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It happens after patrol. Izuku gets a text, and then he’s wailing, like. Actually, full-on wailing like he’s not currently ranked fourth in the country, like he’s still fifteen and stupidly—well. In love. And good for him, really. For him and Shouto. They deserve each other. Deserve good things. Deserve the shared, unflinching stubbornness to make a loved one know it, believe it, trust where all else fails that they’re cared for.
Honestly, they’re the grossest people Katsuki knows. And now it’s his problem. Because Izuku seems about five seconds away from passing the fuck out right here.
“Kacchan,” he says, latching onto Katsuki’s forearm for stability. “Kacchan, I can’t go home.”
“Why the fuck not?” Katsuki hisses. They took down this guy who could conjure cartoon bombs today. They did not result in cartoon explosions. Katsuki’s ears are still ringing. He needs a shower. Some peace and quiet. Not Izuku’s pathetically gay crisis over his own husband. Which, like—Katsuki gets it, a little bit. Shouto’s pretty and clueless and kind of… generally squishable? And Izuku isn’t nearly as opposed to letting other people squish him as Katsuki would be. But. It’s not supposed to be Katsuki’s problem past working hours.
“You know why,” Izuku insists, and then doesn’t say much else.
Katsuki sighs. “Show me your damn phone,” he says. “We can—.” God, he hates himself. “—assess the damage.”
Silently, Izuku hands it over. His password is Shouto’s birthday. Fucking nerd. And—the picture is tame, really. Nothing anyone should feel bad about their mother seeing. Just Shouto, smiling all bright in a sweatshirt that’s part of the official Deku merch line, his hair in twin braids, split perfectly down the middle. The caption is a thousand hearts. Which—better than that time it was lingerie pics, honestly. So Shouto looks nice in green lace. Whatever. Katsuki’s not the one too scared to go home and kiss his own fucking husband.
“Kacchan,” Izuku says. “Kacchan, you don’t get it. He’s so pretty. It’s not fair. I don’t deserve him.”
“You don’t deserve people, dumbass,” Katsuki says. “They just—choose you. And you choose them back. And then you’re stuck with them.”
“You’re such a romantic,” Izuku says, because he looks cuddly but he’s actually a fucking bastard. “How are you single?”
And, like—Katsuki has an answer to that, but the answer is married and in love and probably has great sex together, so. Not going there. “Because I spend too much time convincing you it’s okay to want to fuck your own husband,” he says. “And then I’m too tired to do anything nice for myself at the end of the day.”
“It’s not about—oh my God, Kacchan, it’s not about fucking him, don’t be crude,” Izuku protests, scandalized like he didn’t spend half of his wedding reception suspiciously missing only to reemerge considerably more ruffled. With actual lipstick on his collar. Like a moron.
“Then what’s the fucking problem, huh?”
Izuku puts both hands over his face. He’s red. He’s twenty-five and useless. He’s—understandably gay, all things considered. “His hair,” he says emphatically. “He was already—I mean, I’d love him no matter what, but—his hair, Kacchan.”
God. It’s really just— “You have a thing for long hair,” Katsuki says. “Of course you do. It’s not, like, piss or anything, what’s the big fucking deal?”
Izuku shakes his head. “I think I just have a thing for Shouto,” he says. “Is this normal? Can you be too in love? Should we, like, spend some time apart so I don’t make it weird? Is it already weird? Kacchan, help me.”
Katsuki scoffs. “You’re an idiot,” he says. “Shouto loves you. And he loves—the attention, too, I’m sure.” Halfie’s a cuddly drunk. Always ends up in Katsuki’s lap, for some reason. Always smells soft and vaguely sweet. Like flowers. Clean clothes. Katsuki gets the general struggle of having him too close. (He’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to, but that’s beside the point.)
“But I don’t want to turn into one of those couples who never go out or have time for friends,” Izuku says, because he’s genuinely the kind of person who worries about monopolizing his own goddamn husband.
“What? You want me to come over and review the process or something? Make sure you’re putting it in without any ill intent?”
Izuku swats at his arm. “Don’t be gross,” he says, but then—his face does this weird eureka thing where it lights the fuck up. “Oh my god, you’re right.”
Katsuki cannot foresee this ending well for him. “About what?” he asks through gritted teeth.
“You should come! And, uh, I guess… also come? You could—if there’s two of us, I could be sure I’m not taking advantage, or anything.”
Katsuki hates his friends, actually. And his life. And like, the fact that his dick doesn’t seem entirely disinterested at the prospect. “You can’t take advantage of your own husband,” he yells, louder than he needs to even to prove his stupid, ridiculous point. Izuku brings these things out of him. “Not when you’re as in love as you two are. And I don’t—I don’t know what weird shit you get up to when I’m not the one forced to witness it, but fuck’s sake, do you pass him around like candy or something?”
“Um, no,” Izuku says, like this too needs detailed explaining. “He just talks about you a lot. And—I guess I talk too. So… we talk? Together?”
Katsuki’s head is pounding. He definitely hates his life. “Just to get this straight,” he says, “you’re—what? Telling me your husband wants me to fuck him?”
“And hold his hand,” Izuku says, extremely helpful as always. “And I think he likes your cooking better than mine, honestly.”
“Oh my God,” Katsuki hisses. “Shut up. I’m driving you home. You’re not allowed to talk anymore.”
“But you could stay,” Izuku says, because, again, he is a cuddly bastard.
Katsuki makes an unspecified and not entirely articulate noise. He could point out he’s been staying for a while, has been there for all of the big things and a lot of the small things too. Could point out—well. A lot, really. But it doesn’t matter. They’re still here. And—
“Whatever,” he says, “fuck off.”
Izuku smiles. Because of course he does. “Shouto is going to be happy,” he says. “We—you know, don’t you, Kacchan?”
No, Katsuki doesn’t. Not really. Not in that way where he actually believes it. Believes he deserves it. Because Izuku isn’t the only one with giant, weird intimacy issues. But—it feels like he could learn, honestly. Like if he could do it for anyone, these two idiots would be it for him. Are it for him.
But, you know, whatever.