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“Your hair looks like seaweed, whipping around in the wind like that.” Sero, one of the boatswains, writhes his lanky body and points to Izuku’s head with a toothy smile.
Izuku’s hand flies to his mop of unruly curls, made even more unkempt by the blustery salt-sea air. “Ah,” he replies, reaching the other hand up to re-tie the leather cord. He lets the whole thing down first—it’s grown long since he’s been at sea—and makes a tight ponytail at his nape.
It doesn’t bother Izuku, how the other men talk to him. He’s used to this sort of treatment; they pick on him because he’s the newest member of their crew.
As if he can read Izuku’s mind, Sero reaches over and musses his freshly tied-back hair. Izuku scrunches his face and his body goes taut, hand gripping the memo book in his lap so it won’t fall.
“You’re too rough with him,” says Kaminari, another boatswain. He pulls Sero off of him with a grin.
“It’s fine,” Izuku replies, not bothering to redo his hair this time. He’s set for cooking duties in the afternoon; he’ll have to cover it with a rag soon enough. Afterwards, he’ll bathe and wash it with lukewarm seawater. Izuku’s skin prickles thinking of how the salt irritates him. However, there’s no other choice until they make port again.
The men leave him, either moving towards their duties or slacking off. If it’s the latter, they’ll surely be on the wrong end of Captain Bakugou’s short temper. Izuku shudders, thinking of the last time he saw the captain displeased. He’s a capable captain: confident—some would say arrogant—and smart. He’s a fine navigator. Skilled with a sword and sharp with his pistol (and his tongue). Izuku understands why the men were drawn to him and why they’d selected him as their captain. Yes, he has a short fuse but it doesn’t hinder his leadership abilities.
Izuku makes the finishing touches on his notes and closes his memo book. He’s made a detailed list of things they might need from the next port town. He runs his fingers down the book’s spine and tucks it under his arm as he travels down into his chambers.
It’s much cooler below deck. His cheeks still feel warm from the sunlight and a quick glance in the mirror shows him he’s gotten a few new freckles. No one else is within; he puts the book with the rest of his meager belongings and makes his way to the galley.
When he arrives there, Satou, the cook, is already stirring a pot of thick pea soup. Satou instructs Izuku to take over as he prepares a tray of salted beef and biscuits for the captain. Izuku ties a bandana around his head and grabs the ladle.
When the soup’s ready, Satou says, “I’ll take care of the men tonight. Just pour the ale, then bring this to the captain.” He gestures towards the tray. Izuku obeys, filling each mug of beer until the soapy foam begins spilling over the top.
Izuku’s never been asked to serve the captain before; he’s never been alone with him before. I’ll only be delivering the food and taking my leave, he tells himself.
The door to Captain Bakugou’s quarters is ajar. Izuku’s hands are full with the tray, so he can’t knock. “Captain. I have your dinner,” he calls. He waits until he hears a grunt from within, then pushes his way inside with his hip, the door falling closed behind him.
Izuku gasps; the captain’s quarters are breathtaking. A stark contrast to the rest of the ship in that it’s anything but stark. On the floor, there’s a rich red carpet, depicting all manner of mythical sea creatures: mermaids, sirens, selkies. There’s a desk and a high-backed chair with a blue velvet cushion, a small round dining table, chests filled with who knows what—the spoils of their exploits, no doubt—a bucket for private bathing, and a bed, an actual bed with crisp white sheets and plush pillows. Izuku can hardly take it all in. But the best part is the bank of windows looking onto the sea. Hazy light filters in, dancing on the captain’s ashen hair, giving it a golden hue. He sits there in a little nook, reading. A nook for reading a book, Izuku thinks.
Captain Bakugou doesn’t look up, nor does he speak. Izuku waits for instruction only momentarily, before deciding to set the tray on the table and leave.
“I didn’t dismiss you,” the captain says. Izuku blanches and turns to see him placing a leather bookmark between the pages of his book. He sets it aside and rises.
He moves toward the table, gesturing for Izuku to sit. He does so, stiffly, as deep crimson eyes follow his every move. Once seated, Captain Bakugou joins him. It’s then that Izuku notices how enticingly handsome he is. Sharp, stubble-lined jaw, piercing gaze, and spiky blond hair that he keeps on the shorter side—at least compared to Izuku’s own. His shoulders and chest are broad; the cut of his physique is much more noticeable here when stripped of his coat.
Captain Bakugou takes a piece of beef for himself, then offers one to Izuku. “Eat.”
Izuku does. It’s the most delicious thing he’s ever eaten. Chewy, but salted in just the right way, with a hint of spice he doesn’t recognize. He tries to temper his reaction, but he hears himself make a small moan that instantly embarrasses him. The captain looks pleased, though, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“Not bad,” he remarks, brushing his hands against the cloth napkin on the tray. He eyes Izuku quizzically. “You’ve been with us a month now, yes?”
“Two, actually,” Izuku corrects.
“Midoriya Izuku is your name.”
“Yes.”
The captain lets out a hearty laugh. “What are the odds of having that name when your hair and eyes are the color of the sea?”
“Probably the same as having a name like Bakugou and being known for an explosive temperament,” Izuku replies without thinking. Captain Bakugou freezes. Izuku attempts to backtrack. “Uhh… I mean, someone who’s an experienced gunner!”
The captain waves him off. “You’re not wrong about either. I like you. You may visit me again.”
“All right.”
He pauses for a moment, not sure what to do or say next, but Bakugou waves him off again and says, “you’re dismissed.”
****
In the morning, Izuku rises before the others. It’s quiet still on the deck, and he likes to watch the sunrise. He sketches the lines of the horizon and the first rays of light, so immersed in his work that he doesn’t hear the footfalls on the deck.
“You’re up early, eh Deku?”
Izuku startles, instinctually closing his book. “Deku?” he repeats, confused, looking up to meet the captain’s gaze.
“Well, you’re called Izu ku and you’re always running around the deck . You complete your duties as though there were a fire under your ass. Is that so you can make time to doodle in your little book?” Bakugou swipes the memo book from Izuku’s hand and he’s helpless to get it back. Izuku watches the captain’s eyes widen in wonder as he rifles through it. “You’ve written all this?”
Izuku nods.
“And all the drawings?” After another cursory look through, the captain hands the book back. “They’re nice.”
“Thank you.”
It’s silent for a moment and they both watch the orange light spilling out over the sea.
“From now on, I’d like you to be my scribe. And I’d like for you to call me Katsuki.”
“Katsu—” Izuku stumbles over the name; he’s so stunned that the captain would offer such familiarity. He ends up making it worse, by accident. “Ka-cchan.”
“Hah?!”
“I’m sorry, I was just surprised. Katsuki.” It’s still awkward in his mouth.
“Eh, you can call me Kacchan if you want. I suppose that’s what they called me when I was a brat. Besides, I plan on referring to you as Deku from now on.”
“Wonderful,” Izuku says. He flashes a grin to let the captain know he’s teasing.
*****
It becomes Izuku’s nightly task to bring Kacchan his tray of food. He’s certainly not complaining. It’s much easier than serving and cleaning up after the rest of the crew. And each evening, Kacchan invites him to sit; things feel easy between them. On top of that, he’s been asked to take notes and dictation, a great honor that surprises no one, since he’s the only one who can read and write. And it seems to Izuku that as time passes, their visits become longer.
“What drew you to a life at sea?” Kacchan asks one evening.
“Mmm. Well, I lost my mother when I was young. I was bandied around different places; people tried to make use of me, but I didn’t seem to fit anywhere. And I always knew I was… different.”
Maybe it’s his imagination, but Izuku thinks he sees a flash of understanding in Kacchan’s eyes, even though he’s been careful not to reveal too much.
“Here.” Kacchan pushes out of his chair and retrieves the decanter of whiskey. He pours one for Izuku and one for himself. “Drink.”
Izuku brings it to his nose and swirls it as Kacchan does. He doesn’t even have to take a sniff for the smell to overwhelm him. It’s earthy, sweet, and sharp. When he sips, it burns his throat; he does his best not to cough—that would be mortifying. But as the flavors settle, he notices it tastes warm, caramelly, and toasty. Kacchan watches him closely, and Izuku knows this is a taste and a scent he will now forever associate with him.
“I think I know what you mean,” Kacchan says. “I lost my mother too. And my father. They ran a tailor shop in our town. He took care of the business, she sewed. I was always meant to take over and was content to do so, but when they got sick… my aunties swooped in and took over, right under my nose; took my small inheritance for themselves and tried to marry me off. That’s when I—well, I knew I didn’t want to get married.”
“Why not?” Izuku’s so wrapped up in the story, he forgets himself. “Forgive me. That’s too personal.”
“Nah, s’fine.” He takes a deep breath, looking very pointedly at Izuku. “I have no desire to be with a woman.”
“I see,” Izuku says, his cheeks immediately firing up. He drops his gaze instinctually and when he lifts his head back up he finds Kacchan is quite close to him, eyes burning into his.
Izuku swallows hard as Kacchan reaches out and runs his fingers through the loose strands of his hair. “We’re the same in that regard, aren’t we?” Kacchan asks.
Izuku nods.
“Many of the men are,” Kacchan continues. “It’s safer out here. In many ways it’s much more dangerous, but for that…”
After a moment, Izuku opens his notebook again, flipping through until he finds a drawing he’d made of his mother; the one small portrait he had of her tucked there in between the pages. He holds it out for Kacchan to look and he leans even closer, his soft breath at Izuku’s neck.
“She’s beautiful,” he says, taking in both the photograph and the drawing. “You resemble her.”
Kacchan’s gaze lingers on Izuku, examining his features with careful admiration; it’s not his imagination.
*****
When they finally arrive at port, Izuku learns it’s only a small trade post. He waits at the foot of the gangplank for Kacchan until he emerges with the first mate, Kirishima. They’re carrying one of the trunks from his quarters. “Deku. Today, you’ll help me with the trade. I have things I need to unload.”
“Understood, Captain.” Kacchan smirks at him. His heart flutters a little as Kacchan breezes by him. Izuku follows them, catching a bag of coin that’s tossed at him.
“We’ve explored uncharted seas, but today we’re really going into the depths, Midoriya,” Kirishima explains.
“Don’t scare him,” Kacchan says.
Izuku sees what Kirishima means though, as soon as they enter the pub; the gathering place where many-a-trade is made—a different sort than the ones made in the market. These are the backroom deals.
Soft-blinking candles are scattered about, but it’s dim in the pub; it takes a minute for Izuku’s eyes to adjust to the change. He does notice, however, that when they enter, all eyes turn towards them. The man behind the bar is big and burly, with an intricate orca whale hat on his head. He could almost be mistaken for the creature itself from a distance and in the low light.
“Well, if it isn’t Great Explosion Murder God, Dynamight,” the barkeep calls, jovially.
“Surprised to see you still alive, Porpoise Breath!”
“Still a scalawag, then.”
“Naturally!”
“Hahaha! What’ll it be?”
“Three whiskeys. From the high shelf.”
They find a seat in the corner, placing the chest of wares at their feet. Kacchan props one hefty boot on top as he surveys the place and sips his drink.
It takes another round of whiskey before anyone shows real interest. A dusty-looking man with scraggly gray hair and stitches at his mouth approaches; Izuku is morbidly curious what happened there, but also terrified to know.
“Show me.” His voice is as thin as his sallow skin.
There’s something unsettling about this man. He scratches at patches of dry skin on his neck—almost like a nervous tick—and it makes Izuku’s own skin crawl. He knows all too well what the salty air and saltwater baths can do.
A near imperceptible nod from Kacchan, and Kirishima reaches down to open the trunk. The scent of rare spices wafts into the air; it’s heavenly and makes Izuku’s salivary glands perk up. He’s not even hungry, but it evokes the memory of tasty meals. There’s a bottle of expensive rum, rice, several compases, bullets, wood, cloth, surgical tools.
The man steps forward, runs his hands over the goods. He unties the drawstring on the bag of rice and reaches in, pulling out a handful of grains to inspect them before letting them sift through his fingers. “Interesting stuff,” he says.
“And what are you willing to trade, Shigaraki?” Kirishima asks.
Shigaraki strokes his chin as he contemplates, then his fingers return to picking at the dry skin on his neck. He opens his red coat to show something truly precious: dried oranges.
Kirishima’s eyes go wide, but Kacchan doesn’t look impressed. “That all?”
“I have medicine.” Shigaraki flares open the other side of his coat to show numerous drawn bags, and little bottles of tonic. “Cures for dysentery, fever, malaria, infections…”
“How?” Kacchan asks. He reaches out a hand to inspect and Shigaraki tosses one of the bags to him. It’s full of gray powder. Izuku has to admit it certainly smells medicinal.
“I have connections to the landed gentry that worthless scum like you could only dream of: powerful friends.”
“ Pfft. If you say so.”
Shigaraki tosses the orange slices at Kacchan, then begins to take the bottles and pouches from his coat. “You can take the lot. If you have something equal for me.”
“You’ve seen our wares.”
His eye is on Izuku, though and he’s moving towards him, dangerously close. Alarm bells ring in his head. “I’ve heard this boy can read.”
“What’s it to you?” Kacchan spits.
“We could use a scribe. Clever men are hard to come by.”
“Maybe in your circles.”
“I want him.”
Kacchan stands, kicking the trunk several feet in front of him. Eyes turn to look.
“Over my dead body.”
“ You then. You have a certain reputation, you know; for ruthlessness, brutality, winning at all costs. Perhaps your talents would be better suited for our crew.”
“Never.”
“I’m willing to share power. A co-captainship, even—”
“Power holds no interest for me. I seek freedom, only.”
Shigaraki lets out a sort of angry chortle as he steps towards them, hand extended. Kacchan and Izuku bump shoulders, each fighting to step in front of the other. Kacchan grunts, pushing forward; one hand is on his pistol, while the other draws his sword.
Shigaraki’s hand closes around Izuku’s throat. His skin is so dry it feels like he could transfer the itch to Izuku’s neck. He struggles there, unable to reach across and grab his own sword because of the awkward angle.
“Hands off, Dusty!” Kacchan shoots a shot into the air, and lunges, the tip of his sword digging into Shigaraki’s thigh. The scaly fingers around him loosen a bit and Izuku breaks free, unleashing his weapon. Kirishima has two daggers at the ready, but he knows he’s playing back-up here. Shigaraki ignores him completely.
Izuku doesn’t even see Shigaraki pull out his own sword, only hears the clang of metal it clashes against Kacchan’s.
The table topples over, spilling their whiskey to the floor; glass shatters and crunches beneath their boots as they move. Izuku feels useless. He doesn’t want to get in the way, but his heart pounds with the urge to protect Kacchan.
It’s a dance. Kacchan leaps from the trunk, the table, using his environment fully to land blows against Shigaraki. But the hits are all superficial, so far; they each counter well. Izuku jumps in when there’s a lull, allowing Kacchan a moment to breathe and Kirishima attempts to pull Shigaraki into a headlock, which he deftly spins out of before it can take hold. Kirishima lets out a loud curse and that’s when Shigaraki aims his sword right at Kacchan’s heart. His body moves on its own.
Izuku feels the tip of the blade slice against his cheek, and notices the tufts of his green hair falling, the ponytail cut clean off. He’s aware that he’s jumped in front of Kacchan only when he feels himself falling back against his strong chest, big arms catching him.
“Deku!”
In that moment of vulnerability Shigaraki is on them again, the sword against Izuku’s throat, the tip sharp against his Adam’s apple.
“Move, and he’s dead.” Shigaraki’s men close in; they grab Kirishima, stripping him of his daggers, and they’re already moving to take the trunk of goods. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves three new crew members.”
Kacchan’s muscles tighten around Izuku’s armpits and Izuku gets a wild idea. He can’t think, though, only act . He leans back against Kacchan, using the force to propel forward, landing a powerful kick. He knocks the sword from Shigaraki’s grip. Izuku leaps out of Kacchan’s hold like they’ve practiced this a thousand times. Kacchan rushes in to grab Shigaraki’s sword. His men will have to let go of Kirishima if they want to help him; they look torn without a direct command from their captain.
“Go! Or I’ll shoot.” Kacchan and Izuku surround Shigaraki, a sword on either side. Kacchan’s pistol is pressed against his belly.
“Release the sidekick. Take the chest.” Kirishima falls forward as the men roughly let go of him. He stands and brushes himself off. Shigaraki backs away towards the door. “You won this round, but my hands extend far. We’ll meet again.”
*****
They’re in Kacchan’s quarters, quiet for a long time. Izuku sits in the chair, a towel wrapped around his neck. Kacchan cuts his hair, fixing it after losing his ponytail in the skirmish. Kacchan steps in front of him to check the length, fingers tugging gently on his curls.
Izuku smiles up at him, their gaze holding for a pregnant moment, before he feels Kacchan’s fingertips against his cheek. Izuku’s belly turns to jelly as Kacchan leans forward—so close—and brings their lips to touch, soft and earth-shattering.
“I thought that dusty bastard was gonna make ashes out of you,” Kacchan whispers, pressing their foreheads together. His hands cup Izuku’s face like he’s something precious.
The dam is broken. “Me too, Kacchan! I was so worried! I thought he’d take you from me.”
“As if he could bring me down so easily.”
Izuku breaks down, surging forward and hugging Kacchan tight around his middle. He cries and mutters, continuing to express his worry and his gratitude. Kacchan cards soothing fingers through his hair until his breathing returns to normal. Izuku inhales, snuggling in, relishing the scent of Kacchan and the safety of his arms. It’s only after resting there for a while that he notices something hard and heart-shaped pressing against his cheek. He places his hand over it and looks up at Kacchan. “What’s this?” he asks.
Kacchan slowly undoes several buttons on his shirt, revealing a silver locket hanging around his neck. Has it always been resting there against his heart?
“Can I?” Izuku asks. Kacchan nods. Izuku pries it open carefully and gasps at the picture inside. A beautiful blond woman with a striking resemblance to Kacchan smiles at him. “Auntie Mitsuki?!”
“Hah?!”
“This… this is your mother.”
“Aye. You… recognize her?”
“Yes. I remember.” Izuku runs his fingers over the small portrait. “After my dad left, she came around to help with the chores. She was my mother’s friend. She was very kind to me; gave me sweets.”
“Well, I’ll be. To think, we coulda known each other as brats.”
“If we had, I would have remembered you, Kacchan.”
“No doubt.”
“What would things be like if we’d met back then?” Izuku asks.
“I don’t know, Deku. But I’m happy we found each other at sea.”