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In decades of Pro Hero work, Dynamight and Red Riot have experienced any and all shades of human emotion — for themselves, in each other, written across the faces of victims, vigilantes, villains. Fear, joy, the many layers and subtleties of pain; disappointment and relief and there, in those mundane moments when the two of them are being their laziest, most unrefined selves on their day off, that unique sense of peace that sharing a life with your favorite person brings.
To the public, Dynamight has always stood for fire and fury, a force of nature that cannot be stopped — not by age, or his chronically aching joints, not even by the loss of his dominant arm in the most gruesome villain take-down in recent Musutafu history. Similarly, Red Riot is the epitome of stability, safety, soothing and strong. Smiling, that's an important one. A sharp-toothed grin that everyone, his husband and Hero partner included, fell for on first sight.
When he smiles, it doesn't matter that years of hardening have left his muscles increasingly stiff. That his skin is rough and thoroughly scarred from breaking and healing and breaking anew.
Until Eijirou wakes one day, stares at the ceiling and doesn't want to get up.
Light floods in through partially-closed blinds, highlighting particles of dust and whatever else is in the air. Somewhere beyond the dull pulse of pain in Eijirou's limbs, their alarm chirps away. The warm weight of Katsuki next to him shifts to glare at it in drowsy disapproval.
Grouching, "Hate that fuckin' piece of shit bird", as he does pretty much every morning before tucking himself closer to Eijirou's side to reach for the ancient blåhaj on his other side. "Shut… up."
Wham!
The fake birdsong may tumble to the ground but it cannot be silenced, covered as it is by the huge shark plush Eijirou's had since he was a teenager. Katsuki's first birthday present to him, delivered with a red-faced and flustered yell to take good care of her.
"Urgh. Fucker."
Normally, Eijirou would laugh.
On any other morning, he'd ruffle Katsuki's hair a little and give him his good morning kiss — on the tip of his nose, because it makes him scrunch it so cutely — before he peels himself out of bed and heads to the shower. His hair takes ages to air-dry, after all, and that's without the time that goes into styling it afterwards. Can't be Red Riot without his signature spikes!
Today, Eijirou turns on his side to look at Katsuki and tells him: "I think I'm done."
From where he's pulling the straps of his bionic tighter across his bare chest, Katsuki pauses, prompts, "Done with…?", his gaze a glint of ruby in the half-dark.
"Dunno. Active duty? Maybe being a Hero altogether. I…"
Eijirou blows out a slow breath, runs a hand through the long, crimson strands he's grown out for most of his life. His fingers are so desensitized, he barely feels them.
"It's enough, I think. I've given enough."
They both have. This is the path they chose and Eijirou has no regrets, despite the hurts and losses. It doesn't change the fact that they have been hurt and lost.
Eijirou is so tired. He's been tired for a long time now.
All too suddenly, the obnoxiously cheerful chirping falls silent. Katsuki sets the bird clock back on the windowsill where it belongs, picking Big Blue off the floor on his way back and wordlessly dropping her in Eijirou's lap. Eijirou automatically wraps his arms around the shark, no need for fine motor skills; the softness of the plush is deeply ingrained in muscle memory.
"Okay", Katsuki finally says, perching on the edge of the bed with his knee brushing Eijirou's. "So we retire. Anything else?"
Simple words, stated calmly. Eijirou hears 'retire' and 'we' and swallows against the relief bubbling up, rising to his eyes hot and wet. Somehow, it sounded so much more complicated in his head.
"Yeah? You too?"
A genuine question, though it has Katsuki snorting like Eijirou just told the world's dumbest joke. "The fuck am I gonna be out there for when you're here, hah? Idiot."
It's always been an obvious choice, to reach for Katsuki. Eijirou only needs to offer his open hand for Katsuki's palm to land in it, about as rough and scarred as his own. What remains of Katsuki's quirk, one he only trusts Eijirou to handle, some days.
His expression softens, though, perpetual snark yielding to sincerity when Eijirou needs it most. "'course, Ei. Promised you forever, hm?"
Some days, it really is just that simple.
And sometimes, what once seemed impossible becomes the most logical next step. Two months later, Katsuki reminds Eijirou, "Not too late to back out", voice kept to a low grumble between them. They're holding hands again, Katsuki's sleek, carbon-fiber fingers skin-warm from how long Eijirou's been clutching at them. (Neat things, these weapon-grade prosthetics. They let Eijirou squeeze as hard as he wants without having to worry about breaking anything.)
A few seats over, Mina is chatting her stylist's ear off, curls gradually disappearing in tiny foil pockets — in a handful of hours, her mullet will return to the acid trip of neon colors it's meant to be. For years, Eijirou used to sit in the chair to her left every six weeks, his roots suffering through varying stages of bleaching to lighten them up for the bright red to come.
Today, that era ends.
Eijirou hums, a noise that's a bit too anxious to change anything about the subtle worry on Katsuki's face. "I want this", Eijirou adds, putting conviction into his every word. "Seriously, babe, I'm good. I'm ready. Promise."
Katsuki shrugs a wordless whatever, crossing his legs at the knee and leaning back in his roomy barbershop chair. In his effortlessly stylish leisure wear, he looks like he's about to board a luxury cruiser, not merely waiting for his husband to go through with getting his beloved hair chopped off.
…Oh fuck, it really is happening. Eijirou feels equally close to grinning in giddy anticipation as he does to internal (possibly even external) screaming.
"Will you be okay, though?"
After a beat of silence, "Hm?", Katsuki looks up from his gossip magazine — No way, they're still on the same tired spiel about Yaomomo and Kyouka being 'bestie goals'? They've been literally engaged for three years! — and blinks.
"…Me?"
"Yeah, bro. I won't be Shitty Hair anymore, isn't that like… weird? I've been Shitty Hair since we met!"
"Pshh, bitch please. Red, black, fuckin' platinum blond, makes no difference. Your hair'll always look shitty to me."
"Aww? Kats." Lips pulling into an adoring smile, Eijirou presses the back of Katsuki's hand to the center of his chest and the heart fluttering underneath. "Love you too, so much!"
A snort, amused. "Ah, and they say romance is dead." The stylist snaps their dye-stained gloves off as their mohawk shifts from Mina-pink to Eijirou-red. Man, their quirk is the coolest. "What's up, Riot, my man? You ready for the transformation of the century?"
Katsuki grumbles under his breath, magazine raised to strategically hide the flush of color to his cheeks.
Eijirou pats at his knee, minding far less that they've been caught flirting. In fact, his nerves are significantly calmed by the presence of three of the five people in the world allowed to touch his hair — his moms have had that privilege locked down tight since his birth, of course.
"Hell yeah, dude, let's do this!"
Sure, when those clippers buzz inches from his ear and Mina's phone goes up to record the event of a lifetime for the squad members scattered all over the world, Eijirou is so jittery he's struggling not to squirm in his seat. In the mirror, Katsuki catches his gaze, a corner of his mouth twitching up along with his eyebrow. Checking in one last time.
Pride glints in those eyes. Pride, and love, and there, a notion that is theirs alone — that forever they shaped out of a chance encounter in their teens and the many, many years of togetherness that followed.
Then Eijirou closes his eyes, strand after strand of crimson hair falling to the ground around him. All that history, the persistent doubts that had him religiously stick to the same redyeing schedule since he was fifteen, the weight of his image as a Hero — always kind, always laughing, utterly unbreakable in body and spirit — drops with it.
It feels good. It feels right.
A feeling that fills the entirety of Eijirou from the tips of his toes to the inch of black hair remaining on his head, suddenly light as a feather. Katsuki runs a loving hand over that fuzz, smiling into the unexpected velvet-like softness of it.
"Better?"
And Eijirou? He hums, leans into that touch and the future that stretches from below their feet to the horizon, a new story yet to be written.
"Yeah. Much better."