Archive of Our Own

It hits Eijirou at the most random of moments.

They’re sprawled over the common area, Mina taking the full length of a couch with Hanta squeezed into the side by her feet. Denki shares another with Katsuki, getting thumped in the head every time he so much as tries to drape across the taller’s lap. Eijirou sits on the floor, propping his back against the legs of the couch. Bottles of orange juice had been passed around, or rather, bottles of vodka mixed with orange juice disguised as pure orange juice had been passed around, concocted with the combined genius of Mina and Hanta who’d rather use their brains on sneaking alcohol into the dorms than, y’know, actual studying. But Eijirou doesn’t mind. The atmosphere is loose, languid. Nice. Hell, even Katsuki has chucked aside his usual sleeping routine to join them. They’re in their third year, an end is in sight, and Eijirou honestly feels bittersweet about it.

Ethyl courses through his veins, painting his skin flush like the shade of his hair. He thinks Mina is laughing at him, giggles bursting through her lips, but the sounds blend with the ambiguities of his thoughts, the haze of the atmosphere, and Eijirou simply laughs right back without comprehending why. He feels warm all over—in his face, his skin; but mostly, there is warmth blooming in his ribcage, nestling snugly in his chest, pressing against the underside of his lungs. Sweet, sweet warmth racing through his bloodstream, wrapping his surroundings in a filter. Everything’s more abstract around the edges, like they’ve just passed through the rain and the world is shrouded in mist.

Eijirou blinks his sleep-washed eyes and suddenly, Izuku is standing in front of them. He thinks he hears Katsuki asking, “Oi, what are you doing up so late?” But he can’t be sure—it’s late, he’s kind of drunk, and it’s hard to make sense of the world right now. There’s laughter, airy and honeyed, settling in Eijirou’s ears, sticky sweet. “I’m just getting a glass of water, Kacchan. Are you guys having fun?”

It’s late, he’s kind of drunk, so you can’t really blame Eijirou for thinking he’s imagined this whole thing up. Drunkenly induced Midoriya Izuku is a deer in the headlights, overhead fluorescents haloing around viridian curls, highlighting the freckles on his cheeks. Face framed by plush, almost-swollen lips, and his eyes , which are wide, so wide, and just so green . Forgive Eijirou’s lack of vocabulary right now, his brain has stopped working about an hour ago. But it’s this moment, really, where he’s hit with a realisation so deep it sweeps through his bones, striking his blood with white-hot electricity. That same warmth, tucked safely beneath his sternum, amplifies for some long seconds along with the epiphany. 

Because it’s late, he’s kind of drunk, and drunkenly induced Midoriya Izuku is stunning, so you can’t really blame Eijirou for what leaves his mouth next.

“Midoriya is really pretty.”

There is a pause, and then, utter, utter chaos. Denki is cackling and Mina is shrieking and Katsuki is choking on his drink, spitting it out, if the stray beads of vodka-orange-juice that land on Eijirou’s head are anything to go by. He thinks he hears Hanta yell in response to the spitting, “Can you really blame him though? Kats’ best friend just called his other best friend pretty.”

Eijirou, who still thinks this is some sort of dream his wildly intoxicated brain has cooked up, flashes his widest grin at them, before proceeding to black the fuck out. 

❍

Everything comes back to him in the morning. Specifically at the changing room, as he hobbles around the lockers with a towel draped around his waist, fingers pressed to his temples in some half-baked attempt to nurse The Greatest Hangover In The World. It’s here that he bumps into Izuku. The other’s eyes are blown wide, and just when Eijirou thinks he might drown in verdant irises, he recalls the events prior to The Greatest Hangover In The World. Midoriya Izuku had stopped by the common area last night to say hi, Eijirou had told him he was pretty, and no, it was definitely not his imagination.

“Oh my god,” he mouths aloud.

“Uhh,” Izuku responds intelligently. 

They both stand there, half-naked, just staring at each other in almost-awkward silence. Midoriya Izuku looks like a sin—towel haphazardly folded over his waist, sun-kissed thighs spilling from underneath. His quads are big, and strong, and Eijirou knows because he’s seen the boy do hundreds of bulgarian squats in the gym like they’re nothing. Then there are his abs, carved out of his upper body in chiseled lines and squares of muscle, trapping stray beads of moisture. Scars run along the side of his arms, trailing the musculature, the curves of his biceps.

Eijirou has to bite on his tongue to keep from saying oh my god a second time.

The thing is, he’s known this for a long time now, the hardness of Izuku’s body. Hell, Eijirou has seen all the boys in class in various states of undress, and they’re all jacked as shit. It’s what hero work does to your body, hardening flesh and muscle, shaping like Adonis. He’d like to think that he’s lived with this knowledge pretty well so far. That is, until a particular realisation dawned upon him last night. Now, this awareness pulses through his blood like a drum, chanting in his head like a mantra: Midoriya is pretty, pretty, pretty. It draws something deeper inside him, hidden beneath layers of subconscious. Something that feels like more, an emotion he’ll not put a name to for now, because Eijirou is currently still going through The Greatest Hangover In The World, and he’s not in the right headspace to deal with that, whatever that is.

A rational part of him knows he can’t let this silence drag on for too long though, before almost-awkward transitions into straight up weird. And a normal person would dismiss the conversation, make some excuse about nursing hangovers and getting to their clothes. But it appears that all traces of sanity have left Eijirou’s body along with that drunken admission he had made last night, so instead of speaking and functioning like a sane, able-bodied human, he flexes his arm at Izuku, grinning toothily.

More silence ensues and just when Eijirou is convinced that their friendship is surely over by now, laughter bursts out of Izuku’s mouth, high and pealing. It makes Eijirou think of windchimes tinkering in the breeze. Of honey trickling soothingly down your throat. Of sunshine, made a sound.

This might be the crux of it all, then: the hardness of Izuku’s body, and the softness of, just, him.

Izuku cannot stop laughing, breathy and interspersed with little snorts like he’s choking on his own laughter. Then he mirrors Eijirou, raising an arm and flexing the muscle there too, and now it’s Eijirou’s turn to explode with giggles, the sounds of their laughter filling up the room.

He thinks he can get used to this.

❍

Bakugou Katsuki is his best friend or a backstabbing betrayer, depending on how you look at it.

It had started with Eijirou’s English results, which were abysmal, if he had to be honest. His Mathematics and Physics fared much better, but numbers and sciences had come more naturally to Eijirou anyway. He’s moved enough in the air to appreciate the technicalities behind it. Language, though, is a whole other ball game. It’s hard to string his sentiments with syntax and lexicon, when all of Eijirou’s words are packaged neatly in the premise of his actions. Contextualised with intention and happenstance, never with letters scrawled haphazardly over paper.

Anyway, he had trudged to Katsuki’s table sulkily with his exam paper in tow, marked all over in Present Mic’s angry red penmanship. Plopping it down onto the desk, he whined, “Please send help.”

Katsuki’s the unofficial tutor for their squad, or whatever it is you name a group of idiots who decided to become best friends with each other. He’s the reason why Eijirou’s grades have seen a steady improvement. But the telltale smirk tugging around Katsuki’s lips had indicated it wasn’t going to be easy getting his help this time around.

Katsuki raised his voice, beckoning to Izuku who sat behind him, “Nerd scored the highest in English. Why not ask him?”

Eijirou had just stared at Katsuki, hoping whatever flustered and bewildered sentiments rushing through him he could convey with his gaze. But the blonde had been adamantly silent and before Eijirou could butt in with a polite it’s okay, don’t wanna trouble Midoriya, Izuku piped up, beaming. “I could help you, Kirishima-kun!”

Eijirou had kicked Katsuki’s legs under the table, code for I hate you, bro. And Katsuki responded by shoving him slightly, love you too.

So this is how Kirishima Eijirou meets his demise, sitting next to Izuku in the green haired-boy’s room, sides brushing as they pore over a vocabulary worksheet together. In the grand scheme of things, this tiny skin contact should be negligible, but Eijirou feels it burn through epidermis, smouldering his flesh, his heart. He feels more than sees the blush on his cheeks, reflected in the All Might-shaped mirror that stands on the edge of Izuku’s table.

It might be the proximity, maybe, because Eijirou has seen Izuku wearing this shirt countless of times—an oversized, sage green thing that reaches just above his knees. Has seen him trawl down the hallways, around the common area, in this exact get-up. So this shouldn’t explain why Eijirou’s throat feels a little dry at the moment. Or maybe it’s the fact they’re alone together, one on one, in an enclosed area. They’ve hung out at the gym many times, but there was always equipment and workouts to distract them. And Eijirou has been in Izuku’s room before, but with other people like Katsuki or Ochako or Shouto. This is different.

Izuku’s room still looks the same, at least. Desk and shelves lined with All Might merchandise from every year and in every edition, easily putting Eijirou’s Crimson Riot collection to shame. There are posters on the wall too, of course, joined by framed photographs of Izuku and their classmates. Eijirou has his spot on the upper left corner—a selfie taken with Izuku and a very grumpy-looking Katsuki from last year when they had gone out and watched a movie together. The redhead’s arm had slung so freely around Izuku’s shoulder. Looking at the picture, it makes him blush even harder now.

There’s a pencil tucked behind Izuku’s ear and a stray wisp of hair falling over his eye. It’s very distracting, and Eijirou keeps swallowing around the lump in his throat to no avail. 

“This word is pronounced as gos-sam-mer,” Izuku explains, tapping his pencil against the paper. His lips are pursed slightly. Cute. Oh, what the hell. “It’s used to describe things that are thin, light, and translucent!”

“...tell me what does translucent mean again?”

“Oh, it’s like see-through but not completely see-through, if you know what I mean.”

“Huh.”

“Let me try to use it in a sentence!” Izuku chimes and Eijirou can see the imaginary light bulb lighting up above his head. “Hmm… I know! Sunlight streams through the gossamer curtains, illuminating the room.”

“That’s… a pretty sentence.”

“It’s your turn to try now, Kirishima-kun!”

There’s a pause and then Eijirou’s mouth is just running on its own. “Hagakure is a gossamer.”

Instantaneously, the corner of Izuku’s lip twitches and Eijirou can see him biting on his lower lip, eyes blinking involuntarily. Cheeks flaming scarlet, and he knows Izuku is just trying his hardest not to burst into laughter.

“You can laugh, y’know.”

“Nope,” the green haired-boy responds, though his voice comes out as a cracked sound. Eijirou feels a smile bracketing the curve of his mouth as he pokes Izuku at the side, tickling him a little. “C’mon, Midoriya, you know you wanna let it out.”

For just a second, Izuku giggles, and Eijirou swears the sound strikes through him like sunbeams. The shorter inhales deeply to calm himself, before explaining in a squeaky voice, “It’s just… Hagakure-san is completely see-through, Kirishima-kun. The word for it would be in-vi-si-ble.”

At that, the both of them lose it, chests bursting with laughter. They laugh until there’s tears in their eyes, bodies vibrating with the force of their own giggles. And Eijirou, for all of his heaviness, feels so light; for all of his hardness, feels so soft.

“Okay, the next word is e-ter-ni-ty. It just means forever.”

“Oh, I know, I know!” Eijirou lilts. He pauses to clear his throat and then, in his best Shouto impression, says, “I could eat soba noodles for an eternity.”

It’s worth it, he thinks, to watch Izuku throw his head back in laughter again, mossy curls glinting under the lowlights of the room. Eijirou is drawing all these pretty sounds out of the sun.

“Now, the last word! In-fa-tu-a-tion. It means an intense feeling of admiration for someone, but one that’s short-lived. Temporary.”

Eijirou chances a look at Izuku, thinks of the semi-confession he had blurted out that night. In this brief second, he feels the warmth buried beneath his sternum intensifying, and wonders how long he has been holding onto this sentiment. If it’s just infatuation, as Izuku had explained, something that comes and goes with the tides of time. Or if it’s always been there and now choosing to rear its head.

Memories of the past three years play like a film reel in his head and it’s now dawning on him how much they’ve been through together, how much Izuku himself has been through. Eijirou sees the scars littered around the other’s body, and they should be a testament to his strength, the shape of his physicality, but all he can think of are the things that run underneath. The traits of Midoriya Izuku that are more intangible, abstruse around the edges. Softness, juxtaposing hardness.

And there’s Eijirou’s answer, isn’t it?

These butterflies in his stomach, they’ve transformed into a whole damn zoo.

❍

On Sundays, they hit the gym together. Gymbros, Eijirou likes to call them. Sometimes, there are others who join along like Tenya and Mashirao, but mostly it’s just Eijirou and Izuku. Katsuki prefers working out on his own, that traitor. He clearly doesn’t appreciate the convenience of having someone spot for you or check your form.

Okay, but it’s not like Eijirou minds being alone with Izuku, especially after confirming the attraction he has for him. It’s just, the awareness of it also makes being around Izuku a difficult thing.

The green haired-boy enters the gym just as Eijirou is done with his first set of kettlebell deadlifts. He wipes away a bead of sweat on his brow, waving at the other. “Midoriya!”

Izuku salutes him. “Red Riot never skips leg day.”

Eijirou laughs, saluting back. “Aye aye!”

Today, Izuku is donned in a grey muscle tank, and through the holes at the sides Eijirou can see a little of his pecs, the popping delt, lines of his ribs heaving with his breaths. The glory of his arms greets Eijirou in full view, concave mountains carved out of tan skin. There’s that drying sensation in the redhead’s mouth again.

Working out with Izuku is always fun because they take turns blasting music every week. Eijirou is a man of refined tastes so today’s choice of music is, naturally, the legendary Page Two album by TWICE. Dancing to Cheer Up in between reps is extremely manly, thank you very much. Besides, the voices of Eijirou’s favourite girl group are made better layered over with Izuku’s tinkling laughter. And it takes Eijirou’s mind off the, um, grunting that Izuku does when he’s lifting his weights. To be frank, Eijirou’s just trying really hard right now not to stare at the damp patch of sweat on Izuku’s tank, soaking the material to reveal muscle lines rippled into his back.

God, being gay is so hard.

As if to prove his point, Izuku shuffles towards him, asking, “Kirishima-kun! Could you help me spot the bench press?”

Eijirou feels his heart dissolve into flutters right then. But what else could they be gymming together for, if not to help each other? “Sure!” he chimes, grinning widely for good measure. Hovering over the bench, he curls his fingers around the bar, pulse speeding up at the frontal view of Izuku’s chest, pecs threatening to spill out of his loose tank.

“Am ready,” the green haired-boy says and Eijirou removes his grip, watching as Izuku lifts the metal, a delicious strain running along his shoulders as he flexes. The veins on his neck and arms protrude against his skin, and it’s really just a sight to take in. Eijirou is only a man. He feels weak in the knees.

Laboured breathing fills the air in between sets, and the lingering coldness of the bar does not help temper the heat that’s searing across Eijirou’s skin. Izuku pants heavily, smiling up at the taller boy. “Could you help add another 5kg weight to each side?”

“Bro, we’re going into the hundred and thirties now. That’s crazy.”

“I could do it,” Izuku lilts cheekily, a hint of tongue poking out, swiping over his lower lip. 

“Yeah, you could. You would. ”

Eijirou slides in the weighted discs, locking them in place before returning to grip the bar. For a brief moment, his fingers brush Izuku’s and that split second of contact sends a jolt of electricity surging through Eijirou’s veins, crackling like fireworks beneath his skin.

“Oops, sorry,” Izuku says quietly, repositioning his fingers. And Eijirou is bad with forming words, with expressing all these fluttery feelings that hide under epidermis, but in this moment, he really feels like saying, please don’t ever apologise for touching me.

Kirishima Eijirou is a hard man. No, not down there per se (at least, not in this moment, because that would be weird), but he literally has a hardening quirk. And so he builds a hard body for himself, toning muscle and flesh, constantly refining this vessel for the times it turns into a bulletproof shield, unbreakable in every sense of the word. Eijirou, who has the hardest body he knows (okay, he happily shares this title with Tetsutetsu), appreciates hard bodies too. In a class full of heroes, he’s surrounded by them, constant reminders of all the work they’ve done—training, fighting, living through an almost-world-ending war. 

It’s just, he really likes the hardness of Izuku’s body. And not only in an appreciative way because Eijirou, for the first time, wonders what it’s like to be on the receiving end of that strength. To be embraced by scar-battered arms that are as firm and big as his, to be squeezed around the waist by those bone-crushing thighs. To collide with all of Izuku’s hardness head-on, and then revel in the softness of his intentions afterwards—the caress of bruised fingers, the gentle press of a hug. 

Later when they’re celebrating Izuku’s new PR, Eijirou is struck with the thought that hanging around Izuku feels like unfolding revelation after revelation. Feels like his heart has expanded ten sizes, a capacity he never knew he could have for a single person.

Their time in school is drawing to an end, and with their impending graduation in sight, Eijirou cannot help but wonder—if these feelings keep growing and growing, what happens when there’s no space left for them to go?

❍

On nights that Eijirou can’t fall asleep, he likes to wander around the dorms. Not outside of his classmates’ rooms, that’s a little creepy, but he would flop onto the couches at the common area, fix a bowl of cereal for himself at the kitchen or, on nights like these when the weather is nice, lie on the rooftop, staring up at the starless Musutafu skies.

Sleeping comes easier to Eijirou now. It had been especially bad after the war. He’d wake up with the phantom warmth of Midnight-sensei’s body in his hands, images of battle burned behind his eyelids, ashy crimson skies stretching across his brain for days. And time doesn’t heal all wounds, some memories are meant to hurt forever, but the pain has dulled down now, into something that aches only when you press against it. Tonight though, the redhead has other things on his mind. Aizawa-sensei had passed them their written testimonies during class and it’s hitting Eijirou that this is it, they’re going to graduate and become pro-heroes. Every hour that passes between now and then feels like grasping at fleeting youth.

It’s such a big feeling, to be excited for the future and yet, to not want this to end. To wish that their present could span forever and ever. E-ter-nity, he hears the English word in Izuku’s voice.

Footsteps approach from behind. There’s a soft gasp. Then, as if Eijirou’s thoughts have summoned him, Izuku’s head pops up, peering down at Eijirou. “Oh my god, what are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t sleep. You?”

“Same here,” the green haired-boy answers, laying down gingerly next to Eijirou. Dark skies envelop their vision, flecked with cirrus clouds and floating satellites. There’s a light breeze sweeping through their hair, their clothes. But all Eijirou can feel is the warmth emanating from Izuku’s body at his side, shuddering through his skin and bone.

“Are you okay, Kirishima-kun?”

“I guess. I’m just… thinking.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“I’m not good with words, Midoriya.”

“You can always try,” Izuku encourages with that honeyed voice of his, elbow gently nudging Eijirou. The touch is tugging at his heartstrings, unravelling the threads that hold him together. He pauses for a moment to collect his words. 

“It’s just hitting me that we’re gonna graduate really, really soon. And I’m pumped, y’know, to be working with Fatgum and Amajiki-senpai again. But at the same time… I don’t know if I’m ready? To let go of all of this, I mean.”

Izuku hums, an understanding noise. “I get it, Kirishima-kun. You could tell me... if you’re comfortable with sharing, how does that make you feel?”

So tender, so considerate, and Eijirou feels the words pouring out of him one by one, with the gentle way Izuki is treating his feelings. 

“Excited, to start a new phase of my life. Sad because man, I would miss you guys so much,” a pause and then, in a quieter voice, “and maybe I’m just- a little scared. Everything just feels so real now, bro.”

“What are you afraid of?”

Eijirou is still staring up at the sky, nervous to turn his head and look at Izuku. 

“...of messing things up.” 

The redhead sounds so raw, even to himself. Vulnerable in the late hours, as though he’s cut out a piece of his heart to give to Izuku, glass and muscle refracting the darker colours of the night.

“When I was in middle school, I bumped into a villain once. They were cornering two of my schoolmates and I was just- so terrified. I couldn’t do anything. Mina had come in to save them eventually but I hated it, the way I let fear consume me.”

Eijirou pauses, chuckling humourlessly as he catches Izuku’s focused gaze in his periphery. “I still remember reading about the sludge incident, the way you just dashed in and tried to save Katsuki without thinking. You and Mina inspired me a lot.”

Another shuddery exhale, warm air blowing through his lips. “And I’ve spent all this time afterwards trying to coexist with that fear. But y’know man… the war really opened my eyes to shit. Real shit. It’s a kind of fear that really rocks you to the bone. So what if, when I become an official hero, I’m faced with that terror again? What if I just… walked away? There won’t be anyone to catch me then.”

There’s a long moment of silence, like Izuku’s taking the time to absorb Eijirou’s words. And then the green haired-boy is shifting closer towards Eijirou, curling gentle fingers around his wrist. The tenderness of his movement shocks the breath out of Eijirou, his eyes widening in fluster.

“Firstly, Kirishima-kun, thank you for sharing this with me,” Izuku starts, “I know you were talking about fear and bravery, but it takes a kind of strength, a kind of courage to come forward with your feelings.”

“There’s a reason why you like Crimson Riot so much, right? He was truly an extraordinary hero, all the more because he wasn’t afraid to admit that he felt fear. And courage is not the absence of fear, it’s acting in spite of fear. You’ve achieved that in the past few years, more so than you’ll ever realise. You don’t see us like how we see you, Kirishima-kun.”

“And I’m not gonna lie. There are gonna be moments when the fear is so thick you feel like you can’t lift your feet off the ground. But that’s okay because you’re gonna move, the way you have fought all these years to. And even if it gets too hard, you can’t say there won’t be anyone to catch you. At the core of things, you’re a human first, before you’re a hero.”

A deep intake of breath, determination lining verdant irises. “At the core of things, you’re not alone. You have Fatgum and Suneater and Kacchan and all our friends. Even after graduation, we’ll still be there! You have me, Kirishima-kun.”

Awe racks through Eijirou’s body, hanging his mouth agape. His heart feels as though it’s been cleaved in two and then put back together at the same time by the hands of this boy who’s lying next to him. Eyes watering, he turns to Izuku. “Ah… Midoriya… I- I don’t know what to say. Thank you so much, for believing in me.”

Izuku still has his hands clasped around Eijirou’s wrist, squeezing it. “We all believe in you, Kirishima-kun. It’s no problem.”

Eijirou is frankly still so stunned by their conversation, by the way Izuku had gently prodded at his wounds, uncovering fears and pain buried underneath. The selfless manner with which Izuku had treated his concerns, never once redirecting the topic back to himself, only listening intently and addressing every word Eijirou had said. When Izuku had come up to the roof so late at night because he couldn’t sleep too. When he probably had something on his mind too.

“How about you, Midoriya? Are you okay?”

Izuku clicks his tongue, hesitant for a second, before admitting, “I had a nightmare.”

Eijirou immediately realises. “...about the war?”

“...yeah. They don’t come as frequently anymore though. The memory of it still hurts but it’s less traumatic now. Therapy helps. Medication helps.”

Suddenly, the redhead feels awful about making Izuku listen to him when Izuku had been the one who suffered the most those years ago. “Ah, I’m so sorry, Midoriya. You had to comfort me when what you’re going through is way worse—”

“No no no! Your concerns are just as valid as mine, Kirishima-kun. Please don’t ever invalidate your own feelings,” he urges, “We both lived through the same war. All of us did.”

Eijirou wishes he had half the flair for language as Izuku does so he could magically conjure the right words to say. He thinks back on how the other had gently prompted him along the conversation, and asks, “...how did it make you feel?”

Izuku swallows thickly, and Eijirou sees all the pain from yesteryear flickering across viridian irises. It makes his chest squeeze.

“I’m still trying not to feel… angry at myself. Or disappointed. That there were so many lives I couldn’t save, so much hurt I couldn’t stop from being inflicted. It’s- I’ve made so many things about this quirk to my own and yet, there’s a part of me that still wants to live up to All Might’s legacy. That wishes I had, during the war.”

Izuku closes his eyes, uncurling his fingers from Eijirou’s wrist and clasping his hands together, bringing them to his chest. 

“Learning is a long and tedious process, Kirishima-kun. But unlearning everything you believed about yourself is a kind of pain that’s… unimaginable, I think. For the longest time I had thought I was nothing without One For All. I kept trying, and failing, to prove that I deserved it. It’s… to the point you think that you have to die for someone to drive that point across.”

At the mention of death, Eijirou’s breath hitches in his throat, chest clenching so tight he feels the air being squeezed out of his lungs. He can’t imagine a universe without Izuku lying next to him as he is now. Just the thought of it aches so deep, rattling through his bones, shattering him down to calcium.

“I’m unlearning that. All of that. Unlearning the belief that I can save everyone because that’s just… impossible. As much as that hurts, it’s impossible. Unlearning the belief that I have to be the one who gets seriously hurt, so someone else doesn’t. Because Kacchan and Ochako have told me so, so many times—if I die now, there’ll be no one who saves later.”

Izuku’s words, his voice, reverberate like a boomerang around Eijirou’s head. When the green haired-boy opens his eyes, they’re wet, tears spilling out of the corners, streaking down his cheeks. And there’s nothing more that Eijirou wants than to take him in his arms, hold him tight, wring all the pain out of him. But for now, his words will have to do.

“Midoriya… that must have been so hard to talk about. Thank you for sharing with me.”

Izuku shakes his head, hiccuping a little as he wipes away his tears with the backs of his hands. “No, Kirishima-kun, thank you for listening to me.”

“I just wanna say—more than anything else, more than saving other people—like what you told me just now, you’re human. A human before a hero. To us, your friends and family, to Katsuki, that’s what you are. Someone whom we- someone whom we love and care for, whom we’re afraid to lose. I hope… that’ll be your greatest motivation. It sounds selfish but I hope you’ll stay alive for us, Midoriya.”

“I can’t even imagine how painful this must be for you, having to fight all this- all this hatred and anger you’ve directed towards yourself. It must be especially hard for you because you feel like… they have been a part of you, something you’ve always known. Demons are hard to get rid of when they feel like home, that’s what Tokoyami said to me once.”

At this, Izuku chokes on a sob, the sound piercing through the stillness of the night.

“But I’m glad, Midoriya, that you’ve acknowledged this, at least. That’s the first step to take on a long, bloody road but you did it. Sometimes, trying is all that matters. Besides, you have us! On days when it’s hard to be kind to yourself, we’re here to remind you.”

The green haired-boy hiccups again, smiling wetly as he mock-punches Eijirou on the shoulder. “And here you said you were bad with words. You’re such a liar, Kirishima-kun.”

Eijirou chuckles, relieved that some of the tension has dissipated from the atmosphere. “Well, look at what this night has become.”

“I feel better though. Truly ,” Izuku admits, “My whole head feels lighter, if you know what I mean.”

And Eijirou completely understands that. The emotions that’ve been buried within their cores, hueing their thoughts and actions in shades of sadness and fear—they’ve taken a tangible form now, in words, in syntax and lexicon, uttered to the air, to each other. Released to the world, seeping out of their skins, leaving their vessels lighter, easier to breathe.

“Thank you for this, really,” Izuku says again, sincere and honest.

“Thank you, Midoriya,” Eijirou asserts. Then, a beat of hesitation later, he adds, “I feel like we’ve gotten to know each other on a deeper level after this.”

The green haired-boy giggles and it’s a sweet sound, a relief to hear. “That we have.”

“In fact, I feel so much better I could fall asleep on this rooftop right now.” With you, he doesn’t say.

“We’d miss the alarm and Aizawa-sensei would kill us.”

“It’s worth it, I think.”

There is more laughter and then, a comfortable silence stretching across the microspaces between their bodies. Eijirou fixates his vision on a satellite in the sky, pretending that it’s a star, when Izuku breaks the quietude, “Hey, Kirishima-kun. Do you think you can call me Izuku from now on?”

His heart stutters in his throat. The world stops spinning for a moment, that satellite in his vision, their surroundings, peeling away, vignetting around two boys huddled close on the rooftop. Eijirou can hear his pulse drumming in his ears as he toys with the name in his mouth, the shape and feel of it. Izuku, Izuku, Izuku.

“Izuku,” he eventually calls out, turning to face the other boy. It may be a trick of his vision but Eijirou thinks he sees the faintest shade of pink dusting across Izuku’s cheeks.

“Can you call me Eijirou too?”

Rose petal lips part slightly to hold his given name, sharpness made soft in the space of his mouth, the loll of his tongue.

“Okay, Eijirou.”

There are butterflies, and there is warmth, exploding at the seams, painting the world in the shade of Izuku’s eyes, the sound of his voice. Eijirou looks around the kaleidoscope of his heart, a labyrinth of technicolours, and yet all he finds is Midoriya Izuku.

What had Bella Swan said in Twilight again?

Kirishima Eijirou is irrevocably and unconditionally fucked.

❍

Nearing the end of the school year, a farewell dance is held for the seniors at Yuuei. And instead of worrying about the upcoming examinations, everyone’s hyped up about the dance, vibrating with so much energy. It shows in the constant buzz that hums throughout the dorms, in Yuga flaunting his one hundred and one outfit choices to a deadpan Fumikage, in Tenya and Ochako nervously skirting around asking each other to the dance. The Bakusquad has, of course, also succumbed to the hype, assembling in Katsuki’s room so Mina can rattle off about the matching outfits she’s planned for them.

“You’re gonna wear a suit?” Hanta asks incredulously.

“We all are! Identical black suits with bowties in our hero costume colours,” Mina chimes enthusiastically, a twinkle in her eyes.

“I just don’t see why we can’t wear a skirt,” whines Denki. 

It’s nice to soak in the excitement, the zealous vibes, but the truth is, Eijirou’s mind is on another planet. It has been, ever since that night on the rooftop with Izuku. The redhead feels like he’s thrown into a storm of change, caught between the shifting tides. That nameless warmth expands underneath his skin, effervescing through tangled capillaries, white-hot but not unpleasant. It’s just frustrating, not being able to put a label on this.

Or maybe, Eijirou knows. Maybe he’s just afraid that saying it aloud means a kind of inevitability, especially when graduation is a month away.

A paper ball is thrown at his face, bringing him out of his trance. 

“Eijirou,” Katsuki calls, “what the fuck is up with you?”

And because he’s tired of holding this thing in his chest—this thing that constantly threatens to burst from his ribcage, Eijirou blurts out, “I think I’m in love with Izuku.”

“Oh my god,” says Hanta.

“Oh my god,” says Denki.

“Oh my god,” says Mina.

“About damn time,” says Katsuki.

“Wait a minute. What do you mean about damn time ?” 

“Dude, you’ve liked the nerd since like, first year. I’ve been waiting for you to figure your shit out for forever.”

Eijirou thinks of that something , repressed beneath thickets of subconscious. That opposite of infatuation. The knowledge of it, the act of finally putting a name to what he feels, steals all the oxygen from his lungs.

“What do I do now?”

“Are you an idiot? Ask him out to the dance.”

“I know, I know!” Mina pipes up, “You could do something super romantic like how Tsuburaba asked Tokage to the dance, with flowers and a big banner and—”

“Save the crap,” Katsuki cuts in, “Izuku’s all about the little, everyday things. He doesn’t give a fuck about grand gestures. So just ask him sincerely. Maybe in a way that feels personal to the both of you.”

“I can’t believe that just came out of Kacchan’s mouth,” Denki comments.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“What if I’m not good for him? He’s so…” Eijirou admits without thinking, his brain-to-mouth filter having stopped working completely. Mina lunges forward, taking the redhead’s cheeks in her hand. “Oh, baby. I will not let you talk like this about yourself. You are good enough.”

Before Eijirou can respond, Katsuki crumples another piece of paper into a ball and launches it at him again. “Oi, dumbass. I can’t believe you’re making me say this but if there’s anyone that’s good for the nerd, it’s you.”

“You’ve got the best friend stamp of approval,” Hanta adds.

“No, seriously. You… fuck, this is so gross to say aloud, but you make him happy. In a very pure way that the rest of us can’t. And he’s good for you too, helps sort out all that emotional constipation you’ve got going on.”

“You’re one to talk,” Eijirou retorts, but his voice is all fond. “Do you really mean it though? That… that I can make him happy.”

“Of course. I don’t fucking say things I don’t mean and you know that,” Katsuki asserts, “I’ve known the nerd all my life, have spent everyday with you the past three years. Haven’t been surer about a damn thing.”

Eijirou’s chest swells like the ocean, waves of love and gratitude lapping beneath his sternum.

“Thanks, bro. It really means a lot to me.”

“Tch.”

Mina sighs wistfully, “How have we lived in a world before Bakugou Katsuki went soft?”

“Again, shut the fuck up.”

Hanta clears his throat, asking, “Bro. How are you gonna ask him to the dance though?”

It’s that opposite of infatuation, the notion of it, that stands out the most to Eijirou. He says, “I think I know what to do.”

Denki claps him on the back. “Good luck, bro. You’ve got this. And if you don’t, you’re free to join us and we can have an after-party fivesome.”

“That’s fucking disgusting,” Katsuki groans.

Eijirou just smiles beatifically at them—this group of idiots, his lifelong friends. His cornerstones. 

He still feels doubt and fear, but there’s also hope, standing up to them, Midoriya Izuku-shaped. And for a minute, he thinks banking on that hope might be his most worthwhile option.

“So… back to the suits?”

❍

Eijirou’s heart is stuttering in his throat, clawing up its walls as he knocks on Izuku’s door. He hears footsteps, the shifting of a lock, turning of a knob. Then, Izuku’s honeyed voice, trilling in the air between them. 

“Hello, Eijirou.”

“Hello, Izuku.”

Like the previous times, their sides are brushing as they sit next to each other at the desk, thighs knocking under the table. And you might think that Eijirou’s gotten used to these mini contact points after all the experiences he’s had before, but they still make him flutter, hummingbird heartbeat reverberating through his bones. 

“Show me the words you need help with,” Izuku says kindly. And god, Eijirou is so nervous he has to clench his fists so his hands would stop shaking. He places the list of words on the desk, written in his ugly, chicken scrawl. The green haired-boy peers closer, their elbows bumping in the process. Eijirou jumps a little in his seat.

“In-fa-tu-a-tion,” Izuku reads the first word, raising a brow and whacking Eijirou lightly on the arm, “We’ve learned this word before! Don’t forget it so soon the next time, Eijirou. It means an intense feeling of admiration that is short-lived.”

As they move down the list, Eijirou doesn’t think his heart could rattle around his chest any faster, but it does.

“Deep-sea-ted. Ah, this is used to describe something that is rooted at a very fundamental level. Chan-ce. This means the possibility of doing something. Like, Aizawa-sensei, please give me a chance! I won’t fall asleep on the roof again!”

A giggle slips out of Eijirou’s mouth at this, the tension lining his shoulders alleviating slightly.

“End-less-ly. Oh, this is an adverb for something that does not have a limit. And be-au-ti-ful. This is used to describe something, or someone, that’s pleasing to the eye or the mind. Your quirk is beautiful, Eijirou.”

No, you are.

Before Eijirou can chicken out, and that would be an extremely unmanly thing to do, he asks, “Could I try using all of these words?” He hopes Izuku hasn’t caught the nervous edge to his voice.

“Of course! I’ll help you check if you’re using them right.”

This is it. Eijirou takes a deep breath. He has rehearsed these words a thousand times now, in the confines of Katsuki’s room, to the mirror on the wall, to the Musutafu night skies as he lays on rooftop concrete. He’s really doing this now—letting love take shape in words, that messy scrawl on the paper with his list.

“Dear Izuku,” he starts, fingers quivering, “I think what I feel for you isn’t just infatuation. Hanging out with you recently has made me realise how deep-seated these feelings are. If you gave me a chance, I think I could feel this way endlessly. I can’t stop thinking about how beautiful you would look in a suit. Would you come to the dance with me?”

There’s a long pause and Eijirou doesn’t dare look up from his lap, hands shaking so violently he can feel their convulsions shuddering through his body. But then Izuku is tilting his chin upwards to face him and Eijirou’s heart is singing, as he notices the soft smile bracketing the other’s mouth, the lovely shade of red washing across freckled cheeks. 

“ You, ” Izuku says, so fondly it makes Eijirou’s chest ache, “are impossible.”

The way he’s looking at him right now, it’s asphyxiating Eijirou to be very honest. All of a sudden, he’s forgotten how to breathe.

Laughter bubbles from Izuku’s lips. Sun-stained chamomile, warm honey. If Eijirou reaches out, digs his hands through muscled flesh, this is what he thinks he'll find underneath all that hardness—soft, endless light.

“I can’t wait to dance with you,” Izuku responds in English, and Eijirou thinks he might combust.

❍

The dance looks like it’s going to be amazing. Eijirou knows this because Momo is on the planning committee, has seen previews of the decorated venue that she sent to the group chat. The ballroom is decked in chandeliers, tables draped over with velvet. A canopy of golden and silver balloons hangs above the dance floor, finished with endless strings of fairy lights. The food’s going to be amazing too—Katsuki and Rikidou had teamed up with the other culinary seniors to whip up a feast, served buffet-style. Eijirou can’t wait to try the Kyoho grape dessert that they won’t stop talking about.

As promised, the Bakusquad is turning up in their coordinated outfits. Eijirou thinks he looks decent in his black tux and crimson bowtie, fringe combed back. He’s genuinely excited, electricity-like anticipation rippling through his body in currents. There’s so much fun to be had, so many photos to be taken, so much dancing to be done. Memories to be made.

There’s just one thing left to do.

Eijirou goes to pick up Izuku from his room. 

In hindsight, this shouldn’t even be the moment he breaks. Eijirou’s had it all planned out—he intends to properly confess after the dance, seal their promise by capturing Izuku on the lips. After they’ve laughed hard enough, danced hard enough, eaten until their bellies are full. But when Izuku walks through the door, absolutely dashing in his pristine white suit, highlight-tinted cheekbones bringing out his freckles that dot his skin in constellations, Eijirou just knows . With the way Izuku is meeting his gaze, Eijirou thinks he knows too.

There is so much he wants to say. But before he can even open his mouth, Izuku is leaning in, pressing their lips together, feather-light. Just like the night at the rooftop, the world around them stops in motion, condensing to this focal point where it’s the two of them, hero and human, human and hero.

“Sorry, I’ve just wanted to do this for the longest time,” Izuku confesses shyly. Eijirou cups the other’s face, pulling him close so their mouths are meeting again. “Don’t ever apologise for kissing me again, Izuku,” he says.

And maybe, this is the true crux of it all: Izuku’s grip on his waist, hard; Izuku’s lips on his mouth, soft. The hardness of their bodies, and then the softness of, just, them. Together. 

“I love you,” Eijrou breathes.

A laugh, a kiss.

“I love you too.”