up, that he’s staring back into the red eyes of the customer from yesterday. His dragon’s tooth necklace is tucked into the collar of his dark blouse, which is ripped here and burnt there.
“Um,” comes Izuku’s squeaky voice. “No — these were a gift.”
There’s no change in the man’s expression, but Izuku feels compelled to do something to assuage what seems to be a perpetual crease between his brows, and holds out the basket of berries with a shaking hand Shouto helps to stabilise, just in case it fell. Shouto is nice like that.
The man raises one perfect eyebrow. “Alright,” he says, and takes one, rolling it between his hands. “These were a gift?”
Izuku nods.
“Lucky,” he comments, and there it is again. Did this guy know something? Did he know more about Izuku than he let on? He pops the berry into his mouth and shrugs in what appears to be a goodbye, and Izuku watches him go with the most confused expression he’s ever worn.
=
“Dude,” says Eijirou, hands on his hips, when Katsuki returns with the taste of a blackberry still in his mouth. It’d been a little tart. “Dude, you are pathetic.”
Katsuki sticks his tongue out at him and sighs. “Alright, listen,” he starts, and when he comes back with nothing, sinks back into his usual aura of despondence and rage. “Fuck you.”
“Fuck him,” Eijirou points way back to the town square, where the merchant with the cute face and smile is still sitting innocently. “You’ve been flying all around this damn country trying to keep up with the merchant and now that you’ve finally talked to him you’re ignoring your chance?”
Katsuki opens his mouth and snaps it shut. “Shut the fuck up,” he says instead, reaching in to grab a fistful of Eijirou’s shirt. “Or I’ll leave your behind one day, see how that feels.”
Eijirou snorts. “You know I’ve memorised your scent by now. And I know you know that you —“ he points accusingly to the tooth he wears around his neck. “You dropped that on purpose. You’re a moron! It’s not even your tooth to give!”
Katsuki picks him up bodily and hurls him into a pile of hay. "Did I ask for your opinion?”
“You thought he’d wear it!” Eijirou pulls hay out of his bright red hair, but promptly shuts up when he sees Katsuki is glowering, the tips of his teeth pulling sharply over his bottom lip, the pupils of his eyes going slit. He resolves instead for an unhappy glare and a puff of smoke that escapes his mouth. “Oh, c'mon man, you don’t need to flaunt your half-dragon heritage.”
Katsuki snorts at him, fangs retreating into his mouth. “He’s just…really fucking cute, okay. And he keeps tripping.” Eijirou’s eyebrows raise. “The other day I watched him pitch face first into a basket of tangerines. He tripped over air.”
“Maybe he’s clumsy,” shrugs Eijirou, pulling himself out of the hay and giving himself a vigorous shake. “He looks like the type to be clumsy.”
Katsuki raises his eyebrows and snorts again. “Don’t fucking think so,” he murmurs. “Think he’s just really unlucky.”
Eijirou looks at him, then at the square, then at him again. “No,” he starts, but then Katsuki is stalking off towards the square, red cape flying dramatically in the wind. If the wind hadn’t helpfully picked up, Eijirou suspects he would have flicked it himself, because Katsuki had always been one for the dramatics.
God fucking dammit. Eijirou knew joining his best friend of several years on a quest to see the world, learn new things, find a new place to settle down was an awful idea, but he didn’t expect it would be because he’d have to end up playing glorified babysitter to a lovestruck half-breed. Taking off after Katsuki, he manoeuvres the low-hanging branches of the tall pine trees easily before falling into step beside him.
Eijirou, unlike Katsuki, is a full dragon. Maintaining human form is tiring for him, and he doesn’t like to do it. On the other hand, he does get cool benefits like a complete shift and wings and like, enhanced senses, which are all very handy tools when you want to travel the word. Katsuki can only shift his appearance — the slit eyes, the fangs, the claws, but the benefit was that he could form the telepathic link with Eijirou and be his rider. What Katsuki does have, though, that is unique, is his ability to control his flames. He’s damn good at it. Frighteningly so — it’s not contained to fire breath, and he has the ability to wield in in the form of holding it, fire ropes, balls, explosions, you name it. If it’s flashy and made out of fire, Katsuki’s done it.
“I’m an outcast of the Clan of Dragons —“
“You’re not an outcast, you left because you were emo—“
Katsuki growls warningly at him. “I’m an outcast of the Clan of Dragons, and I’ve survived five years on my own in the middle of this goddamn shitty excuse for a country. So I can walk up to that boy and ask him if he’s cursed.”
Eijirou sighs. “Yeah, sure,” he gestures weakly at the square. “Just ask a boy if he’s cursed. Bet you that hired sword next to him won’t take it the wrong way.”
Katsuki folds his arms across his chest. He takes a step — and then backs away and heads back into the woods, grumbling something awful under his breath. Eijirou wonders tiredly why he bothers.
=
“The man with the cape has been following you for the past two days,” Shouto informs him over dinner. Izuku nearly chokes on his meat — no wait, here’s that curse, yup, now he’s choking — and Shouto passes him the mead without question, waiting until his eyes have stopped watering to continue. “I have noticed him here and there. He smells like smoke.”
“Do you think he’s bad?” Izuku asks in a hushed voice. “Is he here?”
The tavern they are in is loud, which is unsurprising for its status as a tavern. Boisterous dwarves hurl pints back and forth at each other, there’s a mage in the corner desperately trying to hawk her goods, by the front door is a pickpocket with a disarmingly cute smile. In short, it’s the typical type of tavern you’d find in the Main City, where money is rampant, and crime more so. The name Main City is a misnomer, the city is hardly situated in the middle of the country, nor is it the most populous city, but this is the main city because it is the Main City.
Over time, names just lent themselves to things. People liked this city for the atmosphere and loose laws and looser morals, and so the city became the Main City by the importance the people lent to it, rather than it being actually important at all. The Main City is a small port town along the coast of the country, small enough to be able to unnecessarily flaunt their wealth, large enough so that neighbouring cities don’t try to attack it. In the Main City, there’s only two things you should do: get in, and get out. Preferably as soon as possible, unless you had a death wish or were looking for a competent curse breaker, only one of which was Midoriya Izuku’s company.
“He’s here,” Shouto kicks rudely at the wooden table, which shakes a little despite the dwarf sitting on it. “In the back. Corner. No, right side. He’s with a man with bright red hair and — Izuku, please don’t stare.”
Realising he’s whipped his head over to look at him, Izuku slowly turns his head back to his potatoes, tips of his ears turning red.
Shouto stares at the wall for a moment, then he says, “I think he’s been following us for longer than two days.”
Izuku chokes again on his potatoes. A dwarf bumps into his back, and an entire pitcher of beer is upset over him. The dwarf apologises — at least that — and gives him a ring as gift. Izuku eats the rest of his meal dripping with alcohol, and Shouto does not bring up the man with the cape again.
=
When he sets up shop in the Main City, Izuku follows a strict set of rules. Number one — Izuku is always five metres from his wares, and Shouto is the one minding the blanket. Number two, he doesn’t sell anything rare. Number three, he keeps his hands on a pocket hex at all times.
A person stops by and takes up the dwarven ring Izuku got the night before and rolls it about in their fingers before offering a price way too low even if it is a second-hand item. Corona doesn’t get you anywhere anymore. Corona is what you use to trick merchants who don’t know any better.
Shouto draws his sword — a pretty thing, an expensive one, more lethal than it looks — and lays it flat on his lap. “I think you meant crowns,” he drawls, and the person puts the ring down hastily and skips away.
Sighing, he sheaths his sword once more and leans forward on his hands, tapping the ground with his fingers. He’s still tapping when someone says, directly into Izuku’s ear — “heard you’re looking for a curse breaker. ”
Izuku startles and makes as if to yelp, but then a strong hand wrapping itself over Izuku’s mouth and muffling his scream. The voice behind him comes to the front, and a pair of crimson eyes are staring at him.
Izuku pulls off his hand and sucks in a breath. “You scared me!” he says, and smacks his shoulder as through they are friends, even though they aren’t and Izuku has no real idea who this person is. “What are you doing?”
The crimson eyes belong to the man with the red cape, who has acquired more jewellery since they last saw each other. Reclining in the grass, his shirt billows in the day time air. “What I said. Heard you’re looking for a curse breaker,” he looks Izuku up and down. “What kind of curse you looking to break?”
Izuku huffs and draws his legs up to his chest. Shouto is now staring at them, twitching fingers dancing lightly over the hilt of his sword. Izuku shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “Um,” he says. “I don’t even know you.”
The man blinks at him, as though he hasn’t even considered this idea. Then he says, “I’m Bakugou Katsuki. I can — I — fuck,” he says, and drags a hand through his hair. “Eijirou told me to be nice, but — fucking hell,” he chews on his bottom lip, then seems to choose a course of action. His shoulders draw up straighter, his jawline evens out. (It's a very nice jawline. Izuku is trying very hard not to be distracted.) “You’re —“
He waits patiently.
“Look,” Katsuki settles on, his face creasing into another scowl. “Just tell me what kind of curse it is.”
Izuku shrugs his shoulders — and by shrugging his shoulders, one of the seams in his shirt tears, and his sleeve drops away from his body. He looks at it and sighs. “I’m just very unlucky,” he says, trying to adjust his sleeve. Katsuki stares fixedly at the strip of pale skin revealed. “Extremely unlucky.”
Katsuki makes a noise under his breath. “You can’t be that unlucky,” he says, and then Izuku leans back and finds his hand has landed in a pile of cow shit that was definitely not there before. He looks at his hand morosely.
Katsuki raises an impressed eyebrow. “I thought there weren’t any cows in the Main City,” he says.
“There aren’t,” Izuku stands and nearly trips over the edge of his blanket, but Katsuki manages to rise and grab his waist before anything could happen. “Give me a moment,” he says, holding his hand away from him. “I’m going to go wash this off. Don’t let Shouto kill you. He’s possessive.”
Katsuki glances over to where the hired sword is glaring at him. “He’s just a merc, why don’t you tell him not to?”
Izuku laughs a little — it’s high and dainty and Katsuki swoons a little. His heart does this funny little thing where it seems to give up. “He’s no hired sword. He’s a friend.”
=
Izuku comes back with clean hands and stares at where once had been a scene of hatred is now Shouto and Katsuki looking at him with expectant eyes. Shouto asks, “how do you feel about fire?”
Izuku wets his lips nervously. “Um, about the same as any ordinary person.”
Shouto and Katsuki exchange looks. “Cool,” says Shouto, as nonchalantly as one would when discussing the weather, or something else equally mundane. “So, we’re going to to burn the curse out of you.”
“W-w-what?” Izuku’s eyes grow wide. He has always been very unlucky, but this just takes the cake. He grips tightly onto Katsuki’s sleeve and whimpers, “but why, how, are you sure,” and other incoherent questions. Katsuki growls at him to shut the fuck up and so Izuku does, because he’s also a little bit of a pushover.
Shouto punches his shoulder. Katsuki shoots him a wounded look and Izuku blurts out, “do you two know each other?”
Katsuki folds his arms across his chest. “Sure,” he says. “Your boy pressed me up against the wall of a tavern and put his pretty sword to my throat. We fucking know each other.”
Shouto is unimpressed. “You tried to set me on fire.”
“You put a fucking sword to my bared throat!” Katsuki steps toward him and Izuku finds himself squeezing between the two men. “And a fucking Todoroki one too. Got your goddamn sigil on the hilt and everything, ’s fucking pathetic,” gesturing to Izuku crudely, he continues in a clipped voice, “can’t believe you’d mix with his fucking kind.”
“Have you got something against the Todorokis?” Shouto asks, his voice quiet, but not too quiet, and Izuku’s pleads of let’s all just get along fade into the din.
“Hell yeah I got something against your family,” he pulls out the dragon tooth necklace and shoves it in Shouto’s face rudely. “You’re the assholes who dominate this industry.”
Shouto looks at him, eyes softening imperceptibly. “I’m not with them. There’s a line through the sigil if you look close enough. Sword’s too good to throw away.”
“You and your motherfucking ice magic —“
“Actually,” Izuku interrupts, his voice high-pitched and squeaky. “Shouto’s a magic deterrent! A mutation, or something. So! He’s not! With those assholes and — god, are you actually going to set me on fire?”
The two look away from their argument. Shouto’s eyes melt when they look at him. “Don’t worry. Bakugou is half-dragon. Their fire has magical properties. Besides, we’ve tried everything else.”
Katsuki slings an arm around Izuku’s dainty shoulders and grins wickedly at him. “Besides, my flames won’t hurt you,” his voice drops to a low, nearly sultry baritone. His lips brush Izuku’s ear. “Unless you want them to, of course," there's a shrug of his shoulders. "If you pay the fee, I won't let anything hurt you."
Wary, Izuku looks at him out of the corner of his eyes. "What fee?"
Katsuki's hand moves from his shoulders to grip the back of his neck, slowing his pace down until he is at a near stop. "You'll find out later," he says, and there's so much meaning and tension just stuffed into his tone that Izuku can't help but move away.
Squeaking a little and sure his entire face is bright red, Izuku stumbles back from him, trips over a rock, and would’ve smashed his face in if Katsuki’s hand didn’t land on his back and haul him up by his shirt. Kicking his legs in the air, Izuku finds his face to be even redder than before. He’s practically steaming up the air. “You’re — one hand,” Izuku squeaks, arms coming up to hide his face. “Am I that light?”
Setting him down on the ground, Katsuki grins. “Sure,” he says. “You weigh about as much as a dragon’s egg.”
“Dragon’s eggs are notoriously light,” Shouto helpfully informs him. “Their egg shells are porous, and a fetus is hollow.”
“Thanks,” replies Izuku drily. Katsuki snickers.
=
They can’t set Izuku on fire in the Main City, so Katsuki takes them out back to his “cave”, which sounds about as foreboding as Izuku can imagine. The cave, however, turns out to be pretty peaceful.
“The dragon inside is fearsome,” Katsuki tells them before he enters, hands folded across his chest. “If you’re not his friend, he’ll tear you to pieces. I’m a dragon tamer —“ his chest puffs up proudly. Shouto rolls his eyes. “And I’m his rider. So he won’t attack you.”
Izuku nods, wiping nervous sweat off his hands, stuffing them into his pockets. No big deal. Just a dragon. You meet dragons every day. Pfft. Dragons. Pushing through the curtain of vines that obscure the entrance, Izuku steps into the semi-darkness of the cave, warmed by the gentle glow of a fire.
The dragon — it’s really big, Izuku thinks dazedly. It’s a bright red, with amber eyes that blink uncomprehendingly at Izuku. Slowly, it uncoils itself from the fire and trundles towards him —wow, this cave has a really high ceiling and it’s awfully convenient — and stands in front of him. It makes snuffling noises, like a cat. Reaching out his hands, Izuku pats the dragon’s snout, and when the dragon chases his hand, Izuku giggles and pats more firmly.
“It’s cute,” he says, and the dragon makes a funny noise. “Aww, it’s so cute! Hello! Who’s a good boy?”
Katsuki makes an disbelieving noise. “It’s a malevolent creature of death and destruction!”
“It’s adorable!”
“It is not! Eijirou!”
The dragon looks up at Katsuki and snorts, blowing a plume of smoke out of his nostrils, and bumps Izuku’s chest with his snout, looking at Katsuki in a way that could be interpreted as teasing.
“He’s being a dick,” Katsuki folds his arms across his chest. “Oi. Fucker, you best — look, we’re setting him on fire.”
The dragon’s head swivels upwards. Izuku takes the opportunity to run his fingers along the warm scales — each scale being as big as his palm — and watching the way they glittered and gleamed in the firelight.
“I mean it!” Katsuki’s eyes furrow, and he seems to be having his own internal conversation with the beast. “No, I’m not trying to fucking kill him. Kid’s cursed — yes, I know — fuck off!”
Izuku looks up from the beast’s side mildly. Katsuki is growling something awful in a tongue Izuku doesn’t understand, but it’s gruff, rough, and undeniably attractive. It makes Izuku’s face heat up, so he turns his face somewhere else and tries to focus on something that isn’t the hot stranger near his elbow.
Shouto’s hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes in a way that entirely suggests he knows exactly what is going on. Izuku flushes again.
=
Dude, use the good face on him.
Katsuki scowls, hands jammed into his pockets. What good face?
Aight so you want to get in this kid’s pants, but this kid seems really nice and innocent and sweet and he keeps falling over and scraping his knees. So you gotta bring out the big guns.
Katsuki’s mind blanks, but then it comes to him. Oh. That good — you’re a fucker, you know that?
Outrageous. I am here, helping my best friend of five years get laid, and this is how I am respected. I am a dragon? I am amazing? What did I do to deserve this —
Tuning him out, Katsuki taps Izuku’s shoulder when they’ve reached the clearing. When the boy turns around, Katsuki mentally sighs as he tilts his head to the side and down, drops his eyes and looks at him through his eyelashes, teeth biting his lower lip.
Katsuki knows he looks good. His pretty face has distracted from nigh a confrontation, not to mention it helps loads in swindling and gambling. Just bat those lashes right at the innkeeper, keep your lips cherry-red and slick, one hand on your chin, the other toying with your cup — wonders could be worked.
When they’d first set out from the desert, they were so broke it wasn’t even funny.
Katsuki learnt early people charge less if he simpered and giggled and put his hand over his mouth and turned his ears red when they wanted him to. He’d cheat the richest out of their money and toss them around the town squares, dropping them into beggars’ cups and pocketing what he needed. Then he’d amassed a cult following with his fire and he’d made a fortune performing in the Upper Regions, so now if people want him to simper or linger they best be expecting a punch to the fucking face instead.
It works, though. Izuku blushes a bright red and takes to stammering, eyes blown wide. Not lust, though, it just appears to be simple attraction. It’s adorable, really. It’s so fucking adorable. Katsuki’s heart might just give out. Eijirou bumps his back with his nose and snickers in that booming way that is a dragon’s way of laughing. Izuku seems to be more smitten with the damn dragon than himself, something that wholly pisses him off, so maybe he’s a bit rougher than usual when he pushes Izuku into place by picking him up bodily with his hands and plopping him down in the center of the clearing.
“Alright,” he says, giving the man a once over. “Shirt off,” he decides. He doesn’t need the shirt off. Katsuki hates himself. Izuku blinks at him in astonishment before complying, undoing the string at the collar and tugging the loose cotton over his head.
The man is thin but with a loose undercoating of muscle you cannot help but have to survive in this day and age, though kind of unexpected of a carpet merchant. Maybe he gets his wares himself. His front and back are decorated with loose slashes, scrapes, and burn scars from his life of presumed unluckiness. His face twists in distaste, and maybe Izuku takes it the wrong way because he smacks his bicep and says, “not all of us can be as ripped as you, you know.”
Katsuki looks down at his chest and back up again, flustered. “Shut up?” he chooses to spit, but it comes out more as a question, pushing the boy back in place. “I was thinking more on your damn scars, idiot Izuku. How you aren’t dead is a fucking wonder, that’s what it is.”
Izuku sticks his tongue out at him. Katsuki snorts and holds out his right hand — in an instant it becomes wreathed with orange-red flame, not in the semi-translucent way a normal campfire is, but in an ethereal, glowing light, the colours saturated beyond belief. The fire lights up Katsuki’s face and casts it in shadow at the same time.
“You still seem pretty fucking scared,” he says, and so he holds out his hand. “Stick your hand in.”
Shouto meanders over from where he’s been conversing with the dragon to watch the proceedings, his face creased in a scowl.
Izuku draws himself up to his full height — and yet, he fell short of Katsuki. Snorting, he sticks his entire hand into the flames, feeling irrationally challenged. The man grins cheekily at him as the flames travel further up his arm, but there’s no sense of pain. Just a vague warmth and a ticklish sensation.
Katsuki grins at him and pulls his fire away, stepping about five metres backwards. “Now listen,” he demands. Izuku shudders and does, because Izuku’s a slight pushover, because Izuku’s always afraid of what his unluckiness would get him into, because Katsuki’s hot as hell and Izuku is in turn intimidated. “Whatever you do, do not step out of the fire, got it? That’s when it starts to fuckin’ burn. My face might change. Don’t scream, or I’ll fuckin’ kill you. Third — you might see something in the fire. Don’t respond.”
“See what?” Izuku squeaks, thinking this is highly important information he deserved to have known before he agreed to be set on fire.
Katsuki shrugs, his flames transferring from his right hand to his left hand. “Humans are funny,” he grins wickedly. “You see all kinds of stuff.”
He puts his hands together and the flames rush out at Izuku with a roar of fury.
=
When he opes his eyes again, Izuku can see the blue sky. Katsuki’s kneeling on his chest, hands folded. “Hello,” he says, his voice gruff. “Took you long enough to wake up.”
His vision is blurry. He tries to sit up but he cannot — Katsuki’s weight on him is too strong. “Aren’t you going to say hello back?”
Furrowing his brow, Izuku tries to remember what it is to form words, or speak — then he feels a tingle on the back of his neck. A spark flies high behind Katsuki’s hair.
Oh. He thinks. He doesn’t reply. Fire!Katsuki, which must be, because he’s looking at Izuku with this odd, disguised fondness, and Izuku can feel his mouth drying up. A calloused palm makes it’s way down from where they’ve been folded against his chest to drag lightly over the curve of his cheek. How long more?
The hands dip lower, curving over his waist — they’re narrow, narrower than his shoulders, curving in slightly at the middle of his torso and flaring out again later. People liked to call him a girl, Izuku never bothered to correct them, because ain’t nothing wrong with being a girl. Izuku thinks the curve is a perfect place for — and he does. Fire!Katsuki lets his hands rest on the slight dip in his waist and grins at him.
“So dainty,” he murmurs, moving backwards so that instead of resting on his chest he sits on his hips, ass pressed firmly to his crotch. Izuku’s brain goes fuzzy. He can’t reply — okay, but if he could, would he? Pressing his feet into the ground, he bumps upwards with his hips and Katsuki falls front, hands landing on either side of Izuku’s face. Then he swings his legs around underneath, hooks his right over Katsuki’s left, flipping them.
Fire!Katsuki’s eyes widen, his hair spread like a golden halo around his head. He says, “guess I shouldn’t underestimate you, Lucky,” and explodes into a million tiny sparks that spread out over Izuku and seep into his skin.
=
He knows he’s woken for real when he’s greeted with Shouto’s unamused face, finger poking his cheek incessantly. His head feels like it’s been split open. “Fuck,” he says, and struggles to sit upright. “Fuck,” he says again, more for emphasis’ sake. “Fuck,” he says once more, when his vision focuses and he sees Katsuki sitting in front of him, chin balanced on his hand.
“Anyone ever tell you you swear too fuckin’ much?” Katsuki drawls, his eyes dancing with mirth. There’s still the hint of a fang peeking out over his bottom lip, and Izuku shivers.
“Sounds like a hypocrite to me,” Izuku snorts, massaging his head. In his mind, Fire!Katsuki is still gripping onto his waist, and his whole body flushes. Fuck. “Do you think it’d worked?”
“No clue,” says Katsuki cheerfully, standing up and stretching. The sky above is grey. “But now there’s my issue of payment.”
Shouto’s eyes narrow. Izuku shakes his head hard, dispelling the last of the fogginess, before staggering to his feet. Good, good. Payment always meant closure, see, and closure meant that Izuku could say goodbye to the frustratingly attractive-slash-asshole half-dragon. Not that he wanted to, but — it would be easier. Than staying.
“Sure,” he says, leaning heavily on Shouto. “What do you want?”
Katsuki looks over to his dragon, who is blowing smoke rings out of his nose as he sleeps, a deep rumbling burr in the background. The man rolls his eyes and sighs — somehow the sigh still comes off as aggressive.
“You could go out with me,” the man says, tapping his chin in what Izuku presumes he did to be a display of nonchalance but all Izuku sees is the uncharacteristic tremble at the end of his sentence, the way his accent deepened on the ending syllable, the way the hand tapping his chin seemed to be more an anxious tick than anything. “Dinner at Lumen.”
Izuku’s mouth drops wide open. Shouto sputters for a moment before promptly saying, “absolutely not.”
Izuku shoves him. “Shut up,” he hisses, and when Shouto stares at him wide-eyed and disapproving, Izuku shrinks backwards from him and scuffs his feet against the grass. “Dinner at Lumen?” he asks. Mortified, he realises his voice is slightly higher pitched than before. “What time?”
Katsuki looks at him sharply. “Seven?”
“I can…do that,” he replies lamely. Fire!Katsuki calling him dainty lingers in his mind.
Katsuki’s face curves into a genuine grin. “Yeah?” he asks, then shakes his head to dispel the momentary bout of softness, but it didn’t change the fact that it happened and now Izuku knows what he looks like if he genuinely smiles and damn if that wasn’t the cutest thing he’s ever seen. He feels overcome with the resolve to make it his permanent expression.
“See you then,” Izuku says, his volume getting softer and softer.
Katsuki grins at him again, a little goofily, then offers, “I’ll walk you back to the square.”
Izuku does not trip once on the way back. He does not get his hair caught on any branches, his feet tangled in any vines, his hands scraped on any protruding piece of bark, despite his eyes remaining more fixed on Katsuki’s broad back than anything else. His face remains a burnt shade of red that lasts throughout the walk back and throughout the dinner, but somehow they make plans to meet again.
And again, and again, until Katsuki has somehow become a rather permanent fixture in Izuku’s life, dragon — whose name, he learns, is Eijirou, and he likes hot chocolate and cannot for the life of him eat spicy food — and all. Katsuki likes to tease by calling him Lucky when he trips and catches himself. He calls him Lucky a lot.
The first time they kiss, it’s because Izuku manages to trip over a basket of woollen thread and stumbles right into him, sending the both of them tumbling to the grass.
“God,” Katsuki wheezes, hands clutching his solar plexus where Izuku has managed to nail it right with his elbow. “You’re so fucking lucky I give a shit about you. Fuck.”
Izuku startles, looks up from where he’s been massaging his bruised knees and turns a bright red. “Um,” he squeaks, rolling off him. “I give a shit about you too?”
Katsuki’s grin is slow and lazy. “Yeah?” he asks, then grabs the lapels of Izuku’s rumpled coat and drags him in for a kiss that’s not bruising but neither is it gentle. Katsuki’s lips taste like oranges and a hint of smoke. He’s quite a good kisser. Izuku would be content to sit there, crouched next to him in the dirt and kissing him for the next hour, but then the shopkeeper throws a ball of yarn at Izuku’s head and tells them to scram. They end up running, breathless and red-faced, until they’re three blocks over and Katsuki pulls, from out of his pockets, a ball of yarn.
“Guy was an asshole,” is all he says, and tosses it up into the air.
“I can’t even knit,” chides Izuku, hands on his hips.
Katsuki grins teasingly at him. “I can,” he says.
Izuku is more than a little stunned, but then again, when he’s around Katsuki, he’s always more than a little stunned, even eight months later.
(He’s more than a little stunned when it’s Katsuki who’s the first one to say I love you, but then again, Izuku had just fallen from a cart. Katsuki denies it vehemently, blames it on his non-existent concussion, but Izuku knows he heard it all the same.)