Work Text:
Eijirou nearly startles out of his skin when a hand grabs his sleeve and yanks him behind the drapes.
Through the lace encompassing the tent, the party still rages; loud and obnoxious, the smell of sweat and alcohol, and that lingering pleasantness that settles in Eijirou’s blood like liquid gold. His grin is giddy, lax with drink, and grows when Izuku releases his arm and leans against a pillar, groaning.
“Hi,” Eijirou starts, just that little bit enamoured, and Izuku gives him the side eye. “What’s up?”
“Hi.” The smooth, freckled plains of his cheeks rise until Izuku’s grinning too; full of white teeth that bounce in the glittering neon of the strobe lights. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Weird. I thought we’d have more time together when we got married.”
“So did I.”
Izuku’s sarcasm isn’t lost, but it doesn’t go unfounded. Everything has kept them apart since the moment they got down from the altar, when Izuku stumbled on the cloth carpet running up Dagobah beach. He’d taken off his shoes to walk barefoot, Eijirou had laughed and done the same, and then they’d been accosted—
Maybe that’s too strong a word. Jumped on by congratulations is a little better, because first it was his sister and her waterfall of tears, then Bakugou with a face like a rotten lemon, then Inko, Kaminari, All Might, and on and on and on—
This tiny space, sandwiched between the canopy of the tent and the decorations, is the first time Eijirou’s able to breathe. The air is fresher here when he’s not being fed drink after drink, and with Izuku a fingertip away, it’s even better.
“You okay?” He asks abruptly, watching the flickering in Izuku’s eyes and trying to decide if he’s anxious or not. “I know all this is—uh, a lot —”
“I’m fine! I promise.”
He keeps his voice steeled to a degree that Eijirou has learnt to trust, but it doesn’t make him feel any less guilty. He’s been so wrapped up in celebrating to be with the one person he should be celebrating with, and the uncertainty on his face doesn’t go unnoticed.
Izuku shakes his head once, and closes the gap between them to run his hands up the silken fabric of Eijirou’s shirt. His arms extend to loop neatly behind his neck, where his hair ends in a messy ponytail spiked black and red, and time hesitates for just a moment.
“I’m enjoying myself. You’re happy and that makes me happy, and this is the best night of our lives! I don’t expect you to be plastered to my side, Eiji.”
“But—”
Eijirou’s argument dies on his lips when he smiles, because it’s those eyes . They light up like the remnants of stardust scattered across an emerald galaxy, like all the Universe is just for him.
He doesn’t answer. Rather than open an entirely new box of reasons, he pushes it down like he’s been learning to, and lets his forehead find Izuku’s shoulder instead. All broad muscles and a firm hold; familiarity in the best kind of way, one that he’s been pushing his head into for years. He hugs like he never wants to let go, and there’s no feeling safer. Not for Eijirou.
“I can’t believe we’re married,” Izuku says on the whisper of a breath, and he feels him shift in a way that he knows he’s admiring his wedding band. Nothing too complex; something simple enough to be meaningful and pretty enough to encrust a pattern that matches the one on Eijirou’s finger. Like two puzzle pieces, made to fit together.
“Can I tell you something?”
“Shoot.”
“It’s a little weird.”
That liquid gold rises to Eijirou’s lips and burns into a smirk. “Hey, I’ve still got the wedding receipt.”
“Oh, shut up.” Izuku’s snort is as gorgeous as it’s ugly. He quietens again, and Eijirou listens undividedly. “I always thought I’d die before I got married. After everything, it’s a little hard to believe otherwise, y’know?”
He does know. Their past is long and rocky, as unstable as an old bridge pathed between two different worlds, and UA played fate in cementing them together. They’d been thrown around in circles and come out scarred and bloodied and broken, and it was years later that Eijirou had even considered asking Izuku out. Only when he was sure that he wouldn’t lose him in the blink of an eye.
Heroics is no place for promises. They made promises anyway.
“I’m glad you didn’t die,” Eijirou says sincerely, and Izuku laughs like a sweet songbird.
“Still going to return that receipt?”
“Nah.”
Though Izuku is all thick muscle and sinew, Eijirou was born with core strength in his bones. Izuku yelps when he suddenly leans back and lifts him off his feet like a rag doll, and Eijirou doesn’t waste a moment finding his lips in a kiss. He can feel more than hear Izuku’s laughter against his mouth, and he’s so disgustingly in love that he nearly misses the tap on his bicep to be let down again.
“You—”
He’s cut off by a rumble that’s almost obnoxiously loud. They both look down, surprised, and Eijirou’s grin stretches in a way that’s beginning to hurt.
“Hungry?”
“Starving.”
Izuku’s admitting it more than saying it freely, he can see it in the sheepish way he smiles. The needs of others before his own, it’s how he’s always been. “I haven’t eaten since five this morning.”
“Oh, me too,” Eijirou mutters with a wisp of relief. This makes it so much easier. “C’mon.”
“What? Where?”
Eijirou just flicks his eyebrows playfully, and then turns his back to the crowd and pulls up the edge of the drapes. Izuku’s eyes widen.
“We can’t do that!” He squawks, toeing the line of offended and amused, pulling back like he’s touching hot coals. “This is our wedding, literally everyone is here to see us!”
“It’s just for five minutes!” Eijirou whines, already backing out past the drapes and the beige matting plastered to the pillars. The grass is steps away, fresh air a breath more, and his expression is nothing short of coy. “I promise they won’t notice. We’ll be back for our first dance in no time, no sweat.”
“ No .”
But they can both hear it, Izuku’s protest is weaker this time. Freedom outside this prison of sweat and alcohol is tantalising, taunting, and a duck of his head away. He glances back at the crowd, but then Eijirou tugs his hand and all of the fight drains from him. Like a bird taking flight, he flocks to freedom.
Eijirou closes his eyes and turns his face up towards the dying sun in shades of ombré. The sea breeze tangles in his hair and meshes with the sand clinging to his skin, and he loves it. He can’t stand being inside like that, no matter how much fun he’s having, and when he drops his gaze back to his husband—his husband —Izuku’s just as enamoured. Their eyes meet and they giggle.
“What are you craving?” Eijirou asks, head whipping back and forth to the abundance of shops and restaurants littering the beach front. Business here’s rife, pronounced by the lure of a setting sun and a clear, clean beach. He catches the soft look in Izuku’s eyes, and he knows that this place holds many memories.
“Pizza. I haven’t had pizza in—well, months. Years?”
“Pizza.”
Not quite the traditional wedding meal, but Eijirou couldn’t care less. Hunger is beginning to claw at his skin as well as his stomach, and even the plate of bacon he’d had at six o’clock this morning did little to help. That was well over twelve hours ago.
He sets his sights on one of the smaller restaurants away from the beach—one Kaminari recommended to him in an offhand comment—and with one more tug, they stumble up the dunes and onto the uneven cobblestone.
Eijirou doesn't need to look at the manager’s face to know that two heroes—barefoot and caked in sand—ordering pizza isn’t a sight she sees often.
He watches her mouth open once, twice, and then snap back to attention as she barks an order at the cashier. Izuku’s still looking at the menu, scratching at the straight line of his white collar, and Eijirou presses a kiss to those scarred fingers before looking over his shoulder.
“One big, veggie pizza, right?”
Eijirou doesn’t mean to stiffen in distaste, but Izuku catches it and laughs. He wishes he could catch that sound in his palms and keep it for himself, always. “Kidding. If I have to look at a vegetable right now, I’ll cry.”
“Aren’t you two getting married?” The manager asks abruptly, and Eijirou knows she doesn’t mean to be rude, but it makes him frown nonetheless.
Izuku, passive-aggressive as always, holds up his hand and flashes his wedding band with a wiggle. “Already done! I heard that this place makes some pretty amazing pizzas, and we got hungry. I hope you don’t mind.”
All traces of uncertainty on the manager’s face evaporates. She preens at the compliment, knocks some money off their order, and disappears into the back. The smell of roasting meat wanders through the barest gap in the door and straight to Eijirou’s stomach. He groans.
When he goes to reach for his wallet, a cold panic shoots straight down his spine like icy fingers. Oh shit . He doesn’t have it on him. He’s in some makeshift version of his tuxedo, so of course he doesn’t have it where he usually has it, stuffed in his back pocket.
Just as he’s about to implode, Izuku pulls out his own. Eijirou watches, slack jawed, as he taps his card against the machine, and then turns his back to face him fully. He lets his hands wander down to his hips, snagging tightly on Eijirou’s belt loops, and then he sees his expression.
“I’ve lived with you for like, three years now,” Izuku tells him without a speck of disdain. “I know you.”
“And my stomach,” Eijirou grumbles on a rasp, and Izuku rolls his eyes. He’s smirking though, and Eijirou wishes he could kiss it right off his face. “My stomach is thanking you bunches right now.”
“Tell your stomach it can make it up to me later,” Izuku scoffs, and Eijirou’s heart flutters like a butterfly coming to land. It’s the same butterfly that’s been circling his chest for years now, and it never fades.
The pizza comes out a few minutes later and, rather than return to the beach, they choose to sit in the restaurant instead. With most of the marina shut off to keep out the media, the place is empty, but Eijirou can see the few people allowed through walk past with their noses pressed against the windows. They attract clouds of attention wherever they go, and the wedding of two heroes whips up a hurricane.
“I’ve burnt my tongue,” Izuku warbles—or Eijirou thinks he does—around some stretchy piece of mozzarella and chicken. “But I’m too hungry to care.”
“This is why I married you,” Eijirou replies what he hoped had been playfully, but it comes out as more of a pleased moan instead. It takes a millisecond before they burst into peals of disbelieving laughter.
“Only you can moan when you eat pizza.”
“It’s good food!”
He can’t lie, the pizza is ridiculously good, but Eijirou’s a little drunk and very much in love, so he excuses himself. It doesn’t make his eating any less messy either way, and tomato still finds a way of staining his shirt a fiery red like his hair.
“We should get back before they notice,” Eijirou says when they’re on their last slice, and Izuku nods, pushing away from the table with an ear-piercing screech, stuffing the rest in his mouth. He reaches over and swipes some sauce from Eijirou’s lips with his thumb.
“We can pretend the stain is wine.”
“Which one?”
“On your shirt .” Izuku shakes his head, but it’s with a soft fondness. A soft fondness reserved only for Eijirou.
“Do we even have wine there?” He doesn’t remember asking the catering staff. Beer, champagne, the works—no wine. “Can we get away with that?”
Izuku shrugs, and that’s the end of it. They’ll figure it out like they’ve always done, and with one last wave at the manager, they’re free to run back across the beach and the stones to the tent. Only a few people spot them, and Eijirou desperately hopes that none of them are Journalists skulking about. There’s no way they’d be able to defend themselves with photograph evidence and captions digging into the most intimate parts of their relationship.
Another drink passes Eijirou on a tray, and the line of thought evaporates like the tail end of a nightmare. Ah, whatever. Let them think what they want to think, nothing can ruin his mood.
Nobody seemed to notice their disappearance thanks to a mishap with the music. Something about the wrong CD that Ashido—their wedding planner—looks very displeased about, but everyone else is either too drunk or too engrossed in conversation to care. This time, when they weave through the crowd towards her, Eijirou doesn’t let go of Izuku’s hand.
“Yo!”
His smile brightens. It’s been a while since he’s seen his friends too, and when Kaminari finishes hollering at them and actually comes over, reeking of beer, he slings an arm around both their shoulders. He plants a sloppy kiss on Eijirou’s cheek first, then Izuku’s, and squeezes them together until they’re pressed so tightly it hurts.
“I can’t believe my two besties are married,” he sniffles through a slur. “It seems like only yesterday you two were dating! Where’d time go, eh?”
“It rushed past.” Izuku’s own smile lights up Eijirou’s vision again. “Will you be next?”
“Who, me?” Kaminari turns his head to look at Izuku, and he clicks his tongue. “I prefer being a free spirit. A ladies’ man! Y’know, the type girls cry about when they wake up and—”
“Testing, testing!”
Kaminari drops them to slap his hands over his ears. Ashido’s voice ricochets around the tent with as much volume as a gunshot, followed by the sharp screech of a disconnected microphone. He can see her over the crowd, doused in the soft glow of fairy lights, on the little stage set up at the back with the DJ. Clipboard in one hand, bubblegum pink hair swept up in bows, eyes as dark and joyously fierce as always. She glances at the clipboard, then back at the crowd.
“It’s time for the first dance! If the lovely groom and groom could make their way to the stage, that would be great!”
He exchanges a glance with Izuku. He knows just by his face that he’s as glad as Eijirou is that they made it back in time.
Their rings click when Izuku reaches for his hand, and winds a path through the crowd to the centre stage. They’re plucked out by Ashido as soon as they’re close enough, and she ushers people into a semi-circle with a swift wave of her hand. Then, she gives them a good-natured push.
“And here we have it, the real test of the night! Will they step on each other’s toes and end in an early divorce, or will Kirishima be swept off his feet by Midoriya’s smooth tango?”
The crowd laughs, loving her ostentatious charm, and Eijirou wrinkles his nose at her. There’s a gleam behind those eyes he knows all too well—mischievous, but in the best kind of way. She only means the best, and the best she’s given them.
Eijirou turns his gaze back to Izuku and finds that he’s already looking at him. There’s the faintest of blushes on his cheeks, the remnants of shyness in his eyes, and without a word, he offers Eijirou his hand. With a lazy grin and a leap of his heart, he takes it, and pulls Izuku to his chest.
It’s strange, to have so many people watching them in a moment that Eijirou will treasure. Intimacy in a way that’s past all the I love you ’s and quick kisses, a hug and the gentle sway of Izuku’s body against his own. When he closes his eyes, he’s back in their kitchen again with the radio in the background; the balcony doors open and the rush of sweet, cold air, a spatula in his hand and flour in Izuku’s hair. The song that comes on in a slow descent is the same song that was playing that day too; an old English one, as sad as it’s happy.
You Are My Sunshine , because that’s what Izuku is to him. He’s the light in the dark, the sun that rises and gives life to those around him. He’s the bright smile he comes home to with a heavy heart, the warmth he lies in bed with and talks to when the moon is their only audience. They’ve had their ups and downs, they’ve cried and fought and made up again, but this song—the first night they danced together—is a sacred memory that he’ll treasure forever.
Eijirou sings along into Izuku’s collarbone, arms wrapped around his middle in the slow, rhythmic pace of a box step. Izuku holds him like he never wants to let go, a hand in Eijirou’s hair and the other at his back, the same hold for when his eyes are rimmed red and raw.
“You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you—”
“Don’t worry,” Izuku mumbles in his ear, cutting the last line short. “I won’t ever go away. Not even if you return the receipt.”
Even when he shakes his head, that butterfly circles again and lands in his chest, like it’s drying its wings in the sun.