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Katuski hated handling civilians caught in a villian fight but it’s unavoidable to have to deal with it at some point. So, here he is jumping around with some random person tucked under one of his arms. They had been about to get crushed by a large piece of rubble so Katuski fixed that.
He gives the villain fight only a passing glance. Eijiro and Denki are fighting and he knows they can handle it; might as well drop off this extra luggage while he can.
He makes his way to the edge of the combat zone and sets the civilian down upright but when he does a glance over to make sure they’re uninjuried, his brain does a blue screen.
The civilian isn’t looking him in the eyes. The man’s grip on his suitcase is so strong it leaves his knuckles white. Katsuki hates the familiar feeling that rises up seeing the cowering form of Midoriya Izuku.
“Thanks. I’ll be getting to work now,” there’s no stutter. It’s odd seeing Midoriya after all of this time. In his head the other man has been perpetually what he knew him as in middle school. A small, forever hunched over twig of a boy who only had a spine when it came to other people’s safety. A baby faced kid who would never look you in the eye and was terrified of social interaction. A person who Katsuki would have never given a second of his presence. Everything listed seems to be the same except the last point and his age.
“Do you not watch hero fights anymore?” It feels like a stupid question. Midoriya would have changed just like Katsuki has over the years, even with the similarities, but Midoriya not chasing after heroes seems like something that never would have shifted. Katsuki could never beat it out of him, so what else could?
Midoriya’s brow creases and Katuski wishes he could know what’s going on in his head, “No. I don’t. There’s no need.” Katuski can hear the unspoken, ‘Because I’m not a hero.’
“What? You’re just some fucking office worker now?” It’s not hard to deduct his occupation with his outfit and case.
There’s a tilt of his head and a frown, “Yes? I had to be realistic. Someone like me can’t do anything, which especially includes being a hero.”
“You did give up,” anger flares up, something old and hateful but this time twisted for the opposite reason. He bites down on his tongue to stop the additional thought escaping. Midoriya is a human being who makes his own choices. Katsuki knows this by now. But he can’t help but remember the time when Midoriya had run out and saved his life; when he had made a far better hero than Katsuki had been to him.
“Dynamite, I gave up six years ago,” the eyes that always held so much in Katsuki’s memories are dull and so are the words.
The anger dies. He watches as the green haired ghost of his past turns to walk away but the reporter that Katsuki had failed to notice pounces, “You knew Dynamite? You talk like you know each other! How long have you known him? What was he like?”
Katuski freezes as weariness replaces his fury at the reporter. Midoriya could turn to the reporter and tell him everything: every punch and word. He could tell the reporter about the bullying and the isolation. He could tell the reporter about so much. Instead he says something that makes Katsuki feel a different type of tremendous weight.
“A hero deserves the right to privacy.”
Katsuki is left with those words and an obnoxious reporter; that’s the last he hears of Midoriya.