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Chapter Text

Graduation is solemn and silent. 

After his three, turbulent years at UA, Izuku had been fooled into expecting greater fanfare. Instead, the ceremony is closed off to the public, with only immediate family in attendance, and closely-guarded by a number of pro-heroes.

Izuku swore not to cry, but the medal laid at his neck makes his eyes water anyway. He’s violently blinking them away when a photographer wanders up to him, snapping a photo before he can protest.

A snort. Izuku glances mid-sniffle, but Katsuki—because who else could it have been—is already looking straight ahead, a matching medal gleaming at his throat. It’s difficult to tell whether he’s happy to be here or not, because his expression is arranged into something begrudging, like a grumpy cat’s. It’s the first time Izuku has seen him wear a tie. 

“Kacchan.” It would be more proper to use his hero name, but the childhood nickname ends up slipping out of his mouth anyway. “Let’s do our best out there!” 

Katsuki scoffs. It’s a light sound. “As if I need you to tell me that. You’ll be struggling to even think about taking the number one spot with me there.”

“Then I’ll work even harder to keep you from it,” Izuku promises. Katsuki opens his mouth to respond, but whatever he has to say is forgotten in favor of growling at the photographer trying to sneak up on him. 

Over their heads, the cherry blossoms are in full bloom. A petal comes loose, floating down to settle in Katsuki’s hair. Izuku fights down the urge to pluck it. 

Inko is beside herself, all blotchy cheeks and crocodile tears as she throws herself onto Izuku. Yagi crouches low to console her, an uncertain hand flitting from her shoulders to her back. He looks up with a smile so reminiscent of the man Izuku once watched through a computer screen, and a prickle behind his eyelids is his only warning. 

“I’m so proud of you, Izuku,” Inko bawls, and Yagi’s smile is warm and proud. Izuku has to hide his face into the collar of her dress to muffle his own hiccupy sobs. 

A few meters away, the Bakugou’s reunite with their son, not close enough to overhear, but close enough Izuku can see the tired smile on Masaru’s face, contrasting against the glower on Katsuki’s as he quarrels with his mom. Mitsuki pays him no mind, snatching his head to shove him close to her chest. 

The motion whisks the petal out of his hair, all the way to Izuku’s feet. Before he can think better of it, he crouches to shove it into his pocket. 

After much reassurance, Yagi leads a weepy Inko into a cab. “I’ll take her home safely,” he promises, before squeezing Izuku’s shoulder. Although his grip has gotten lighter over the years, it holds the same power to Izuku. “I’m proud of you, Young Midoriya.”

Izuku’s smile wobbles. He might cry for a third time. “It’s all thanks to you, All Might.”

“I’m not so sure,” Yagi says, a twinkle in his eyes. Gently, he urges Izuku forward. “Go, now. You all deserve to celebrate this.” 

The tinted windows of the car make it impossible to see Yagi once he climbs inside, but Izuku waves anyway, all the way until it swerves around the curb and disappears from view. A ping of his phone—no doubt one of his classmates—turns him on his heel, towards the dormitories. 

3-A Alliance’s graduation party is in full swing when he ducks in. It’s crammed with all sorts of students, even those from other schools. Before he can look around, Ashido materializes to snag his sleeve and haul him in deeper. “Midoriya’s finally here!”

“Man of the hour!” someone shouts. It’s followed by a chorus of cheers. Izuku flushes. 

“I’m really not-”

“Don’t be humble, man!” Kirishima locks an arm around Izuku’s shoulder, the sharp points of his teeth glinting as he grins. “It’s thanks to you we get to graduate!”

“It’s thanks to all of us.” Izuku glances over the crowd, searching before he knows what he’s looking for. “Where’s-?”

“‘Kacchan’ left right after the ceremony,” Kaminari says. His sense of balance is all off, and he stumbles over, clutching onto Kirishima’s arm to hold himself up. The plastic cup in his hand is full with dark liquid, and Izuku wonders if Aizawa approved tonight’s itinerary. “Said something about not wanting to spend even another minute with ‘all those extras.’ Typical, right?”

“He’s not coming.” The realization sinks into him like a heavy stone and he bites his cheek. It shouldn’t be a surprise, since Katsuki was never big on parties, but Izuku didn’t even get to say goodbye to him. “I’ll see him when I go back home. What’s in your drink?”

A shrug. “No clue. Mineta whipped up something, and it’s fire, but also, I feel-”

He goes rigid mid-sentence. Izuku and Kirishima exchange a look.

“Kaminari-kun-?” Izuku begins, only to be shoved aside by Kirishima, who shouts “take cover!” He splays apart his arms, hardening just in time for Kaminari to release at least a thousand voltages of electricity. 

Onlookers pause to stare. Kirishima holds fast as Kaminari opens his mouth—and belches, releasing a tiny spark. It bounces over them harmlessly, disintegrating into nothing.

Someone pushes through the crowd, shoving past Kirishima’s hardened body—Jirou. She takes one look at the twitching lump on the floor, and sighs. “You idiot,” she says, before raising her voice. “Mineta spiked the punch!”

“I did not!” Is the immediate response, but Ashido has already begun to stalk towards the cowering boy.

Jirou ends up dragging Kaminari away by the collar, scolding him all the while. Kirishima melts back into softness, turning to smile at Izuku. “I’m sure Bakugou just forgot to let you know.”

“I wasn’t—I didn’t-” Izuku fumbles, but Kirishima is already patting him on the back. 

“Cheer up, dude! I’ll get you some punch—the one which isn’t spiked.”

He disappears into the crowd, leaving Izuku to watch after him. Even with the knowledge Katsuki isn’t here, he searches once more for that head of blonde. 

“I’ll see him when I go home,” he reminds himself.

“Deku-kun!” Uraraka, pink-faced, waves over to him, flanked by Iida and Todoroki, both of whom are comparatively-subdued. His own face splits into a grin. 

Although Izuku allows himself to be carried away in the warmth of his friends and the buzz of spiked fruit punch, smoke and sugar never quite leave his mind, nor does the cherry blossom petal resting in his pocket, heavy like a rock. 

Izuku doesn’t see Katsuki when he goes home. 

He debates visiting and talks himself out of it multiple times. The perfect opportunity arises when Inko offhandedly mentions dropping things off at the Bakugou’s, and Izuku volunteers in an instant. 

The plastic tupperware, heavy with Inko’s cooking, strains under his hands. As he knocks, he realizes he’s come without a plan. Before he can scramble together something to say, the door swings open.

Blonde hair and red eyes catch him off-guard, but it’s only Mitsuki, who looks delighted. “Is that you, Izuku?”

“Hi, Auntie,” Izuku says meekly. In an instant, she draws the door open wider, flitting over to fawn over how much he’s grown and how she barely recognizes him. It always amazes him how similar Katsuki’s features are to his mother’s, and he can’t help but blush as she reaches to ruffle his hair. “Sorry to bother you.”

“Don’t say such nonsense. I couldn’t believe my eyes at graduation—Inko’s boy, all grown up! I would’ve come over to say congratulations, but the brat kept pestering us to leave.” She shakes her head, and Izuku chuckles along.

“That’s okay. My mom wanted me to come over and-”

“Yes, yes. Come on in.”

She snags his arm, reeling him along before he can protest otherwise. The last time Izuku was here, he was in elementary school, and he can’t keep his eyes from wandering. 

Glossy photographs line the walls, most, if not all, depicting Katsuki. There’s a picture of him from elementary school, grinning a gap-toothed smile—he was the first out of all the kids to lose a tooth, which he held over everyone for weeks. It’s the only photo where he’s smiling; in all others, his expression is either anger, annoyance, or a cross between both. 

One has been hung up recently: Katsuki, crammed between his parents. He’s not smiling, but he isn’t exactly frowning, either, instead sporting a subdued expression. The cherry blossom petal in his hair is barely visible. 

“Brat can’t even smile for his mom in one picture,” Mitsuki says, noticing him looking. “Not even for his graduation day. Can you believe it?”

“Is he…” Izuku begins, unsure. He’s been straining his ears all this while, but either Katsuki is very quiet while at home, or-

Mitsuki’s solemn expression makes his stomach lurch. “Sorry, kid,” she says. “I wasn’t sure if he told anyone, but of course, he didn’t.”

She fills him in. Eager to launch his career as soon as possible, Katsuki scoured Tokyo for an apartment. Although he didn’t decide on which agency to join yet, he received plenty of offers, and by the sound of it, narrowed it down to a few. While Izuku struggled to find the courage to visit, the other had packed his bags and moved out.

“I can give you his address,” Mitsuki, watching him carefully, offers. Izuku catches himself nodding and switches to shaking his head. 

“I shouldn’t bother him,” he says. “Especially when he’s settling in and figuring out everything.”

Mitsuki doesn’t insist. She only looks at him, knowing, and says, “If that’s what you want.” Their small talk centers mostly around graduation and their classmates—an offhand mention of Kirishima takes him by surprise, and he isn’t sure how to feel, knowing the other had grown close enough to Katsuki to be familiar to his family—before he’s waved out with an even heavier container of curry.

“Tell Inko to drop by more often.” Standing at the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest, Mitsuki looks like the mirror image of her son. If Izuku squints, he can almost fool himself into envisioning her hair a little shorter, her jaw a bit sharper… “Both of us will have empty nests soon.” 

Izuku promises he will. As he drifts back home, he chews his cheek, deep in thought.

Most graduates wait until the end of the summer before transitioning into fully-fledged heroes, basking in the last taste of their youth. Katsuki had always been anxious to grow up and get ahead. Without hesitation, he left his childhood behind. Without a word, he left everyone else behind. 

The first thing Izuku does when he gets home is search for apartments up for rent in Tokyo. 

Today’s special feature is the hero who keeps saying things you just can’t on TV!

The massive LCD screen above Izuku’s head catches his eye even before it smashcuts to a recognizable silhouette, cut in shades of orange and black. Although he’s mid-patrol, his feet stutter to a stop as Dynamight’s most recent takedown plays across pixels. 

Whether face-to-face, splayed on the cover of a magazine, or whirling across a screen, Katsuki never fails to snatch his attention. Izuku watches, captivated, as he thrusts his hands out, firing off a massive explosion. It’s loud enough to cut through the audio feed—or so the closed captions say. 

The reporter’s frantic voice filters back in as she announces that once again, Dynamight had single-handedly crushed a villain. She hurries forward, eager to get the hero’s thoughts, only to receive a deadly scowl and a snap of get out of my way, lady.

Personally, Izuku thinks they caught Katsuki on one of his good days. The panel of talk show hosts the screen swaps over to think otherwise. 

Certainly a hero with promise, the caption reads, but allowing a public figure to have such an attitude is dangerous for society. Youth who obsessively model themselves after heroes may believe it acceptable to act-

It’s here Izuku tunes out the subtitles, honing into where a clip of Katsuki mid-explosion plays on loop. These days, it feels like it’s been an eternity since he last witnessed those explosions. An eternity since he last saw Katsuki under the blossoming cherry trees. 

Sometimes, he’s discovering, an eternity can be as small as six months. 

True to expectations, Katsuki only has a singular, company-regulated social media profile, so any information about him either comes to Izuku through news outlets or bits and pieces shared by their friends. 

The blurry footage of a takedown, posted onto an online forum. A passing remark from Todoroki about working with Katsuki at the Endeavor agency. The large, LCD screens plastered against towering city buildings. 

It’s a jarring change. For years, Katsuki had always been at an arm’s distance. Even if he brushed Izuku off and cast him aside, all he had to do was stand up and he would still be there. Somehow, it never occurred to him that one day he and Katsuki might go their separate ways. 

It might’ve been easier to live with if he caught sight of the other here and there, but there had been less opportunities to run into him in Tokyo than he expected. Furthermore, the few times Ashido arranged class gatherings, Katsuki was absent. 

“I tried to get him to come,” Kirishima told him once. “But he’s obsessed with work—can’t even get him on the phone these days. Pretty sure he’s struggling with rent right now, but he also told me this is why I won’t break into the top ten, which, ouch. But that’s Bakugou for you, huh?”

Yeah. That sounds like him.

Bubble Girl’s tinny voice echoes through Izuku’s earpiece, repeating coordinates to an active robbery. He tears his eyes away and draws himself to his feet, kicking off from his perch. His skin crackles with energy as he sprints, reaching up to drag his respirator over his mouth. 

His feet barely hit the ground at the given coordinates—a supermarket—before the double doors burst open, spilling forth a throng of thieves. Cans and fruits roll in their wake, their arms ladened with large pouches. The matching sneers on their faces falter when Izuku clears his throat and steps out, blocking their way.

“Fuck,” one says. “It’s a hero!”

“Good eyes,” Izuku says. The compliment isn’t received well.

“Run!” Another shouts. Clearly, this plan isn’t well thought-out, because they all turn in different directions and end up entangled, cursing and bellowing. 

Izuku rolls his shoulders back, cracks his neck, and gets to work.

A few minutes later, he pulls down his respirator to speak into his mic. “Capture confirmed.” 

The thieves lay immobilized at his feet, bruised and battered. One tries to push themself up onto shaky arms, and cowers when Izuku crouches next to him. 

“Copy,” Bubble Girl says. “Law enforcement will be on scene shortly.” Her tone morphs into something less formal. “You’re free to head back after this, Deku.”

Although she can’t see it, Izuku shakes his head. “I’ll go for a couple more hours.” He needs to pay rent this month, after all. Bubble Girl doesn’t insist otherwise. 

A shout. “Hero Deku!” 

Izuku drops his hand from his ear. In the time he’s been on call, a crowd has formed around him, filled with sparkling eyes and smiling faces. “Deku, that was awesome!” a young boy cheers, and he scratches the back of his neck.

“Just doing my job,” he says, and it's as if his response flips a switch. The crowd surges forward, cellphones, pens, and questions alike thrust at him. 

“You’re so handsome, Deku!”

“Could I get a photo?”

“Sign my arm, please!”

“Are the rumors of you having multiple quirks true?”

He gets through the clamor robotically, gripping pens here and smiling in pictures there. Although he’s improved post-graduation—courtesy of the agency’s media training—he’s still prone to freezing up at attention, and he chuckles nervously when a woman leans too close, batting her lashes suggestively.

When dealing with the crowd, Mt. Lady always insists on both authentic and ambiguous answers. The general population can sniff out lies like a shark in water, she warns. Which is why, when a group of giggly teenagers ask him, “what’s your type, Deku?” he answers. 

“Hardworking, I’d say. Strong—both physically and mentally.” The teenagers hang onto his every word, but Izuku himself doesn’t know where most of this is coming from. His eyes wander, searching for inspiration, and catch onto a magazine, knocked off its shelf by the commotion. Katsuki’s emblazoned across the front, mid-wiping sweat off his brow. “Sure of themself. Maybe a bit too much. And-”

Red, he thinks, but doesn’t say. Instead, he flushes, stepping back. 

“I’ll have to go now,” he says. The crowd begins to murmur in disappointment, and Izuku has never been more relieved to spot law enforcement. “Thank you for your support!”

Civillains wave to him as he flits across streets, but he’s too distracted to return it. Initially, he’d convinced himself he’d be able to bear the separation. Months of glimpsing Katsuki everywhere but in the flesh, of obsessively watching Katsuki swap places with him on the hero rankings—as if they were forever doomed to never keep pace with one another—he isn’t sure anymore.

Working keeps him distracted for the most part; Uraraka tries setting him up on dates here and there, but any interest usually fizzles out a few weeks in. Something is always missing. Something big. Something important. Izuku keeps waiting for it, even if he isn’t sure what it is.

Something. A sign. A change. Someone, maybe. 

“Deku.” Bubble Girl’s voice crackles through the earpiece. “Quirk awakening, three hundred meters. Quirk-suppressing heroes will be deployed in case of emergency. Over.” 

Izuku exhales, blinking away the stinging of his eyes. Maybe he should grab a coffee after this—the exhaustion of the graveyard shift he pulled last night, coupled with his insistence on taking the shift right after, is beginning to creep up on him. 

“Deku, come in.”

Dozens of people call his name each day, but it’s been six months since he’s heard it from the one person he really needs to. 

“Copy,” Izuku says. “I’m heading to the scene. Out.”

“-Deku!” 

A bone-deep pounding sprouts from his skull. Distantly, Izuku is aware that something isn’t quite-right, but he struggles to put his finger on it. Someone fumbles with his respirator, ripping it off his face and Izuku’s chest caves as he inhales. Every breath intensifies the pounding of his head. 

Wait. Is he dying? 

That particular thought is interrupted by a voice. “The hell are you talking about? Get up!” 

Izuku opens his eyes. Colors are oddly too-bright, dark lines blurring across his vision. He has to really think, really squint for things to come back into focus. Blonde hair. Red eyes. Anger brimming in its purest form, spilled across scowling features. 

“Kacchan,” Izuku croaks. “What’re you doing here?”

Logically, it doesn’t make any sense for Katsuki to be here. Izuku hasn’t seen him for months, after all. His last memory is of arriving at the scene of the quirk awakening, and there had been a young girl, her eyes glazed over with fear…

“What does it look like?” the vision snarls. He looks too real, and he sounds like it even more. Even the oppressive touch on Izuku’s arm is reminiscent of Katsuki. 

“You look exactly like him,” he murmurs. He considers reaching out to touch, but real or not, it wouldn’t be right. Besides, his body isn’t responding correctly—he tries to move his arm and finds he can only wiggle his fingers. Huh. That’s not good. 

Maybe-Real Katsuki shakes his shoulders, demanding something. Izuku stares at his face, fascinated by how his features contort around micro-expressions: anger, concern, disbelief, and right back to anger. The fleeting changes make him feel dizzy, even a little sleepy. Now that he thinks about it, he’s exhausted. He really needs coffee. 

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” Maybe-Fake Katsuki says, but his voice goes watery, slipping away like liquid. Izuku’s eyelids begin dropping of their own accord, but wait, isn’t there something he needs to tell him?

“I wish,” he mumbles, in a rush of clarity, “we could’ve stayed together.” 

The stricken look on Katsuki’s face is the last thing he sees. 

Izuku dreams of cherry blossoms. 

It’s fairly peaceful, at first. A blossom floats to the ground and Izuku stoops low to pocket it, and he’s hardly gotten back up when another lands at his feet. It’s so lovely he can’t help but collect this one, too, and then there’s another, and another, and his pockets are bursting and he can barely see past the whirlwind of petals-

He wakes up drawing breath, half-expecting to still be choking on flowers. Instead, he finds himself in a bed. Not his own, but almost just as familiar. The too-thin gown and the faint scent of chemicals gives away his location. 

There’s a line of IV running along the length of his arm. It strains as he sits up, but before he can piece together how he got here, someone clears their throat. Izuku turns and freezes. 

The memory returns in bits and pieces—Izuku, debating whether the other was a hallucination or not, before ultimately deciding on the former. Clearly, he’d been wrong because Katsuki is fleshy and real, and more importantly, standing at his bedside. 

“Kacchan,” he says, before he realizes the other is outfitted in gear. “Or—Dynamight?” 

The name is foreign on his lips. Although it’s rude to stare, he can’t help but take the other in: aside from a deepening of shadows under his eyes, he looks practically the same as six months ago. Izuku’s eyes sweep over a slim waist, strong arms, and finally meet that red gaze. A chill runs down his spine.

“All Might’s successor,” Katsuki says, and the sound of his voice only solidifies reality, “found bleeding out after a toddler’s quirk accident.”

He remembers now. Following the attempted robbery at the supermarket, he followed instructions to quell an out-of-control quirk. As it turned out, he’d grossly underestimated his exhaustion. One moment, he was on his feet, dodging lashing tentacles, and in the next, darkness. 

“I was careless. I didn’t consider how the surroundings would have increased the scope of destruction, especially for a long-range quirk as-”

“What did you mean, stay together?” 

Izuku’s voice shrivels in his mouth. Somehow, amidst all the scattered thoughts, he’d forgotten—Katsuki, gripping his shoulders, and Izuku, convinced this was it for him. “It’s kind of difficult to explain-” 

“You fuck off for months,” Katsuki says, interrupting him, “and pop up again, half-dead because of your lifestyle—which is shit, by the way. And you have the audacity to bitch at me for not lugging around your-”

“You never reached out.”

“What?”

“After graduation.” It spills out before he can put a cap on it. “I waited for you,” at the party, in his neighborhood, across Tokyo, “but you never came.” 

“How the fuck was I supposed to-” Katsuki stops. Draws breath. Starts again. “You never acted like you wanted me to. There was no reason you would’ve wanted me to.”

Izuku’s childhood had been wax crayons, slapping away mosquitos, and helplessly following after Katsuki. Even after those crayons turned into pencils, he continued to chase after the other’s glowing presence, like a ship seeking out a lighthouse. 

“Since we were kids, we were always together. I guess—I guess I thought that would always be the case. But then, suddenly, you were gone.” He can’t look Katsuki in the eye, head bowed as he mutters. “I told myself it was just a part of growing up and I’d get used to it soon enough, but… I still ended up looking for you everywhere.” 

“So we didn’t see each other every day. It’s got nothing to do with almost dropping dead because of a fucking concussion.” 

“You don’t get it,” Izuku says. Katsuki had disappeared, taking away his guiding light, and left him scrambling in the darkness. “I can’t accept a life without you in it.” 

Katsuki stares at him, stunned, and— shit. So caught up in his tangent, he’s ended up divulging way more than he ever wanted to—more than he ever thought he’d get the chance to. Squeaking, he slaps a hand to his mouth. 

He expects harsh words, or maybe the pop of an explosion. Neither comes. “What did I expect.” 

 “I’m sorry-” His head snaps up. “Wait. You’re not-”

Katsuki doesn’t look angry. He hasn’t looked angry this entire time, Izuku realizes. 

“You’re not angry?” 

“I’m pissed.” Izuku flinches. Maybe not, then. “You want me to be a part of your life when you can barely wash your own ass?”

“Sorry-”

“Don’t want to hear it.” Katsuki’s shoulders slump. Resignation is written into the crease of his brow, diluted by a hint of curiosity. “You fucker. Why’d you show up, huh?”

Izuku shifts. He wants to apologize, but Katsuki most likely wouldn’t receive it well. Besides, it doesn’t seem like he’s waiting for a reply, muttering to himself. 

“-Right when I was so close to finally getting rid of this bond. You always gotta ruin everything, huh, Deku?”

There it is. His name, the way he’s been waiting to hear it. Izuku’s eyes well before he can help it. 

“What—why are you crying?” 

His hands scramble to try and rub away the tears dripping down his cheek. “I-I just can’t believe you’re here. I wondered if I’d ever see you again, sometimes-”

“I wasn’t dead. Quit it, I’m right here.”

It doesn’t help. The tears only thicken and Katsuki curses. Izuku’s vision is too blurry to see him toss over a tissue, but he feels the softness between his fingers. Katsuki doesn’t look at him as he blows his nose. 

“If you hated living without me so bad, you should’ve fucking called.” 

“I thought about it,” Izuku admits. “But you were obviously busy and I didn’t want to bother you-”

“You’re bothering me plenty now,” Katsuki scoffs, tossing him the whole tissue box. “Clearly you don’t care about getting yourself together before poking your nose in others’ business.” 

Izuku chews his lip. The tears subside, finally, and he feels more awake than he has in days. A part of him wants to tell Katsuki to forget about all of this. Another part of him wants to beg him to sit, to stay. 

Katsuki ends up making the decision for him. When he takes a step towards the door, Izuku finds himself speaking up. “Are you leaving?” 

“I’ve got work, Deku."

That explains why he’s still in gear. “I must’ve caused you trouble.”

“You always do,” Katsuki snorts. “The kid is going to want to see you.”

“The kid?” Izuku wonders before he jerks up. “The quirk awakening—how is she?”

“Fine. Better than you.” 

He tugs the door open. Before he can step out, Izuku blurts, “Kacchan.”

A plea clings to the childhood nickname. Katsuki pauses, one gloved hand on the sliding door.

“I’ll be back,” he says, and maybe it’s a figment of Izuku’s imagination, but he sounds softer. “You better not move an inch off that bed.”

“I won’t.”

Katsuki doesn’t look back, leaving Izuku to stare at where he’d been standing. The pounding of his head seems to have migrated to his chest, and he squeezes his fists into the cotton sheets, unable to suppress a smile.

They’ve barely resolved anything. Katsuki barely expressed his own feelings. But he found him. He waited until Izuku woke up. He said he’ll be back. It’s not much, but to Izuku, it’s everything.

The door slides open, interrupting his thoughts. A young girl tumbles in, her auburn hair tied up into pigtails, followed by her mother, who is close to tears. She nearly knocks over the visitor’s chair in her haste to rush over and grab his hand, thanking him profusely. 

Backing them is a familiar face: Aizawa, ever-tired and worn. Distantly, Izuku recalls a dispatch for quirk-suppressing heroes. “I imagine Bakugou has already given you a talking to,” his former teacher says. 

A nervous chuckle. “He… definitely did.”

Aizawa’s appraising look makes him squirm and he’s thankful for the distraction the mother and her daughter brings. He manages to console the two and brush their apologies off, and the little girl leaves clutching her newly-signed baseball cap, waving at him all the way until she’s tugged out. 

Meanwhile, Aizawa lingers a moment longer, resting a hand on Izuku’s shoulder. “It’s common for rookies to want to save as many people as they can, but remember who needs to be in good shape first to do so.”

With one more pat and a nod, he departs, leaving Izuku alone for the second time of the day. And what a long day it’s been—the robbery at the supermarket seems like ages ago, now. Suddenly exhausted, he slumps against the pillows. His head throbs dully in response. 

Aside from this, he feels fine. Good, even, and a part of him doesn’t quite understand Katsuki and Aizawa’s reactions. Suddenly curious, he reaches for his phone. Notifications pour in as he switches it on. 

There’s a couple from Uraraka, a few from his mother, insisting on bringing him fruit, and one from Yagi, but he ignores those in favor of the camera, waiting patiently for the feed to load. It finally does, and Izuku stares dumbly. 

Half of his skull is wrapped in bandages, all the way to his occipital. He’s almost afraid as he turns his head, slowly, and has his fears confirmed when he finds the back of it drenched in red.

Izuku sits up. Reaching over, he hits the call button. 

“You’re back.” 

From the doorway, mask pulled over his forehead, Katsuki scowls at him. His gear suggests he’s come straight from a shift, but what really confirms it is the fine layer of dust settled over his skin. There’s even a smudge on his cheek, the singular imperfection making this all the more real. 

“I said I would be.” He sounds offended at the implication he lied. Izuku was hoping he'd come but he’d refused to get his hopes up; Katsuki’s appearance is a sight for sore eyes. “Did getting hit in the head mess with your memory too?”

“No, I remember! But I thought you’d be too busy, or-” He catches himself rambling and cuts it short. “Are you sure you want to—I mean, is it okay for you to be here right now?” 

Katsuki kicks out a plastic chair to drop into it. “I’ve never done anything I don’t want to do. Besides, unlike you, I actually know how to balance my work and personal life.” 

Izuku wonders which category this visit falls into—work, or personal? Sure, they were classmates at UA and knew each for much longer before that, but it’s been half a year since then, and this could just as well be Dynamight visiting the victim of an incident. 

That doesn’t seem like a very Katsuki-thing to do, however, especially not after their last conversation. The reminder makes Izuku shiver. Yeah, that isn’t something he wants to unpack right now. 

“Did you come from work?” he asks. The grunt he receives translates to yes . “Did you see the predictions for the upcoming hero rankings? Everyone’s saying you’ll jump into the top fifteen soon—even Todoroki-kun barely made it into the top twenty last month.” 

“Don’t put me and Half’n’Half on the same level. Top fifteen is no big deal. I’ll be number one before you know it.”

“Still, it’s awesome!” 

Katsuki doesn’t protest the praise. “Hmph. What about you, number seventeen?”

“You saw that?”

“Obviously—it's right under my name. You’re still sticking onto me, huh?”

“Right.” Izuku scratches his ear. “I didn’t mean to, but we were together for so long, I guess it just ended up becoming second nature for me to-”

“Relax, Nerd. I don’t fight patients.” 

“So you would’ve if I wasn’t hospitalized-?”

“Everything you said yesterday. Did you mean it?” 

The question comes out of left field. Izuku, unprepared, fumbles to respond. “I’m not exactly sure about everything I said, since I was a bit loopy from the meds. You can just forget about it all-”

“This.” Katsuki getting to his feet, pointing accusingly, interrupts his attempt at saving face. “This is what pisses me off about you most. You blabber a whole lot of shit, and then don’t own up to it. Did you mean any of it, or were you trying to mess with me, huh?”

Smoldering eyes pin him in place. Struck by the need to get the other’s attention off of him, he blurts whatever comes to mind first. “You have dirt on your face.”

It works. Katsuki scrubs at his face with a curse, and without the weight of his eyes, Izuku is able to think a bit more clearly, enough to string together something semi-coherent. 

“I’ve never lied to you,” he says. “And I don’t ever plan on starting. I don’t want you to feel burdened, which is why I think it might be better if you just-”

He doesn’t have to check to know Katsuki is glaring. Quickly, he backtracks. 

“I meant everything.” The admission comes out with surprising ease. He chances a glance—Katsuki is indeed frowning, if a little less. Although he’s brushed away most of the debris, a streak remains. “You’ve still got a little…”

“I swear to-” 

“Here, let me,” Izuku begins, leaning forward. His hand is midway there when he realizes what he’s doing and he switches over to gesturing lamely. “It’s, uh, right there.”

Izuku tucks his traitorous hand back under the blankets and Katsuki resumes his crossed-arm position. “You’re a mess. You kept this shit bottled up since graduation?” 

It isn’t very fair for Katsuki of all people to tell this to him, but he keeps the thought to himself. “It’s gross, so…”

“Yeah, it is.” 

Izuku’s heart sinks. He has to bite his lip to keep it from wobbling—he’s known, of course, how Katsuki feels about him, but hearing it aloud doesn’t make it any better—and he waits for fading footsteps. At the scrape of a chair, he looks up. 

Katsuki is still here. He doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave either, lounging back comfortably. His eyes are trained on Izuku’s bedside table, and he follows his line of sight to the bowl of fruit there. Inko had brought it earlier today, and he’d forgotten about it until now. 

He plucks an apple, holding it out. It feels uncannily like bribing a wild animal. “Do you want one?”

A grunt. Katsuki snatches it from him, and then the plastic knife left over from Izuku’s meal tray. Izuku watches as slim fingers wrap around the knife, working the edge into the apple. “So?”

“Huh?”

“Isn’t this what you wanted? To babble about whatever you’ve been doing this whole time?”

“You’re staying?”

“Starting to regret it.”

When Izuku continues to gape at him, Katsuki cuts through the apple’s flesh furiously. Chop.

“Stare at me with that stupid look on your face any longer and I’m leaving.”

“Wait!” He lurches forward, although Katsuki doesn’t make any move to leave. “Don’t go. I’m trying to think about—oh! Did you hear about the villain terrorizing trains a month ago in Shibuya?”

Katsuki shakes his head. Izuku curls his hands under the blankets. There’s no telling when he’ll ever get this opportunity again, and he intends to make most of it. Stowing away worries of the future, he sinks against the pillows, and lets his mouth run free. 

Either Katsuki is too focused on the task at hand or isn’t in the mood to talk, because he remains mostly quiet as Izuku recounts the variety of villains he’d come up against, save for the occasional scathing comment here or there. All the while, he slices through fruit, reaching for the next each time he finishes with one. 

It’s while he’s talking animatedly about an upcoming All Might merchandise drop, that Izuku realizes he can’t remember the last time he’s done this—sat down and relaxed. At some point, his days became a cycle of work, sleep, rinse, repeat. He convinced himself it was for the greater good, to save the most lives he could, but where did that get him? 

Strapped to an IV in a hospital bed, bleeding from the head. 

“Deku.” Katsuki’s raised brow alerts him to his sudden silence. A knock steals his chance to reply and they both straighten as a nurse peeks in. 

“Pardon me, Midoriya-san. I’ll be changing your bandages now,” she begins, before noticing Katsuki. “My apologies, I didn’t know you had visitors. Should I come back later?”

“Nah, I’m heading out,” Katsuki says. He sinks the knife into a peach slice, sliding off the chair. “I’ll see you, Deku.”

It’s a jarring farewell, but with the nurse there, Izuku doesn’t have the courage to ask the other to stay, or whether he’ll be back. Instead, he nods. “See you soon, Kacchan.”

Katsuki doesn’t comment on the soon . With a noncommittal sound, he brushes past the nurse, and disappears out the door. Izuku’s eyes are still trained on where he’d been when she rolls over her code cart. 

“That was Dynamight, wasn’t it?” she asks conversationally as she unwraps his bandages. The smell of alcohol when she uncaps the bottle makes his nostrils tickle. He almost nods before remembering to hold his head still. 

“Yes,” he says, a hint of wariness creeping into his tone. He’s had his fair share of getting his location leaked and getting swarmed with fans, after all. But the nurse only hums and continues replacing his bandages in professional silence. 

“That’s quite a lot of fruit,” she remarks once she’s done, referring to where Katsuki left behind a whole assembly of sliced fruit. In the time he was sitting here, he cut through everything, and now, apples, pears, and peaches are arranged in neat slices. There’s no way Izuku will be able to eat all of it.

“If it wouldn’t be too much,” he says as she begins loading her cart, “could you distribute these among the staff?”

The nurse looks surprised. “Are you sure, Deku-san?”

Izuku nods. His lip twitches as he looks at the fruit again; Katsuki had even gone as far as to scrape the skin off of each one. “Tell them it’s a small gift from Deku and Dynamight.” 

He gets discharged the following day. Over the phone, Uraraka insists on escorting him from the hospital, and it takes a few minutes to assure her that no, he isn’t sneaking out, and yes, he promises not to make any rash decisions if he stumbles across anything dangerous. 

Initially, he thought to text Katsuki the news, but ultimately decided against it.

The only thing of note to happen is the cab driver recognizing him: “Aren’t you that bunny hero?” he asks, before proceeding to thank Izuku for protecting their country, and finishing off with a date offer from his daughter, who is apparently a big fan of his.

Izuku politely turns it down.

As if to spite him, the elevator is out of order and so he takes the stairs. Each step intensifies the pounding in his head a bit more, and he’s grateful to finally reach his front door. 

“Home sweet home,” he sighs, flicking on the light. Immediately, he grimaces. 

It may not be quite in the realm of dirty, but it is messy : energy drinks are strewn across the carpet, the sink is full of dishes, and something stinks like rot. An investigation leads him to the Chinese takeout abandoned on the counter: he’d forgotten to put it in the refrigerator. 

All more evidence of his awful lifestyle.

He draws up a tentative plan to clean, starting with the floor. Before he can get to work, the bell rings— ding, ding. Izuku frowns. He isn’t expecting any packages. Did Uraraka change her mind and decide to come check up on him after all? It wouldn’t be the first time.

“I’m coming,” he calls out at the second chorus of ding, ding, this time followed by a knock. Her visit might be good for him; he needs updates on the agency. Without bothering to check through the eyehole, he opens the door. “Hey, Uraraka-san-”

Blonde hair and a perpetual-frown paralyzes him in place. Katsuki, out of costume and in a heart-pangingly distinct skull shirt, raises a brow. “Round Face supposed to come?”

Izuku slams the door shut.

“What the fuck.” The door knob jostles furiously and Izuku fumbles to lock it. For good measure, he presses his back against the door before looking, wide-eyed, at his disheveled apartment. “If you don’t open this door right now, Deku-”

“Hold on a minute,” Izuku says. All of the doctor’s warnings to avoid using his quirk disperses as he leaps into motion. Green lightning crackles across his skin as he scoops up cans with one hand, scattered laundry with the other. There isn’t any time to do the dishes, but he does dispose of the takeout and tie up the trash bag, before rushing over to the door. 

“-when I get my hands on you, you’ll be wishing you were dead.” Katsuki’s palms are half-lit when he opens the door. When he spots Izuku, they glow even brighter. “You little-”

He holds his hands up nervously. “W-Wait, Kacchan, I’m still injured, remember? You don’t fight with patients.”

“I’ll make an exception,” Katsuki says, moving forward. Before he can act on his words, his eyes snap over Izuku’s shoulder. Whatever he sees makes his hands drop and Izuku stumbles as the other shoves past him. “Move.”

Biting his cheek, Izuku fastens the door shut. He’s almost too scared to follow after him, and mentally, he goes over anything he could’ve possibly left out which might spark an awkward discussion.

He turns to see Katsuki opening the refrigerator and his blood runs cold. 

“Wait!” Five percent of One For All activates as he zips over, but it’s too late—the stark innards of his refrigerator are already exposed, and the blinking, fluorescent lights overhead only add to the gruesome scene. Save for a pack of energy drinks, a half-empty gallon of milk, and a carton of eggs, the shelves are empty. “It isn’t what it looks like.” 

Katsuki ignores him and retrieves the gallon of milk. Izuku pales at the expiration date even before the cap is twisted off, and he doesn’t need to be close to smell the pungency of it. “I knew it.”

“I don’t usually live like this,” Izuku says. “Since I’ve been at the hospital, things have gotten old and stuff.”

“This expired two months ago.”

“I heard spoiled milk is good for baking and I thought I’d save it for that?”

Dropping the gallon onto the counter, Katsuki crosses his arms, appraising the rest of the apartment with a single sweep of his eyes. Izuku wipes his clammy palms on his pants. 

Finally, Katsuki faces him. “Your living room looks like shit. Your fridge is empty. It smells like a dog died in here.” Izuku knew he should have dug out the air freshener. “What the hell have you been doing, Deku?”

“...Saving people?”

A scoff. “Yeah, sure. Hero, my ass.” 

It should be demeaning, but the dip in his tone gives Izuku pause. “Did I worry you?” he asks. His suspicions are confirmed when Katsuki stiffens. “I’m planning to take better care of myself, I swear.”

Instead of replying to him, Katsuki jerks his chin. “Get out.”

“Suddenly? What-”

“Out.”

Katsuki isn’t the sort to budge and so Izuku stumbles out of the kitchen, finding a seat on the couch instead. His curiosity grows at the sounds of shuffling and clinking ceramic, all punctuated with the occasional mutter of “Shitty Nerd.” He perks up when he overhears the click of the stove. 

Is Katsuki… cooking?

He peeks over his shoulder but with Katsuki’s back to him, it’s impossible to see what he’s up to. Izuku settles on staring out the window instead. There’s always the option of reaching for the television remote and checking what’s on the broadcast, but the sunlight warming his face leaves him lax and lethargic. 

Somewhere along the way, his lashes grow heavy. It’s easy to pretend he’s home like this. The sizzle of oil is his mom at the stove, and he’s lying in his room, waiting for her to call him over for lunch… 

“Deku.”

Izuku opens his eyes. Backed by the sun, Katsuki’s blonde hair glows, and for a second, he can only stare stupidly, struggling to figure out if this is some hyper-realistic dream or not. 

“You gonna stare at me like an idiot or get up?”

Definitely reality. “Coming,” Izuku says. Katsuki doesn’t wait for him to pull himself up, shoving a bowl and spoon into his hands. The sting of heat against his palms unfogs his head. 

It’s a neat, simple meal. A perfect, yellow yolk, nestled in a bed of steaming fried rice. Izuku didn’t even know he had rice at home. He stares at it, something warm blossoming in his stomach. 

“Don’t you dare start crying over an egg.”

“I won’t,” Izuku promises, splitting the watery yolk. It spills forth, rich yellow bleeding into rice. “Thank you.”

Katsuki dismisses him with a “whatever,” but there’s an edge of embarrassment to it. Clearly, six months hadn’t improved his ability to accept gratitude. 

The first bite of soft egg and savory rice makes it difficult to keep his promise. “Kacchan,” he says, mouth thick and full as he does his best to chew and not only swallow. 

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t we become roommates?”

The spoon is halfway to his mouth for a second bite when he stiffens, registering what’s slipped from his mouth. He looks up, and finds stricken eyes already staring at him. So much for thinking before he speaks. 

Slowly, he sets the spoon down. His stomach begins to churn for reasons outside of lunch, and he’s almost certain there’s a kernel of rice stuck to his cheek, but he’s too distracted to brush it off, mind running a meter a minute. 

“Kirishima-kun mentioned you were having some problems with rent,” Izuku says. For once, he isn’t stammering, the words coming to him without preamble. “And that your current place is a bit far from the Endeavor Agency. I have an extra room. If you moved in, we could split the rent, and you’d be closer.”

The way Katsuki’s staring at him, it’s like he’s never seen him before. “You’ve thought about this.”

“I didn’t.” It’s true. The thought didn’t cross his mind until it came out, but as he thinks about it, it makes perfect sense. To cover the costs of an apartment in the heart of Tokyo, he’s been taking lengthier and lengthier shifts, resulting in little time for him to eat, sleep, or do much else at all. “But it’d help out the both of us; I’d get more time off, and you’d get to work more.” 

It’s a win-win situation, and Katsuki always insists on coming out on top. Even now, when he looks like he wants to object, his mouth works furiously but nothing comes out. “It’d never work.”

He doesn’t have to spell it out for Izuku to understand. If Katsuki is the fire, then Izuku is the gasoline. If they don’t burn each other, they destroy everything else surrounding them, and that’s how it has always been. Izuku looks down at his bowl again, at the split yolk seeping into grains of rice.

“It might,” he says. “We’ve been together all our lives.”

Katsuki’s lips are pressed into a thin line. For Izuku, who’d expected nothing but vehement refusal, it’s a flicker of hope. “What makes you think I’d want to see your face everyday?” he asks.

Izuku searches for an appropriate answer and winds up empty-handed. With a huff, Katsuki’s arms drop to his sides. 

“I’ll kill you if you let the food get cold.”

Hurriedly, Izuku snatches up his spoon again. Meanwhile, Katsuki returns to the kitchen to drop a plastic bag on the counter. “What’s that?”

“From Half’n’Half,” Katsuki says, clicking his tongue. “It’s what I came here for.”

Before he can make a move to leave, Izuku, mid-chew, springs forward. His fingers curl around Katsuki’s wrist. “Wait.”

An expectant, arched brow. Izuku swallows, swipes a hand across his mouth, and prays that he looks convincing. 

“Will you think about it, at least?”

“I’m not lugging your ass back the next time a toddler gets you, Deku.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

“I’m leaving.” Katsuki pulls his wrist free and Izuku lets him, watching as he heads for the door. It’s as metaphorical as it is literal: if Katsuki steps through without looking back, it is wholly possible he’ll be not only leaving Izuku’s apartment, but his life as a whole.

A beat.

“Hey.”

Izuku lifts his head. Paused at the open door, bathed in the bleeding light of the sunset, Katsuki looks a little like a dream once again. “Yes?”

“You’ve got my phone number for a reason.”

The door clicks shut, leaving Izuku blinking in his wake. Robotically, he twists around, taking in the half-full pot of fried rice, his half-empty bowl, and the plastic bag—filled with cup ramen?—from Todoroki, all evidence of Katsuki’s visit. 

“I shouldn’t let the food get cold,” he echoes, almost hesitant as he reaches for the spoon. By the time he’s scraped the bowl clean, it’s dark outside, but the bright lights of Tokyo don’t feel nearly as isolating with the lingering taste of a fresh-cooked meal. 

His phone lays on the counter. Izuku considers a moment before reaching for it. Familiar uncertainty wells up as he swipes into the chatroom, but this time, he buries it, beginning to type instead.

Kacchan
Don’t expect me to move into anywhere with those shitty kitchen utensils.

The owner of the red tuft of hair sticking up over a heap of boxes is unmistakable, made even more obvious when the boxes shift, revealing a toothy smile. “Kirishima-kun!” 

“Midoriya! It’s been a while!”

Before Izuku can accept the hand Kirishima juts out, Katsuki appears at the stairhead, lugging along multiple boxes on his own. “I told you I got it handled, Shitty Hair! Get out of the way!”

“How did you convince him to let you help out?” Izuku asks as they scoot over. The other had been adamant on dealing with the move on his own, turning down both his offer of help and suggestion to enlist in Uraraka’s quirk. 

Kirishima shrugs. “I just showed up.”

Typical. Kirishima’s capability of squirming into people’s lives, Katsuki included, is something Izuku had always been envious of. “I’ll help out, too.”

“Woah, is that okay? You haven’t been out of the hospital for long.”

“It was only a minor concussion,” Izuku says, waving off the concern in favor of taking the load off of Kirishima’s hands. “I’ve been fine for a while.”

It’s been a month since he was discharged from the hospital with a slap on the wrist and warnings to take care of his health. Although Katsuki didn’t show up at his apartment again, the chatroom between them had a constant, albeit slow, trickle of texts. 

Most of what they sent between each other were links to new pieces of All Might merchandise, embarrassing interviews of their former classmates, and here and there, a question about the other’s day. Katsuki hadn’t brought up his offer—not until a week ago, when he called and demanded Izuku mail him the housing contract.

In between shifts and rearranging the contract, he hasn’t been able to do much in preparation for Katsuki’s move, let alone-

“What is all this shit, Deku?”

Izuku laughs nervously as Katsuki gawks into his spare room. Even after moving only the essentials over from his mother’s apartment, it is stuffed full with merchandise, from the walls, plastered with posters, to the windowsill, lined with packaged figurines. 

Kirishima takes the opportunity to nudge him. “Hey, man, you’re sure about this, right?” he asks, and Izuku tilts his head in question. “Me and Bakugou tried rooming together for a while, and it didn’t work out.” 

“You and Kacchan…” His brow furrows. “Lived together?”

“Barely. He kicked me out a month in. Point is, living with him isn’t easy. It’s Bakugou, you know?”

As far as he scrambles back, Izuku can’t recall overhearing anything about the two living together. It unsettles him, even panics him a little. What else did he miss out on regarding the other? How much was Katsuki involved in, and Izuku just didn’t know about it? 

Kirishima would know. The two undoubtedly kept in contact, after all, and apparently even lived together at some point. Multiple questions stem on the tip of Izuku’s tongue, not quite born from good will, but looking into the other’s smiling face, he gulps them down.

“Nothing about Kacchan or our relationship has even been easy,” he says instead. “But we’ve figured it out all this time. We’ll just have to keep it up, right?”

They’re interrupted by the screech of ripping scotch tape. Izuku looks over his shoulder and shrieks , bolting over to where Katsuki has climbed onto a stool, halfway through peeling off one of many posters. 

“Kacchan! That’s a Silver Age limited edition poster! I had to sit in queue for three hours to get it and— BE CAREFUL, YOU’RE GOING TO RIP IT-”

Throwing himself forward, he wraps his arms around the other’s torso. Katsuki growls, yanking himself out of his grasp. “I’m not ripping it, dumbass! Get your shit organized!” 

Izuku looks over his shoulder, silently pleading for help. Kirishima only shoots him an encouraging thumbs-up. If he didn’t know better, he’d think this was revenge. “You’ve got this, Midoriya!” 

He manages to keep Katsuki from setting fire to his posters. In exchange, he tearfully disposes of All Might dog toys (“You don’t even have a dog”), off-brand All Might shirts (“No one needs this many of the same fucking shirt”), and a pack of All Might-flavored soda (“This one is just creepy”). 

“But Kacchan,” Izuku says unhappily. “All you wear is black shirts!”

Katsuki’s warning look shuts him up.

Once all the boxes are brought up and unloaded, Kirishima takes his leave. “You’re right, dude. None of us ever got it, but you guys always sorted stuff out, somehow. You’ll be fine!”

With half of his precious merchandise wadded up in a garbage bag, Izuku certainly hopes so. “Thanks, Kirishima-kun.” 

Unlike Izuku, Katsuki packs light. Most of his things consist of parts of his costume and—exactly as Izuku predicted—multiple skull shirts. But what fascinates him most is the caddy filled to the brim with watery creams, sheer sheet masks, and luxurious hair products. 

“Did you really think I’d use your twelve-in-one shit?”

“Not at all,” Izuku says. He’s always thought his bottle of three-in-one shampoo, conditioner, and body wash was ingenious for a hero with such little time, but he keeps that to himself. 

Midway through sorting Katsuki’s numerous black shirts by style—sleeveless, half-sleeve, long-sleeve—something profound occurs to him. “Wait. Where’s all your furniture? Don’t you have a mattress?” 

“Nope,” Katsuki says, too casually. “Blew it up a few weeks ago. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“You blew it-” Izuku shakes his head. Now isn’t the time to worry about specifics. “You should have the bed.” 

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Fuck you. I’m taking the couch.”

The part of Izuku raised by a guest-honoring mother quails at the idea. “That’s not right. Maybe we could-”

“You really want to finish that suggestion?” 

“Nevermind. I’m going to buy a mattress, then.” 

“Oh, yeah? With what money?”

Izuku has yet to pay off the bill from his latest hospital visit. “...I’ll save up.”

Katsuki snorts, a small, disbelieving sound. He unzips a pouch and scowls. “Fuck. I knew Shitty Hair would forget something.”

“What did he-?”

“My goddamn toothbrush.”

Distantly, Izuku recalls the sorry state of Katsuki’s bristles back in the UA dormitory. This loss was probably for the best. “I can drop by the convenience store and get another for you,” he suggests. Before Katsuki can reject the offer, he adds, “I’ve been needing to replace mine, too.”

He hasn’t, but Katsuki doesn’t need to know that.

Katsuki shrugs before unzipping another pouch of toiletries. It’s the closest to affirmation he’ll get. 

As per its name, there’s a convenience store located adjacent to their apartment complex. Their. Standing amidst the oral hygiene aisle, Izuku tests the plural, enjoying how it rolls off his tongue. 

The two of them spent years chasing after each other. Maybe now, they’ll finally be able to keep pace. 

Toothbrushes representing almost every hero in the top fifty line the aisle. Katsuki didn’t mention any specific brand, and he eyes the two in Dynamight and Deku’s respective colors. The sudden thought of whether Kirishima, in the time the two had lived together, ever did this before creeps up on him.

Banishing the thought, he reaches for a distinct yellow one. 

Katsuki is less than enthused in his choice of toothbrushes. “You’re such a nerd,” he groans. “Did you seriously waste a thousand yen on hero-themed toothbrushes? On Endeavor?”

 “When you brush for long enough, it plays their theme!” Izuku argues. “I looked for another All Might, but they were all sold out.”

Meanwhile, Endeavor’s were priced to half of what they were originally. It had been a steal, really.

“Whatever. I get All Might.”

Izuku tamps down the urge to argue. It was only right the other got first pick with the toothbrushes, even if a part of him mourns the experience of hearing “I’ve come” every morning. The disappointment fades upon noticing the steaming pot on the stove. “Did you cook?”

“It’s just instant ramen,” Katsuki says. When he notices Izuku ogling, he scowls. “What?”

“Do you want to watch the extended edition of the Golden Age documentary with me?” The offer spills from him, an olive branch. He keeps his expectations low—Katsuki prefers to sleep early, and it’s already creeping close to that time.

“Sure.”

“Really?” Izuku says, unable to keep back his surprise. Quickly, he covers it up. “It’s my favorite one! They really managed to capture the progression of All Might’s growth through the film, and I actually took inspiration from-”

“Are you going to put it on or talk all night?” Katsuki says, rolling his eyes. Izuku hastily digs through his DVD collection, fishing out a meticulously-packaged disc. “The extended edition of Silver Age is way better.”

“You’ve already watched this?”

Katsuki doesn’t answer. Instead, he kicks his feet up, settling back. “Press play already.”

It’s usually impossible for Izuku’s attention to budge, but tonight seems to be an exception. Throughout the two-and-a-half-hour film, his eyes slip over and over to Katsuki, whose face is illuminated by the television screen. Over time, his expression shifts into something almost-calm, and as on-screen All Might turns to address the crowd, he mouths along to the dialogue.

A part of Izuku wants to forget about the documentary and watch Katsuki instead. It takes a great deal of willpower to wrench his eyes back to the screen, just in time to witness All Might slam the villain with a fist and a bellow of “DETROIT SMASH!”

From the back of his mind, he recalls two kids, standing side-to-side. Colors were brighter, the air was warmer, and their faces were pressed to glass as they watched, exactly as they are now, All Might’s powerful figure claim victory. 

A part of him, which had been tense up until this moment, relaxes. Izuku drags a pillow over to his stomach, and allows himself to sink into the whisper of the memory. 

Chapter Text

Katsuki isn’t the most talkative person. Izuku discovers this two weeks into living with him. 

Every day, he wakes to the sound of light footsteps, sometimes punctuated by the clink of copper or the squeak of shoes. It’s hardly light out whenever Katsuki leaves, barely giving Izuku an opportunity to bid him farewell. 

Today, he manages to wriggle out of the sheets, nearly tipping over in his haste to poke his head out. His throat compresses at the sight of Katsuki buckling up his boots—it feels like he hasn’t seen him in forever—and he shuffles closer. “Kacchan, are you leaving?” 

A noncommittal grunt. From where his mask sweeps away his bangs from his face, his forehead is exposed, save for a single, loose strand. Without another word, he slips out. 

“...Have a good day,” Izuku mutters. For some reason, he assumed that living together meant they’d interact with each other more, but outside of the brief meetings between their respective shifts, it feels as if Izuku is still suspended at a distance. 

Only the little signs littered here and there—the second toothbrush, the combat boots by the doorway, and the fully-stocked fridge—remind him of Katsuki’s presence. He gets through the morning in repetitive, listless motions. Brushing his teeth. Overfrying an egg for breakfast. Lacing up his red sneakers, and heading to work once the sun rises high enough in the sky.  

The trip to the agency clears his head, as does the familiar voice calling his name.

“Deku-kun!”

“Uravity,” he says, slowing to let the other catch up. Out of all their classmates, only Uraraka joined him at the Nighteye Agency. Unlike him, she lives in the outskirts of Tokyo, and takes the train each morning. “You’re early today. I thought your shift wasn’t until later?”

Uraraka falls into step with him. It’s been a while since she cut her hair—heroism spares little time for pampering—and recently, she’s taken to sweeping the shoulder-length brown hair into a stubby ponytail. “First off, I’m Ochako when we aren’t working. Second, Centipeder has something she wants to talk to me about—I’m hoping it’s a raise.” Pausing, she peers at him. “You look tired!”

“I didn’t sleep too well,” Izuku admits. UA had turned him into a light sleeper, and Katsuki’s early departures mean he barely gets shut-eye these days. 

A sympathetic hum. “How’s living with Bakugou-kun? Did he settle in yet?”

“He’s great!” Izuku says. With a bit too much enthusiasm, if Uraraka’s bemused head tilt is anything to go by. “He’s—I’m not sure, actually. We haven’t talked much since he moved in. Or at all.” 

“So that’s why you have that look on your face.” At his questioning look, she clarifies. “You know, the kicked-puppy one. You get it whenever you’re sulking over something.”

“I do?” Izuku says, but she’s already moved on.

“Bakugou-kun being introverted isn’t surprising, but not having something to complain about is. I thought he’d be swearing up and down about every little thing.” 

“He also likes proving people wrong,” Izuku mutters. “The last time we had a proper conversation was when he moved in. We watched an All Might documentary together.” 

“What does he do when you’re both home?”

“He’s usually sleeping,” Izuku says. Early shifts for Katsuki and late ones for him mean that each time he steps back into the apartment, the former is curled into the couch, only identifiable by a visible tuft of blonde. “Maybe I’m expecting too much from him. He doesn’t owe me anything just because he lives with me.”

Uraraka’s eyes are knowing. “But that’s not what you want.”

“No, it’s not,” he admits. “I thought maybe we could…” 

Foolishly, he thought this was a new beginning for them, that living together meant they’d turn over a new leaf. He underestimated Katsuki’s isolating tendencies and overestimated his own subpar attempts to bridge the gap. 

He doesn’t finish his sentence and Uraraka doesn’t wait for him to, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Cheer up, Deku-kun! He’s probably still adjusting. Living with another person is a big thing, you know?” 

Izuku wonders how long the other took to adjust to Kirishima. “You’re right,” he says. In the brief glimpses he caught of him, Katsuki did seem exhausted. Has he been sleeping well? “Maybe I should ask him if he wants to watch the Silver Age documentary? He said it’s his favorite.”

“You definitely should. You can do it!”

“I can do it,” Izuku repeats. “Sorry, we’ve only been talking about me. How’s everything for you?”

Snorting, she waves a hand. “Oh, you know me. Work. Beer. Rent.” 

A simple, uncomplicated life. Izuku isn’t sure if he prefers when Katsuki was unreachable, rather than inaccessible. 

Uraraka’s encouragement helps him regain his determination, and by the time he steps back over the threshold into their apartment, he’s buzzing with anticipation. It only amplifies upon noticing the combat boots at the entrance and turns into a dull drone at Katsuki, awake and upright on the couch.

“Kacchan-” he begins, and stumbles to a stop. Katsuki doesn’t spare him a glance, too focused on his half-bandaged shoulder. The strips of cloth do little to hide the bloody evidence of a wound. “Your shoulder! What happened?” 

“S’fine,” Katsuki says, grunting around the end of the gauze tucked between his teeth. With his available hand, he pulls the other end of the gauze tight around his battered shoulder. “Got nicked. Bitch’s quirk had something to do with knives. Typical.”

Katsuki’s casual tone suggests a shallow graze, but the gash on his shoulder looks like no such thing. Izuku steps forward, a hint of worry bleeding into his tone before he can help it.

“That doesn’t look like a nick to me,” he says. “I think it’d be better to-”

“Drop it, Deku.” The growl, coupled with the childhood nickname, renders him silent. “Don’t make a big deal out of this right now.”

“But-” It’s painful, almost, to obey Katsuki and keep his hands to himself, especially when the other is visibly struggling to wrap his shoulder properly. The gauze ruffles in more than one place, crooked in others.  

It’s not only his shoulder, either. Katsuki looks awful, shadows bruised beneath his eyes and the bunch of his muscles strained as he works: both telltale signs of little sleep. Izuku wants to say something—he should say something—but cowardice wins, and he stands in mute silence.

Katsuki finishes his poor attempt at bandaging before noticing Izuku still there. “The fuck d’you want?”

“I have the extended edition of the Silver Age documentary.” He’d been a whole lot more confident when practicing this in his head, and now, it comes out as a rushed mumble. “It’s your favorite, right? We could-”

“Can’t.” Katsuki’s clipped tone leaves no room for insistence. “Got a shift in the morning.”

“You’re going to-?” Working with an injury, especially one of such extent, is never a good idea. But Katsuki’s expression is closed off, and he swallows the lump in his throat instead. “Right. You need sleep.”

“Yeah.” Flopping down—and failing to hide a wince as he does—Katsuki rolls over so his back is to him. Izuku bites his cheek. He can’t imagine it’s comfortable sleeping on this slim couch, especially not when he’d hurt his shoulder. Offering his bed would only lead to an immediate refusal. 

The tang of blood fills his mouth and he releases his cheek. He thought he’d left this habit behind in high school. 

He has no choice but to spare one, last glance at the back of Katsuki’s head and leave him be. The All Might toothbrush next to his taunts him as he brushes his teeth, and Endeavor’s theme grates on his nerves, enough for him to unscrew the back and pluck out its batteries. 

“Golden Age is better than Silver Age, anyway,” he mumbles. His reflection in the mirror doesn’t look any happier. 

Sleep doesn’t come to him easily, even less so when his thoughts run free, and he drifts in and out for what must be hours. Not-quite awake, not-quite asleep. A muffled, but audible, pop yanks him back into consciousness. 

He stares at the ceiling, confused if the sound had been a figment of his imagination or not. But then it resounds again, barely-there: pop, pop, pop.

There’s only one person those noises can belong to. He flings himself out of bed.

The smell of smoke hits him first. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, making out the outline of Katsuki’s upright figure. His hands are laid palm-up at his lap, repeatedly clenching and unclenching. 

Tiny sparks fizzle from them. Burned into the couch is a hand-shaped imprint. 

“Kacchan?” He keeps his tone measured, relieved when Katsuki lifts his head. 

“Deku.” Unlike earlier, Katsuki doesn’t glower or scowl or anything at all. Izuku takes the opportunity to approach, little details jumping out to him. The other’s neck glimmers with sweat, his hair sticking up on one end. As if he’s been twisting and turning for a while now, the covers are similarly twisted around him.

It’s the haunted look in his eyes which does it for Izuku, a puzzle piece sliding into place. Even if it’s been three years, experiences like theirs weren’t easy to scrub away, and Katsuki’s sleeping habits, his isolating tendencies, all come to light. 

“I get them too,” he says. Katsuki searches his face, but whatever he’s looking for—pity, evidence of bluffing, perhaps—he doesn’t find it. 

Izuku doesn’t move onto the couch. Too close, too fast. He sits cross-legged onto the floor instead, coming eye-level with the handprint on the couch. Katsuki had mentioned setting fire to his previous mattress, and now, he understands why. 

“Fucking-” The lowly curse is a surprise. He didn’t expect Katsuki to offer himself up freely, but he listens to him speak, more to himself. “I’m over this shit. I’ve been over it. But-”

Looking at Katsuki, coiled into himself, a sense of kinship surges. “The nightmares. Do you get them often?” 

As always, he’s prepared to be brushed off. Whether because he’s broken down by the night or not, Katsuki only shrugs. “Nah. Only…” 

He glances at the bandages peeking out over the collar of his shirt. Izuku understands. The nightmares may not be as frequent as they used to be, but days of injury and weariness, they seemed to creep back in. Sleeping on this cramped couch undoubtedly didn’t help. 

“Stupid,” Katsuki says.

“I don’t think so.”

Katsuki looks at him as if he’s only just noticed him. “What’d you come out for?”

He considers lying, but Katsuki would sniff it out immediately. “I heard your quirk,” he says. “And I thought I should come and check if everything was okay.”

“Yeah, well. Nothing’s wrong. Get out.” 

Instinctively, he shifts to get up before pausing. His bottom lip is dry when he licks over it. 

Katsuki doesn’t owe him friendship because he lives here. But Izuku doesn’t want that. Having the other here and unable to reach him burns more than when he was absent. Even if Katsuki hates it, he needs to try.

“Is it, though?”

“You’ve got something to say?’

“Yeah,” Izuku says, and the steel in his voice surprises him. “You don’t look okay. You’re pale and I can smell how much you’re sweating.”

“Why the hell are you smelling-”

“It probably hurts to sleep here with your shoulder, too.”

“It’s none of your fucking business.”

“It wasn’t your business to show up at the hospital, either. But you did, anyway. Even if it has nothing to do with me, can’t I show up, anyway?”

“What’re you trying to play at here?”

“Let me take a look at your shoulder,” Izuku says. “And just until it stops hurting, take the bed.” The lack of a response brings forth a swell of uncertainty, but he soldiers on. “If you do, you’ll be able to win more fights and save more people, right?” 

The line of Katsuki’s mouth is thin. He doesn’t look upset, but nowhere near pleased, either. “Your little games piss me off, Deku.”

“Do you mean-?” Without another word, Katsuki begins shrugging off his shirt, and he stumbles to his feet. “I’ll grab the first aid kit.”

Switching on the light would make it easier to see, but Izuku isn’t quite ready to rupture the atmosphere, especially as Katsuki twists around, the expanse of his back facing him. Haphazard strips of gauze stick to his skin. Peeling off one reveals raw, bloodied skin underneath. 

“Were you really going to leave it like this?”

“Shut up. I’d get it checked out if I really needed to.”

Izuku knows better than to believe him, but he doesn’t point this out. Instead, he disposes of the last strip, leaning back to take in the full extent of the mess—Katsuki claimed to have been “nicked,” but the evidence was shaping up to prove otherwise. 

It isn’t the first time Katsuki’s standards have spurred him to push far past his limit, after all, and Izuku knows better than to believe it’ll be the last. The two of them are similar in that way. 

The seal of the antiseptic splits apart with a crack as he twists it open. 

“Hypocrite,” Katsuki says. 

“Huh?”

“It’s brand new.”

“I’ve never needed to use it,” Izuku says. Pressing a cotton bud to the mouth of the bottle dampens the sharp smell of chemicals briefly. “This might hurt.”

Katsuki’s shoulder blades roll back as he straightens. “Yeah, yeah. Get on with it.”

Izuku’s hands tremble oh-so-slightly as he mops away blood. For three years, he’d sat behind Katsuki, and as a result, became intimately familiar with the profile of his back, from his sloping shoulders to the mesmerizingly-tender skin of his nape. Looking is one thing, however. Touching is another.

“I didn’t realize how convenient Recovery Girl was until I had to start taking care of injuries on my own,” Izuku says. 

“S’why the old man always told us to quit leaning on her,” Katsuki replies. He’s been perfectly-still all this time, but as Izuku works upwards, he tilts his head away accordingly. Moonlight spills over his neck, catching onto the fine hairs there.

“It made me realize how stupid and reckless my mindset was in first year. I’d break every bone because I was sure Recovery Girl would fix me up afterwards.”

“Stupid.”

“Yeah, I was.” He tosses the last cotton pad, stained like all the others. “I’m going to bandage it now.”

“Mhm.”

Clearing away the blood reveals pale skin beneath. It’s impossible to keep his eyes from wandering, from the delicate jut of his shoulder blades, to the powerful shift of muscles under skin, to his comparably slim torso. It’s impossible not to notice how much space Izuku’s hand takes up when he places his palm flat to the other’s back. 

If he placed both his hands on Katsuki’s waist, would the tips of his fingers touch? 

Katsuki twists to look over his shoulder. “The fuck are you doing? Hurry up.”

“S-Sorry,” Izuku says, recovering from his momentary daze. He hastens his movements, finishing the wrap of his shoulder with neat, tight lines. “Done.”

He doesn’t know if it’s an indication of trust or indifference when Katsuki doesn’t spare the fresh wrappings a glance, pulling on his shirt instead. Izuku averts his eyes, training them on the handprint on the couch instead.

“I’ll help out whenever you need it,” he says. 

Katsuki grunts. He looks a little softer, more comfortably slumped against the couch thanks to his wrapped shoulder. “I’m not sleeping on the bed.”

“But-”

“Unless you are too.”

Izuku’s eyes go wide. Katsuki’s expression contorts in an instant. 

“The hell are you thinking about? I hate being indebted for shit!” 

“Right, right,” Izuku says, failing to hide his surprise. His head spins, terrified and stunned and for some reason, giddy. Katsuki and him haven’t shared a bed since kindergarten. Distantly, he recalls chubby hands, clutching hard, and flushes. “I really don’t mind sleeping on the couch.”

Katsuki stands up. Izuku sits, frozen, as he approaches, and grabs a fistful of his shirt. He begins considering whether he should begin anticipating a punch or not, but-

“Thanks,” Katsuki says. He doesn’t let go, fist white-knuckled into Izuku’s shirt. 

“Oh,” Izuku says. Suddenly, he finds himself breathless. “Anytime.”

With a shove which sends him stumbling towards the bedroom, Katsuki releases him. “Get your ass to bed.”

Izuku has little choice but to comply. 

“Catch.”

From where he’s bent over, lacing up his sneakers, Izuku looks up and nearly trips as he lurches forward to catch the object hurtling his way. Upon closer inspection, it turns out to be a bento box, bundled in bunny-printed cloth. “What…?”

“It’s food, you colossal idiot,” Katsuki says. Taking him seriously is difficult when he’s clad in a Kiss the Cook apron (a house-warming gift from Kaminari), although the skill in which he brandishes a spatula does frighten Izuku a little. 

The words digest. “For me?”

“No, for Half’n’Half.” Before Izuku gets the chance to applaud his generosity, Katsuki scoffs. “Obviously!”

“Oh…” The bundle is heavy and slightly-warm in his palms—it must be fresh. “You made me lunch.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I made too much.”

With that, he stalks off. Izuku would have believed the explanation if he hadn’t been witness to Katsuki’s strict portioning over the last couple of weeks. Or if the back of his neck hadn’t gone red. 

“Thank you.”

“Whatever. We’re even now.”

“You don’t owe me for favors, Kacchan.”

“Take the food and fucking go.”

“I’m going!” Katsuki is beginning to look positively murderous, and he would rather not be caught up in anything involving the other and a hot stove. “I’m sure it’ll be delicious!”

“If you don’t-”

The rest of his sentence is cut off as Izuku ducks out the door, but he catches the tail-end of a string of curses. The bento box is warm in his hands as he all but skips to work, grinning each time he looks down at the bunny-printed fabric.

Even Katsuki could be sweet sometimes, huh?

“Wow, Deku! How cute is that?”

Bubble Girl’s exclamation attracts curious looks from the rest of the sidekicks, pinning an unsuspecting Izuku into place. She bends down to look closer, head tilted in wonder. 

“Did you pack it yourself?”

The center of attention is Izuku’s bento box, filled to the brim. A perfect lump of rice sits smack in the middle, enveloped in a leaf of lettuce. Each corner is stuffed with a source of protein, whether boiled eggs, chopped into halves, or fried chicken, cooked into a perfect golden-brown and completed with a spurt of ketchup. Katsuki demands utmost perfection in everything he does, and his lunches are held to the same standard. 

Izuku rubs the back of his neck. “No, actually-”

“Even the carrots!” she says. Those were the work of a cutter. Katsuki chewed him out for getting it, but when he offered to buy another, he received another lecture about wasting money. Now, every meal comes with daisy-shaped carrots slices. 

“You’re late to the party,” Centipeder says. From where she’s buried behind sheets of paper, Izuku hadn’t even realized she'd been listening in. “He’s been bringing those lunches all week—I didn’t expect him, of all people, to be hiding a wife from us.”

“I’m not-”

“Deku, you’re married?” Togata asks, stepping through a wall. Save for his underwear, the lower half of his body is naked, and Izuku averts his eyes. “Congratulations!”

Uraraka cups a hand over her mouth, leaning in. “Lemillion, your pants…”

“Not again!” 

While Togata searches for his pants, Izuku waves his hands wildly. “Of course not! Kacchan just makes them for me sometimes.” 

Recently, “sometimes” upgraded to every day. Katsuki didn’t even bother with the excuse of leftovers any longer. He simply tossed the bento box at Izuku’s head each morning, who would fumble to catch it, and then proceed to grumble over his gratitude. 

“I did think you were a little young to be married,” Centipeder says thoughtfully. Bubble Girl perks up.

“If not a wife, then… Do you two live together?” she asks. When he nods, a grin splits her face. “Adorable! I miss the honeymoon phase…”

“But you haven’t dated for three years now,” Togata, pants retrieved, points out as he pops through the wall. Bubble Girl’s expression goes sour. 

“By choice.”

“Of course!” Successfully avoiding danger, he addresses Izuku again. “You have my congratulations again, Deku!” 

“No, I’m not-”

Togata melts through the wall before he can finish. Centipeder shakes her head. “Destined for Hawks agency, that one.”

The conversation tides over, allowing Izuku to relax and reach for his chopsticks. Uraraka rolls her chair over next to him to take a peek at the bento box herself. “It really is a cute lunch,” she says. “It’s Bakugou-kun’s work, right? It’s kind of unfair for him to be good at everything.”

“Except for helping himself,” Izuku snorts. Uraraka smiles, a little, and his cheeks warm. “What is it?”

“It seems like everything worked out for you two.”

“Well, not everything…"

Old habits die hard, which means Katsuki is still obstinate when it comes to accepting Izuku’s help. 

However, slowly but surely, things are improving: during the precious few hours when their downtimes aligned, they’ve taken to watching All Might: The Age of Greatness together. So far, they’ve worked through half of the first season.

They even had dinner together once, and Katsuki answered every question about his day, albeit grumpily. 

Most notable of all is the bed sharing. Since the first night, Katsuki hasn’t mentioned returning to the couch, and Izuku hasn’t brought it up, either. His full-sized bed is a bit small for two fully-grown men, especially with Katsuki’s sprawling limbs, but between paying off his hospital bill and witnessing the other’s improved complexion, the thought of an extra mattress is filed away for later. 

“I think we understand each other a bit better now,” Izuku says.

“I’m happy for you, Deku-kun,” Uraraka says. She looks back at the bento box. “Tell Bakugou-kun I like the flower carrots. I wonder if he’ll do bunny apples next? Or maybe octopus sausages?”

“Kacchan would never,” Izuku snorts, although it’s amusing to think about. He digs into his lunch, before noticing Uraraka’s empty desk. “Where’s your lunch?”

She waves him off with a, “I’ll get something from the vending machine later.” Izuku doesn’t think he’s ever seen her eat at the agency. Usually, during lunch, she’s either getting ahead in paperwork, typing up emails to clients, or, like now, folding paper stars. 

“You really like making those,” he says, watching as she squeezes peaks out of a tiny lump of paper. Her smile is a little secretive as she hums.

Back when they’d only begun working together, he’d asked her about it. Uraraka told him about the myth associated with the tiny stars: fold a thousand of them, and a wish would come true.

“It gives me something to look forward to.” she said. “Don’t we all have something like that?”

Izuku wasn’t sure then, but now, he thinks he understands what she was talking about. From when he catches the still-warm bento box in his hands, he works tirelessly, looking forward to the moment when he’ll pop off the lid and get misty-eyed at the meticulously-prepared meal. 

He ruminates on this as he toes off his shoes at the doorway. “I’m home!” 

The habit crept up on him before long, and Katsuki was gracious enough not to give him hell for it. In his own, flippant way, he even acknowledges it. Like now. 

“Hey,” Katsuki greets. He must have had a long shift today—save for his combat boots and eye mask, he’s fully-outfitted in his hero costume. It’s not often Izuku sees him like this, and he notes, with fascination, the stirrups wrapped around his bare heels.  

“Today’s bento was really good,” Izuku says. Starting conversations with Katsuki is always a gamble, but today, he seems to have hit the jackpot, because he receives a grunt of acknowledgement. “The chicken was super tender, and the rice was so sweet-”

“It’s rice.”

“Yes, but still!” Encouraged by the response, he rests his elbows onto the counter, watching Katsuki slice through onions with expert precision. “I can’t believe you have time to make food this good while working.”

“Unlike some idiots, I know how to manage my time."

Izuku bypasses the not-so subtle dig. “Everyone at the agency thought it was so cute, too. Uraraka-san mentioned bunny apples, which made me think: have you ever made them?”

“No idea what you're talking about.”

“Really? Your mom never cut apples for you like that?” He realizes how dumb the question is as he asks it; just the idea of Mitsuki taking the time to carve floppy ears into apples is silly. The image ripples, shifting into one of the man before him. “Since you’re good at everything, they’d be really easy for you.”

Katsuki swipes cubes of onion into an oil-slicked pan. “I’m not cutting you fucking bunny apples. What’re you, a grade schooler?”

“I wasn’t asking you to! I think your lunches are cute as they are!”

“Hmph.” The other brandishes the knife too casually for Izuku’s comfort. “I’ll make the cutest bento ever, and then Round Face’ll have to suck it up and admit defeat.”

Izuku blinks. “Um. Okay? But what does Uraraka-san have to do with this…?’

“You’ll be begging me for mercy,” Katsuki says, chopping motions growing vigorous. Izuku has an odd feeling he’s witnessing the start of something dangerous. 

His suspicions of the worst are confirmed early morning, when he stumbles into the kitchen to find it in full swing. Cranked-open cans, half-sliced vegetables, and a small colony of condiments fill up the tiny kitchen space, and amidst it all is Katsuki, furiously mashing balls of rice together in his gloved hands. His face is pinched in concentration as he peers at his phone, propped up against a squeeze bottle of mustard. 

“Kacchan…?”

At the lack of response, he shuffles over, peeking over Katsuki’s shoulder. Playing across his phone screen is a YouTube video, demonstrating how to mold rice into various shapes. As the video progresses, the person onscreen squeezes kernels into an oval and two, triangular peaks, before stacking them to form a…

“Quit breathing down my neck, Deku!” Katsuki snaps, and he scuttles backward. Caught up in the video, he’d failed to notice how close he’d gotten. 

“Sorry.” When he tries to watch the rest of the tutorial, Katsuki snatches him up by the collar and tosses him out of the kitchen. “You could just tell me to leave,” he says, but Katsuki has already turned his attention back to the rice. 

Mystified, Izuku leaves him be. Whatever he’s making ends up tossed to him, anyway, but it remains a mystery up until lunch break rolls around. Ever interested in his business, Bubble Girl leans against his desk, and even Togata wanders over to see what his “wife” prepared for him today.

Izuku doesn’t bother correcting him this time. 

“Oh, gosh!” Bubble Girl gasps as he pulls off the lid. His mouth drops open. Uraraka leans over.

“That’s way better than bunny apples!”

Katsuki had always taken challenges to heart, and Izuku shouldn’t have expected for this to be any different. A disbelieving laugh bubbles up his throat. “Panda onigiri.”

Compact balls of rice make up the head and ears of the panda, with the eyes, mouth, and nose fashioned from neat strips of dried seaweed. Katsuki had even gone as far as to add momotaro’s for the blushing, red cheeks. 

“Wow!” Togata says. “Your wife is really talented!”

For once, he doesn’t sigh at the misunderstanding, all his attention taken by the onigiri. He grins. “Yeah. Kacchan is really amazing.”

“Cute bentos… A cute name, too,” Bubble Girl muses. “Kacchan must be really cute, huh?”

“Huh? Cute?”

He isn’t sure if that’s the word he’d assign to him. Katsuki is like a glowing firecracker: bright, breathtaking, and quick to snap. Although, Izuku considers, he can be cute sometimes. Like every morning, when he tosses Izuku’s bento box into his face. Like when he rolls over into Izuku’s space on the bed and knees him in the stomach. Like how the space between his brows gets wrinkled whenever he gets absorbed into one of Izuku’s “shitty chick flicks,” creasing further in defiance when he’s caught.  

Cute isn’t a word he’d usually use to describe Katsuki, but it surely applies. 

“Yeah,” Izuku agrees. “Kacchan is really cute.”

A peculiar expression flits across Uraraka’s face. If Izuku wasn’t absorbed in cleaning out his bento, he would have thought to ask what’s on her mind, but it doesn’t occur to him until he’s trudging back to his apartment. 

He fumbles for his keys, but before he can fit it into the lock, the front door swings open. Only his quick instincts keep from getting his face slammed. Any rising protest dies out at the sight of an even split of red and white hair. 

Todoroki doesn’t look surprised to see him. “So you are Bakugou’s new roommate.”

“Todoroki-kun! You finally got time to come over!”

“And he’s leaving.” Katsuki materializes over his shoulder, glowering. Todoroki himself seems blissfully unaware of the ill intentions behind him. “I finally got the fucker off my back after I moved-”

“I followed him home,” Todoroki supplies helpfully. “Can I stay for dinner?”

“Tell him to get out,” Katsuki says. His tone suggests this isn’t the first time Todoroki’s pulled something like this. “He’ll leech off all your food. What’s the point of having access to Endeavor’s credit card if you’re just going to act like a parasite, huh?”

A shrug. “Your food tastes better.”

“You little-”

“Of course you can stay,” Izuku says, beaming. “It'll be great to catch up!”

“I agree,” Todoroki says, his enthusiasm far more subdued. A growl breaks apart their exchange: Katsuki, who doesn’t look pleased by the turn of events. 

“As if I’ll cook for your lazy asses! Kitchen, now.”

“W-Wait, suddenly?” His pleas fall on deaf ears as Katsuki drags them into the kitchen, and tosses the vegetable peeler at him, along with a bag of carrots. Todoroki shrugs, and retrieves the cutting board. 

Izuku, still geared up in his costume, has no choice but to begin skinning carrots.

While Katsuki mans the stove and Izuku peels and chops vegetables, Todoroki is put in charge of separating egg whites from the egg yolks. He isn’t very good at it and upon dropping his third yolk, Izuku gently volunteers to show him how it's done.

He watches, fascinated, as Izuku shifts a bubbly yolk from one eggshell to another. “You’re good at this, Midoriya.”

“It’s just eggs—the one who’s really good at all of this is Kacchan.”

“Bakugou’s cooking has been impressive since our first year,” Todoroki agrees.

From where he’s hunched over the stove, Katsuki scoffs. “Flattery isn’t going to convince me to cook for you. Get lost, Half’n’Half.” 

“You bought me food today, though,” Todoroki says. Izuku’s head swivels over.

“And don’t go expecting it again.” Upon noticing Izuku gawking, Katsuki bristles. “It was leftovers, Fucking Deku!” 

It’s been a while since he’s heard that one and robotically, he returns to cracking apart eggs. So Katsuki made a bento box for Todoroki too. For some reason, he was under the impression that he was special, or something. 

“So you had the panda onigiri too, huh?”

Todoroki lifts a brow. “Panda… onigiri? I’ve never had that. Is it good?”

Oh,” Izuku says. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

Between the three of them, dinner is cooked up relatively quickly. While Izuku and Todoroki sit cross-legged on the floor, Katsuki opts to settle as far from them as possible, kicking his feet up on the couch.

“I knew he’d moved in with one of our classmates,” Todoroki explains between slurps of piping-hot udon, “but he wouldn’t tell me where or who. I thought it might be you.” 

“You really thought so?” Izuku wonders. Wouldn’t it be safer to assume Katsuki moved back in with Kirishima, or maybe even Kaminari? 

“I expected you two to move in together after graduation. Why did it take so long?”

“Uh…” He glances at Katsuki. He hasn't bothered to join the conversation, but Izuku knows better than to assume he isn’t listening. “We were… a little caught up in other things.”

Their reunion may now be history, but Izuku recalls their conversation with blushing clarity. Some things aren’t meant to be relived. Beside him, Todoroki tries to coax Katsuki into conversation.

“Which one’s your room, Bakugou?” he asks, and Izuku goes stiff.

They haven’t talked about this with each other, let alone a guest. Two grown men occupying a single room might be strange to others. Maybe he’ll lie. Well, knowing Katsuki, he’ll probably tell Todoroki to mind his business, or-

“We share,” Katsuki says, and Izuku chokes around his mouthful of udon. His neck cracks painfully as it whips toward the other, who only cocks a challenging brow in response. 

Slowly, Izuku turns back. It’s impossible to tell what Todoroki, chewing thoughtfully, is thinking.

“Economical,” he concludes.

Izuku sags, relieved. Why is he so worried, anyway?

Midway through their bowls of udon, Katsuki claims it's past his bedtime and wanders off, leaving the two of them in the living room. Todoroki lags behind to collect the dishes and help Izuku tidy up the messy kitchen, scrubbing ceramic in steaming-hot water without a flinch. 

“I overheard that you’re apparently married,” Todoroki says, which is frankly an insane way to kickstart a conversation. Izuku nearly drops the carton of eggs he’d been carefully maneuvering into the refrigerator. 

“M-Married? Who-”

“Lemillion.”

That explains it.

“Mirio-senpai is under a… misconception.” Izuku purposefully keeps his voice low; he can’t begin to imagine the horrors which might be unleashed if Katsuki catches wind of this. “Kacchan has been packing me lunch and he just assumed… Well, you know how he is.”

“Hm.” Todoroki’s right hand hovers over the dishes, releasing a cool drift to soak up the liquid. “You should deal with it soon. Before it spreads too far.”

Izuku dislikes the sound of that. “Who else-?”

The look on the other’s face conveys it’s better for him not to know, but this doesn’t keep Izuku from puzzling over who might be privy to the rumor. He debates asking but before he can make up his mind, Todoroki is stepping out the door, bidding him farewell.

“It’s good you two moved in together,” Todoroki says. “Bakugou needed it.”

He lumbers off without another word, and Izuku watches him go. Once he’s disappeared down the stairway, he shuts the door, deep in thought. Not for the first time, he wonders about everything Katsuki had been up to post-graduation. 

Quietly, he nudges open the bedroom door. Katsuki is a light sleeper with a nasty temper when he wakes up—he’s learned this the hard way. In the curtain-drawn darkness of the room, he can barely glimpse the line of Katsuki’s jaw and the slump of his shoulders. 

When he lifts the covers, sliding in, Katsuki grumbles in his sleep. Izuku freezes, holding his breath, but the other only shifts away, and he takes the opportunity to settle in properly. The mattress dips as he twists over onto his side.

It’s cyclic, somehow. After years of struggling after Katsuki’s back and finally ripping himself out of the other’s orbit, Izuku finds himself right back to where he started: lying on his side, staring at the back of Katsuki’s neck.

Todoroki said Katsuki needed the move, but he didn’t know it was Izuku who needed him.

The doors of Nighteye Agency nearly getting blown clear off their hinges isn’t how Izuku anticipated his day to go. Nevertheless, he and the rest of the sidekicks are instantly on their feet. Uraraka jams the rest of her granola bar into her mouth before pressing the tips of her fingers flush, her stuffed cheeks making her a fearsome sight. 

Their receptionist, a young woman with brown hair pulled into a low ponytail, stumbles in. She appears to be on the verge of tears. “I tried to tell him he needed an appointment, but-”

She fails to get out any more words, looking over her shoulder fearfully. One For All flickers to life, readying him for battle-

“For the last time, get out of my way, lady!” 

-and dies out as a familiar, orange-soled glove shoves the receptionist to the side. With a squeak, she scampers away. Izuku blinks. “Ka-”

“Dynamight.” Centipeder rises to her feet. Although she keeps her hands folded politely before her, she doesn’t let her guard down. “Welcome to the Nighteye Agency. How can we help you?”

“I don’t need any of your help,” Katsuki says. His masked eyes scan the crowd of heroes, narrowing when they land on Izuku. “There you are, Deku.”

Izuku freezes. “Me?”

“Dynamight, I’m sure whatever you-”

Katsuki clicks his tongue. Brushing past her, he stomps over to Izuku, who frantically cycles through anything he could have done to warrant Katsuki showing up to the agency. 

He hung up his laundry, washed his plate, and—shit! Did Katsuki somehow figure out he used his toothbrush by accident? He dropped it right after it began playing All Might’s theme, though, so maybe he could plead innocence… 

His train of thought is derailed by Katsuki shoving something into his chest. Instinctively, his hands rise to cup the familiar, boxy object, before lifting it to eye-level. It’s his bento box, wrapped in bunny-printed fabric.

“Forgot your damn lunch,” Katsuki says. 

“But I-”

He remembers. Upon missing his morning alarm, he’d been in a rush to leave. Somewhere along the way, he must have forgotten to take his lunch. Katsuki probably found the bento box left on the counter and…

“Kacchan,” he says, astonished. Around him, the heroes perk to attention—a disbelieving, “that’s-?” punctuates the silence, and they’re immediately hushed. Izuku is too distracted to check who it is. “Did you come all this way to-”

“It was on the way,” Katsuki interrupts. “And I hate wasted food.”

There are plenty of holes in Katsuki’s deflection—for one, the implication he’s been carrying a lunchbox with him throughout patrol—but Izuku doesn’t dawdle on the little details. He cradles the bento box like it’s something precious. 

Katsuki moves to leave before pausing. The heroes watch curiously as he steps into Izuku’s space, closer and closer, until he begins thinking this display might not be suitable for the public-

“I hear I’m your wife now,” Katsuki murmurs, and a chill blooms at his spine.

“Well—that’s—you see-”

Gloved fingers fiddle with the respirator around his neck. It might look casual to the others, perhaps even affectionate, but to Izuku, it’s a threat. “Next time someone tells me that shit, I’ll kill you.”

He releases him and Izuku stumbles backward into his desk, clutching his lunch fearfully. Katsuki doesn’t spare him nor the rest of the gawking heroes a glance, stepping around Centipeder and disappearing out of the gaping doorway. 

Bubble Girl is the first to break the stunned silence. “That’s Kacchan?”

“Yes-”

“As in, controversial, bigoted, rude-”

“We do not gossip about our fellow heroes, Bubble Girl,” Centipeder says, but she’s hiding a discreet smile. “Your… closeness to Dynamight could have been warned of beforehand, Deku.”

Izuku flushes, setting down the box. “I didn’t realize he’d come all this way.”

He scarcely believes it. Katsuki, disliker of any disruptions to his schedule, had willingly gone out of his way to bring him lunch? There has to be a catch, or a hidden camera, somewhere. 

“Deku!” Togata’s boisterous voice makes him wince, but not as much as when the other grabs his hands, squeezing them between his own. “Allow me to apologize for my misunderstanding.” 

“It’s alright, Lemillion-” 

“I wasn’t aware it was a husband you had! Congratulations!”

It’s Uraraka’s suggestion to leave the explanation to her and Bubble Girl. 

For the most part, life runs smoothly, and in the span of a few months, Katsuki’s presence in the apartment becomes a permanent fixture. At the end of the day, it’s no surprise they’re most comfortable at the distance they’ve been all their lives. 

They have their fair share of issues here and there, whether nightmares, marital confusion, or quarrels over dishes and laundry. These days, the dripping kitchen sink has become the root of their arguments. 

“Told you not to keep the water running, Shitty Deku.” The two of them, arms crossed, survey the sink. Neglecting to look into the dripping resulted in the pipe bursting, and now the kitchen has no water. 

“You’re the one who pours oil down the drain,” Izuku shoots back. When Katsuki glowers at him, he digs his phone out of his pocket. “Let’s just call up a plumber-”

Katsuki knocks the phone out of his hand. It bounces harmlessly against the ground. “As if I’ll fall for their scammy prices. Get the toolbox.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“Does it look like I’m joking?” Although Izuku has gotten leaps and bounds better at standing his ground, Katsuki’s tone suggests there’s no room for argument. 

With a sigh, he fetches the toolbox.

“No wonder you’re broke,” Katsuki mutters. “You don’t do anything yourself around here.”

“Kacchan, we’re both broke.”

Katsuki’s answering silence is a testament to his growth. 

What Katsuki lacks in ability, he makes up for in overwhelming confidence. After a single, three-minute long (and much too brief, in Izuku’s opinion) YouTube video, he cracks his knuckles, and then his neck. There’s a familiar, hungry gleam in his eyes, the one he gets when presented with a challenge. 

“Die.”

Die? Izuku thinks, mystified. 

It’s difficult to see, let alone lend a helping hand when Katsuki has jammed himself into the tiny, cramped space under the sink. Izuku mostly hovers with the flashlight and obediently passes over whichever tool Katsuki sticks his hand out for.

Moments like these, he’s in awe of how far they’ve come. “Remember our fight at Ground Beta?”

With Katsuki ducked under the sink, all Izuku can see of him is his sprawling legs, but he does hear a pause in tinkering. As little as four years ago, this level of domesticity—fixing a leaky sink together—would have been unthinkable. 

“Pass me the wrench.”

Maybe it’s because of the wood barrier, but Katsuki’s voice seems a bit softer. Izuku dutifully obeys. A few minutes of clinking and clanking works up his curiosity once more. “Do you really know how to-”

“I’m focused, Deku.”

Izuku shuts his mouth. Discreetly, he pulls up WikiHow, squinting at the blocks of text, each headlined by an illustration. From his position behind the cupboard door, he peeks into the damp darkness, where Katsuki is fitting a screw into a pipe. His eyes widen as he begins to twist. 

“Wait-”

The warning slips from him a moment too late. The pipes release a shuddering groan, and Izuku barely manages to drag Katsuki out of the cupboard before jets of liquid explode onto the kitchen floor. 

Silence, only interrupted by the steady drip-drip-drip of the sink, floods the apartment. Izuku’s face is wet. His hands are wet. The floor surrounding them is puddled with water, and he holds back a shiver as it begins to seep into his joggers. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, checking on Katsuki. Even with Izuku’s body as a shield, he hasn’t been spared: the ends of his blonde hair drip and the collar of his shirt is dark. “I tried to warn you about the screw, but you already put it in. It’ll probably be good to do some research before trying again.”

Katsuki doesn’t respond. Instead, he shifts from where he’s tucked between Izuku’s legs, knees brushing against his thighs, and Izuku blushes all the way up to his neck. Releasing his hold, he scrambles backward.

His voice is a pitch too-high. “What should we do now?”

Getting to his feet, Katsuki squeezes out the drenched hem of his shirt. For a moment, he surveys the mess, before looking to Izuku, still on the floor.

“Get your wallet.”

The preppy elevator music does nothing to help the tense atmosphere on their way down. “You should’ve cleaned up the mess,” Izuku says. “Or at least let me change my outfit!”

“It’s just water, idiot.”

“I might catch a cold. Then what?”

“Then you’re sleeping on the couch.”

“What? That’s not fair!”

“Welcome to the world.” Katsuki’s tone holds little pity and all Izuku can do is sigh and hurry after him. Hopefully, the sun will dry him off, or this trip will be short and sweet, and he’ll be home before he knows it.

Neither of his wishes get accepted. Ten minutes down the line, a rumble resounds in the air. Passersby don’t pay it any mind, continuing to stroll by, but Izuku knows -

“Did you-”

“Yeah.” Katsuki’s posture shifts, primed and alert. No words need to be exchanged for them to set off towards the sound, their flip-flops slapping against concrete. 

“Our costumes-”

“No time.”

He’s right. If there is a criminal loose, not a single second can be wasted, especially not to retrieve their gear. They’ll have to deal with it like this, in their open-toed sandals and thin, polyester shirts. They round a corner, and Izuku feels it—beneath his feet, the ground trembles ever-so-slightly. 

“Do you-”

It’s Izuku’s turn to nod. “Yeah.” 

What is it? An earthquake? A shockwave? He doesn’t get to decide, because the trembling heightens, nearly knocking him over.

“On your left!” he shouts, bouncing into the air. And just in time—the concrete rolls up, transforming into the world’s most painful playground slide. Not everyone is lucky enough to react as fast as him. Cillvians scream, cars screech, and Izuku surges in, sweeping a mother and child out of the way. 

Their eyes are wide. “H-Hereoes?”

“Stay back from the streets and the sidewalk,” he says, stringing together instructions from what little he’s seen. “Get as far as you can, and if you’re able to, contact the police.”

Although the mother’s face is pale, she nods, tightening her grip on her son’s hand. Izuku doesn’t check to see if they’ve listened to him—a distant boom launches him back into the air.

In the little time he’s been away, the environment has transformed. Much of the sidewalks and the streets have turned into muddy sludge that pulls its surroundings down into it. Amidst all the chaos sits a lump, enveloped in solid concrete, but curiously, it doesn’t move. 

His back slams hard against Katsuki’s. “The civilian’s-”

“Got them all out. There’s nothing that can be done about the cars,” Katsuki says, and he nods.

“Any information on the villain?”

“S’quirk is construction-based-”

“Like Cementoss.”

“-but can’t tell if it sticks to one material or not. Fucker’s covering themself up in the shit so they don’t get hurt.”

That explains the lump. Izuku dodges a surging wave of sludge. “They’ve been standing there the whole time, which means it’s possible they can’t move right now.”

“Yeah.”

“I have an idea. It’d be easier if we had someone with a Stasis quirk, but-”

“Get on with it.”

It’s a simple plan, relying on Katsuki’s flashiness and Izuku’s subtleness. Katsuki’s explosions would draw the attention of the villain away, and Izuku would slither in, and once given the chance, smash the concrete shell encasing the main body.

A moment before they draw apart, Izuku glances over his shoulder. “Be safe.”

Katsuki grins. “Worry about the villain’s ass, not mine.”

In a sequence of chiaroscuro sparks, he blasts off. Izuku swaps his focus over. 

As anticipated, the more energy exerted to fend off Katsuki’s attacks, the less guarded the main body becomes. Concrete slips away, thinning out the shell, and Izuku slips in. At this distance, it would be easy to be swallowed up and he’s careful as he places his steps, drawing even closer…

More concrete hardens at his feet, opening a direct path to the main body. Just a bit farther-

“Fuck!”

The curse snaps his focus and he twists over. Continuous attacks without his gauntlets tend to seize Katsuki’s hands, and it costs him now. Tendrils of concrete wrap around his torso, dragging him down and Katsuki visibly struggles, curses streaming from him freely.

As if sensing Izuku, frozen in his tracks, red eyes snap to him. “Go!”

He leaps into motion. Lightning buzzes on his skin as he closes the last couple meters, and the floor shakes beneath his feet, concrete shooting at him, but it’s too late, because he’s already there, and-

Izuku drives his fist in.

Crack. His knuckles sink in. Deeper and deeper, until something squelches—the interior of the shell is soft! He drags up every bit of power, channels it into the tips of his fingers-

Everything around him heaves. His teeth dig into his cheek, the taste of blood flooding his mouth-

It all melts away, a clump of concrete missing him by a hair. Around him, the ground steadies, solidifying, and he nearly stumbles in his haste to hopscotch over to where Katsuki sits up, furiously wiping at his face. With the two of them splattered up to their necks in mud, Izuku’s earlier complaints are almost silly. 

“You look disgusting,” Katsuki says. Izuku snorts, hauling him up. 

“You should see yourself.”

Katsuki opens his mouth, ready to fire back a response before his eyes shift over Izuku’s shoulder. “Shit!”

It happens quickly. Katsuki grabs his wrist, pulling him forward. Izuku stumbles into him, a question falling from his lips, going unanswered as an arm shoots over his shoulder. Boom.

The explosion rips through his eardrums but he remains still, not daring to move until Katsuki exhales, dropping his hand. Behind Izuku, the villain lies, unconscious. “Asshole tried to creep up on us. You should’ve checked on him first.”

He should be scolding Izuku for such a rookie mistake, but he doesn’t, and Izuku doesn’t apologize for it either. His ears ring and his elbow stings as he steps back, surveying the damage.

“Kacchan,” he realizes. “That was our first mission together as heroes!”

“That was barely a ‘mission.’ The sink put up more of a fight than this guy.” 

“Still.” He knocks his shoulder against Katsuki’s. “We’re a pretty good team. Just like All Might always said.”

“Yeah, sure,” Katsuki says. “Let’s go, I need those pipes.”

“...We’re still going to the store?”

“I didn’t beat up some rockhead not to go.”

“But-”

Their conversation is cut short by the appearance of law enforcement, who, upon noticing the villain prone on the ground and Izuku and Katsuki in their muddied casual wear, falter. One clears their throat, extending a hand. “May we check your hero licenses?”

Katsuki groans. “Just let me fix the goddamn sink!”

…Engaging in heroism not associated with their respective agencies comes with its drawbacks. 

“Next time, I’ll let him sink the country,” Katsuki mutters as he works through the fifth sheet of paper. Izuku, on his seventh, chuckles.

“Don’t say that. It’s all procedure.”

“And fuck procedure.”

By the time they’re released from the police station, the sky has gone dark. Katsuki scowls up at it. 

“I think the hardware store might be closed,” Izuku says.

“No shit.”

“We can still get water from the bathroom. Or even the shower. Which I could really use right now.”

Katsuki snorts. “Yeah, you do.”

The night is unusually quiet. Izuku’s body still thrums from the tumult of earlier, skin buzzing with the aftershocks. A part of him lingers at the moment where Katsuki’s back was flush to his. “Have you thought about starting a hero agency, Kacchan?”

“We’ve been barely working for a year.”

“Hawks opened his agency within three years,” Izuku points out. He isn’t certain what spurs this discussion, but he commits to it. “I think everyone wants to get there, at some point. Deciding the direction you want to go and working with the people you’ve hand-picked—it sounds nice.”

A hum.

“You know, some heroes open agencies together. Although, they’re usually hero partners.” This earns him a look, and he backtracks. His elbow itches, and he resists scratching at it. “N-Not that I’m trying to imply anything! Just letting you know it’s an option, even if it’s not a very common one.”

“Deku.”

“It does have its benefits, though, especially after considering recent tax rates…”

“Deku.” A finger smacks his forehead, cutting his ramble short. Katsuki’s expression is mostly  exasperated, a little bit of something else.

“Did you just… flick me?”

Katsuki ignores the question, grabbing his arm instead. Izuku immediately bites down a hiss of pain. “You’re bleeding, dumbass.”

Refusal rises to his lips immediately. But there it is, twin trails of blood, leaking down his forearm. The itch at his elbow turns out to be a shallow gash. As he ogles it, wracking his mind for when he could’ve possibly got it, Katsuki snags him by the sleeve. 

“Get over here.”

The neighborhood park is abandoned, empty of anyone at this time, and the swings squeak under their weight. It’s harder to maneuver around while they’re on the swings, but Katsuki’s grip on him keeps him close. From his pocket, he produces a scrap of cloth. 

“You keep a handkerchief on you?”

“It’s not a fucking handkerchief,” Katsuki snaps. Wadding up the not-handkerchief, he presses it to the shallow scrape. 

The swing oscillates under Izuku, and it’s incredibly tempting to kick his feet. Katsuki’s fingertips brush against his skin, warm and distracting. Izuku focuses on anything else.

“I wonder when he got me—maybe while I was sneaking up on him? But there’s no way he noticed me…” He clears his throat. “Not that I don’t appreciate the help, but I could’ve done it myself.”

“Shut up.”

“Okay!” 

The pressure intensifies. Katsuki’s fingers withdraw, revealing a perfectly-tied, red-speckled ribbon. “Should hold up until we get home.”

He begins to stand. Izuku tugs him back down. At the other’s look of perplexion, he smiles sheepishly. “Can we stay here a little longer? I want to swing a little.”

“What’re you, a child?”

Izuku shrugs. No, should be his answer. Truthfully, with One For All weighted in his chest, there are times he feels like it. “I used to be able to go higher than you when we were kids, remember?”

“Huh? That never happened. You need to get your head checked.”

“Well, we could just try right now to see who’s telling the truth.”

Katsuki kickstarts their competition by pushing off and Izuku digs his heels in, following suit. Maybe it’s silly, two of Japan’s up-and-coming heroes engaging in a playground battle, but after months of fighting and bleeding, the rush of wind through his hair, the weightlessness of being suspended in air, is cathartic. 

Creak. “We might break the swings if we keep going!”

In typical-Katsuki fashion, he responds: “Scared you’re going to lose?”

The shudder of the swing set cuts their competition short. Too well-versed in the costs of public property destruction, they slow to a stop.

Well, Izuku does. Katsuki leaps off at the highest point instead, soaring through the air. The moon is high in the sky but his blonde hair gleams in the dark and fleetingly, it’s as if the sun is peeking out.

Show-off.

His feet hit the ground with a crunch, a smug grin on his lips. “Try to beat that.” 

“We were competing solely based on how far up we could go. And I think I went higher than you.”

“Get your eyes checked! I was obviously way higher than you!” 

“Sure, Kacchan,” Izuku says, which serves to piss off Katsuki further. He stomps up to Izuku, clearly intent on giving him a piece of his mind, and pulls up short. 

“You’re bleeding again.”

At some point during their competition, the bleeding must have started up again, seeping the cloth around his elbow in red. Katsuki extends an arm, likely to adjust it, and Izuku takes the opportunity to seize his wrist. 

He’s grabbed Katsuki multiple times before, whether to stop him, pull him along, or push him away. But never before has he consciously reached out to touch him for the sake of it. And Katsuki has never let him touch him for the sake of it, but he does now, silent as Izuku’s thumb curves over the knobby bone of his wrist.

“I’m happy,” Izuku says, earning him a pointed look at their muddied shirts. He rushes to clarify. “I’m happy that you’re here with me.”

“Yeah, that villain would’ve kicked your ass if I wasn’t there-”

“Not that. I mean…” His throat compresses. He struggles to figure out what he’s trying to say. All he knows is it’s important. “Something was missing before, and I never knew what it was. But now… Us, together. It feels right.”

His grip is slippery. He wants to beg, to plead. Tell me it’s the same for you.

Katsuki’s mouth bends slightly. “I guess it was weird not seeing your stupid face every day, too.”

Izuku’s fingers slip, creating enough space for Katsuki to shake his wrist free and stuff it back into his pocket. Sure, it’s a bit elementary, a little childish…

“You missed me.”

It might be the trick of the light, but Katsuki’s face looks pinker. 

“Who the hell told you that?”

“You just did! You said it was-”

“-Weird to not see your face every day after you stalked me for years, idiot!” And oh, it’s been a while since Katsuki last shoved his face away like this. “Back off!”

He stalks off, grumbling unhappily. Izuku chases after him, rubbing at his smarting cheek. “The implication was there, though, right? You don’t even have to say it, you can just nod-”

If the surrounding neighborhood reports the sound of an explosion followed by the shrieks of a young man, Dynamight and Deku solemnly swear they had nothing to do with it. 

“Gunhead Martial Arts!”

With a sweep of her arm, Uraraka folds a man twice her size onto the asphalt. With the way she’s got him twisted like a pretzel, all Izuku has to do is confirm the capture. Police snap handcuffs onto the struggling man before ushering him away. 

“Nice one, Uravity!” Izuku says. She claps a hand against his, careful to keep the pads of her fingers from making contact with his skin. 

“You too, Deku! Patrol has been sort of boring these days, huh? I know that’s good and all, but I’m just itching for some action.” Uraraka punctuates her words with a crack of her knuckles. “Tsuyu-chan tells me about all these cool villains she’s fought over with the Oki Mariner Crew, and honestly, I’m a little jealous.”

“Me and Kacchan ran into a villain the other day,” Izuku recalls. “His quirk was similar to Cementoss’s, so we thought it was cement-based, but it turns out he could manipulate very specific chemical formulas.” Noticing her expression, he pauses. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” she says, waving him off. “I saw the report on it earlier—you gave Centipeder a lot of extra paperwork. The Internet is absolutely losing their mind over it.”

This is news to Izuku. “They are?”

“Mhm. It’s pretty special to see Dynamight and Deku not only working together, but doing it in casual clothes, too. The hero forums are going wild with their speculations. My favorite is the claim he’s blackmailing you into doing shady business with him.”

“Blackmailing-” Izuku snorts. “If anything, I was the one who begged Kacchan to come live with me. Which, did I tell you about what he did?” 

Before he can launch into the topic, Uraraka holds up her hand. “Hold on, let me guess. Bakugou-kun cooked something really, really good, or he looked really, really silly this morning?”

“No, I-” he blinks. Katsuki didn’t look silly this morning, not really. In fact, as he sat up and stretched, hair golden and pale skin awash in light from where he was backlit by the sun, Izuku’s mind likened him to a pure, ethereal being. “Something like that. Did I already tell you?”

“Nope. Lucky guess.”

Bubble Girl’s tinny voice interrupts their conversation. “Deku, Uravity. Burglary, hundred meters.”

“Copy,” Uraraka says, and he echoes it. “We’re heading there now. Out.”

They jump into motion, Uraraka’s weightless body allowing her to keep up with Izuku. Her hair whips into her face as they nimbly cross distances. 

“Deku,” she says, right before they dive into the chaos, “not that the flirting isn’t sweet, but when are you planning to ask out Bakugou-kun?” 

His Detroit Smash ascends far above the thirty percent he’d planned. Izuku must blank out for a minute, because when he comes to, some dozen burglars are tied back-to-back, wheezing for air. 

He wheels around to Uraraka. “What do you mean, ask out Kacchan.”

“Well.” From where they’re suspended in midair, a few more burglars scramble at nothing. Uraraka pays them little mind. “One of the biggest speculations right now is that the two of you are in a relationship.” And just so there’s no room for misinterpretation, she adds, “A romantic one.”

“People think me and Kacchan are-”

“A lot of people disagree with it, but-” Uraraka releases Float, and the burglars crumble to the ground, their previous thrashing transitioning into immobile groaning. She cocks a brow at him. “Aren’t you two practically married already?”

Izuku needs a moment to sit down. Without any chairs available, he settles for falling into a crouch instead, pressing the tips of his fingers to his temples. “We are not. Just because we live together, alternate dishwashing days, and he makes me lunch doesn’t mean-”

“Sounds pretty married to me, man.” One of the burglars, a square-jawed man, pipes up. “Any chance you two share a bed?”

“We do,” Izuku says, horrified. Something tells him that mentioning he’s the one who usually winds up as the big spoon won’t help his case, so he leaves it out. “But if that’s true, then…”

He closes his eyes. It’s easy to picture Katsuki—he’s known him since childhood, after all. It’s even easier to conjure up the image of his delicate spine, his strong shoulders, his tender neck. Izuku had spent years chasing relentlessly after that back, that lamplike presence which called to the fluttering moth inside him. He admired it, been fascinated by it, wondered what he’d see once the other turned around, and when he had-

Memories may come and go, but Izuku recalls smoking fists, profuse tears, and words which stung more than punches did with startling clarity. It both shocked him and intensified his fascination. Thoughts of strategy were thrown out the window, greedy ones taking their places.

What other expressions could Katsuki make? Izuku wanted to collect them all: his happiness, his anger, his sorrow, his pain. The desire never left—it simply transformed, took shape into something else, a cherry blossom into a rock, and he never put much thought into it. 

Until now.

Moonlight on bare skin. Sunlight on bare palms. Either way, the crippling hunger was the same. 

The gentle pressure on his shoulder draws him out of his head. His eyes are a little wet, and Uraraka’s face is pinched—for how long did he go unresponsive? 

Another burglar clicks his tongue. “Been there.”

“It doesn’t get better,” yet another adds.

“I’m sorry,” Uraraka says. The weight of her hand grounds him. “Did you really not know? All of us sort of assumed, back at UA.”

Izuku shakes his head. She mirrors him, crouching. 

“So?”

“I can’t.” Izuku’s voice is a little hoarse. 

“Deku-kun…”

“I can’t be in love with him.” His knees go weak at the not-quite admission. “It wouldn’t be right.”

Uraraka looks troubled as she takes in his face, his trembling hands. 

“Deku,” she says softly. “I never said anything about you being in love with him.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I thought you might have a crush on him. Or liked him. I didn’t-”

“Fuck,” Izuku says. At this point, every one of the burglars are invested, and they all hum sympathetically. His eyes prick again, but any crisis is placed on hold by the arrival of law enforcement. 

“Who’s the lucky guy, anyway?” The first burglar asks as he’s led past him. Izuku hesitates, but barely.

“Are you familiar with Dynamight?”

“Oh, brother. Good luck. You’ll need it.”

Uraraka’s concerned look has yet to wear off. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he says. “No.”

“It’s alright. I’m sure you’ve got a lot to think about.”

He does. Without the distraction of the criminals, the thoughts pour in. Love is a hefty emotion. Surely, if he loved him, he would have known it. Surely, he would have felt the weight in his chest.

Except-

Katsuki has always been his exception. His kryptonite. His selfishness, which he never understood. 

His phone buzzes. Izuku reaches for it by habit, and recoils from the caller ID. “It’s Kacchan.”

“Hold it.” 

“I can’t,” Izuku says. Not while he’s weak-kneed and brittled-voiced. Living with Katsuki had fooled him into thinking he’d found the final puzzle piece, when all along, he’d jammed the wrong piece in. “What if I end up saying something?” 

Uraraka swipes the phone from him. Before he can protest, she accepts the call, putting it on speaker. “Hey, Bakugou-kun.”

“The fuck? Round Face? Where’s Deku?”  

Izuku shakes his head, pleading with his eyes. Uraraka purses her lips before answering. “He left his phone on his desk. Also, you didn’t text me back; when are we hitting the gym next?”

He forgets about his oath to silence. “You guys train together? I didn’t know that.”

“‘Cause not everything about me is your business, nerd.” The sound of Katsuki’s voice sends a pulse to his fingertips. “I thought he left his phone on his desk, Round Face.”

“...He just came back.”

A click of his tongue. “We’re out of flour and eggs.”

“What? We just bought some last week!”

“Fucking Half’n’Half keeps leeching off of us,” Katsuki grumbles, but it lacks irritation. If he really didn’t appreciate Todoroki, he would have made it known, rather than huffing and puffing over it.

“I’ll pick some up on the way back.”

“They better be the right ones.”

The call goes dead. His smile fades upon noticing Uraraka. “Don’t.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“I can see it on your face,” Izuku mumbles. “It’s… It’s Kacchan.”

“And?”

“I’ve already done so much—too much—to be close to him, and even when Kacchan hates it, he lets me near. I don’t want anything else. Not when it might mean I could lose him.”

“Or, you might not. Don’t the two of you have a history of misunderstandings?” 

Izuku can’t refute it. They know each other best, but they still don't understand each other. Uraraka sighs. 

“I don’t know how Bakugou-kun feels. Clearly, I barely know how you feel. But you guys have always been drawn back to one another.” 

“Only because I followed after him.”

“And he looked over his shoulder to check if you were behind him. Even if you don’t understand each other, you’ve managed to make it work. That counts for something.” 

“If I burden him-”

“Loving someone is inherently selfish,” Uraraka says. “But it’s up to you to decide if you want to share that burden.”

It’s twisted. Izuku had always considered love to be selfless, a concept where one puts another’s needs over their own. Looking at his greedy hands now, he finds the opposite may be true, as well. 

“...Do you really think it’ll be alright?”

“Yes.” Uraraka slaps his back lightly. “Now quit moping. We have a supermarket run.” 

Being heroes means there are times Izuku misses Katsuki for days on end. Out of sight, out of mind is impossible when he’s etched into the handprint on the couch, the multitudes of skull shirts in their shared closet, the tucked-in edges of their bedsheets—Katsuki is particular about even bed-making—and the stack of containers in the fridge, labeled with sticky notes. 

Most read Kacchan or Deku >:(, but a personal favorite is Don’t starve. 

Suppressing a smile, Izuku reaches to take it. 

It’s not often he takes the graveyard shift, and it’s odd to sit on the couch in broad daylight, eating what should be dinner. He’s so tired his eyelids droop with every bite, but sleeping now risks messing with his sleep schedule. 

He reaches for the remote instead, cradling tupperware with one hand while he flicks through channels with the other. A J-drama flashes onto screen and his thumb stills. 

A girl and a boy, clad in school uniforms, shyly link hands. When the girl notices the boy looking tenderly at her, she blushes, ducking her head. Izuku’s mouth thins. 

Following his conversation with Uraraka, he threw himself into what he did best: research. He read articles. He pursued shoujo manga. He watched J-drama’s and K-drama’s until he got sick of them. Everything he consumed held similar conceptions of love—a selfless, soft thing.

Izuku’s feelings for Katsuki—whatever they are—are nothing of the sort. They are raw, bleeding, and ugly, like an open wound. Without tending to, they fester, becoming something monstrous. 

He switches to the next channel.

A raccoon heteromorph grasps a mic, his urgent tone giving Izuku pause. “Can’t get a clear view-” he’s saying, his bushy tail whipping into his face and interrupting him. A distant boom echoes in the background, where a construction site is up in flames. “-Minimum six hostages have been reported, but the possibility of more has not been disapproved—Dynamight is on the scene-”

“Kacchan,” Izuku says, his meal forgotten as he leans in. As if triggered by the name, the dust and smoke clears away, revealing a distinct orange-black suit. His heart leaps to his throat as Katsuki trudges forward, depositing four people.

“He’s just appeared with four civilians! But he’s going back in-” 

The worst part of being a hero isn’t the aching muscles or the exhausting shifts. It’s watching Katsuki streak back to the construction site through a screen and being unable to follow. Izuku’s fingers itch to put on his costume and join him on the scene, but he’d never be able to make it in time. 

All he can do is watch and pray, white-knuckled fingers gripping onto his chopsticks as the reporter excitedly shouts. “The last two, he’s brought them! But what’s wrong with Dynamight?”

Katsuki doesn’t manage to set down the recovered civillains. Before his knees hit the ground, Izuku is on his feet, chopsticks clattering as he bolts for the door.

He’s fine, Izuku thinks, activating One For All so he can bound down flights of stairs at once—the elevator would take too long. His heart beats in his throat and he’s too harried to even respond to the receptionist’s warm, “Good morning!”

The split second before Katsuki sagged plays in his head like a looped clip. He’s fine. Katsuki only ever won with perfect victories. When Izuku shows up, he’ll scoff and get pink around the neck like he always does when embarrassed, and then say what, you think I can’t handle a weakass villain?

Izuku doesn’t know how far or how fast he runs. All he knows is he’s there, panting as he skids to a stop. The large crowd makes him hiss, annoyed, before he crouches, allowing for energy to rush into his legs-

And jumps. 

He lands right behind the yellow security tape, jostling the disgruntled crowd, but none of it matters, not when Katsuki is nowhere to be seen. Lurching forward, he grabs the sleeve of the nearest person—a teenage boy, maybe a middle schooler. “Where’s Dynamight?”

His initial look of irritation recedes. “Y-You’re-!”

“Dynamight. He was the hero on scene, right? Did you see where he went?”

Without taking his wide eyes off of him, the boy feebly points to somewhere over his shoulder. “No one’s really sure, b-but he looked pretty bad, and I think I heard something about a hospital-”

“Thank you.” Izuku pats his head before sprinting off. 

In the distance, there is a, “I just fucking met Deku!?”

 Hospitals aren’t Izuku’s favorite place, but they are familiar. What’s unfamiliar is he’s usually the patient, rather than the visitor. The front desk is where they ask for patients, right?

A white-uniformed nurse looks up, smiling politely. “How can I help-”

“Bakugou Katsuki,” Izuku says in one breath. “Is he here?”

The smile turns wary. Right, he probably seems like some obsessive fan following his idol. This is confirmed when she coolly asks, “What is your relationship to the patient?”

Izuku opens his mouth, ready to answer—and pulls up short. It’s a question he hasn’t given time to, mostly because he’d struggle to find the answer. Were they roommates? Friends? Something more than the former and less than the latter?

You know, some heroes open agencies together. Although, they’re usually-

“Partner,” Izuku says. “He’s my partner.”

“...Please list your name and form of contact here.” She slides him a slip of paper and goes onto detail Katsuki’s location, before assigning a nurse to guide him. 

Izuku only catches the tail-end of it because of the rushing in his ears. Running in a hospital is likely unethical but as he anxiously follows, it almost seems worth the risk. 

The nurse opens a sliding door and-

And Katsuki is seated on a geriatric chair, shirtless, looking scuffed and disgruntled and a bit beat-up as he talks to a doctor, but otherwise fine. He looks up as Izuku comes in and straightens, blinking. 

Izuku takes a step forward. He’s uncertain what his swimming emotions are made up of. A part of him wants to bow his head in apology and leave, but the other, greater part, wants to rush forward and press his ear to Katsuki’s chest. 

“Bakugou-san’s husband,” the nurse says, effectively ending both plans. Izuku’s teeth nearly snip off the tip of his tongue. Katsuki’s eyebrows nearly fly off his forehead. 

Their reactions go disregarded as the doctor, a wiry, thin woman, rises from her chair, bowing to Izuku. He fumbles to return one twice as deep. 

“It would have been lovely to meet you in different circumstances,” she says. “But it should comfort you that your husband shows no signs of lasting damage.”

“That’s g-good. Will he be able to be discharged today?” 

“I’m leaving right now,” Katsuki says. The doctor snickers. 

“There’s your answer. Bakugou-san, do not exert yourself. Doctor’s orders.” She smiles broadly at Izuku. “I’m certain your husband will have this covered.”

Izuku manages a nod, pretending as if every use of the term husband isn’t sweeping a firestorm over him. Both the doctor and nurse excuse themselves, leaving them alone. 

The first to move is Katsuki, sliding to his feet and wobbling in the process. With two steps, Izuku is at his side, reaching out to steady him. “I’m fine,” Katsuki says, but he makes no move to shrug Izuku off. “You were watching the news, huh?”

It was less than two hours ago, and yet, with Katsuki in the flesh, the time he’d been watching him through a screen already seems distant. Nausea, relief, and something, equally sickening, cripples him.

It isn’t soft or selfless. It’s raw, bleeding, and ugly. 

Katsuki frowns. “Deku?”

Izuku tries to speak over his thickening heartbeat, and fails. He does the next best possible thing—wraps his arms around the circumference of Katsuki’s torso and tugs him in.

Sugar and sweat. That’s what Katsuki’s smells like as Izuku drops his forehead to his collarbone and takes in a shuddering breath. The other goes tense between his arms, but not in a discomforted way; rather, like a wild animal unused to affection. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t know,” Izuku admits, finally finding his voice. “Seeing you fighting on the screen, not being able to do anything—it was terrible. When I saw you fall, I was so scared.”

“Hey-”

“I could’ve lost you while I was sitting around doing nothing. All I’d be able to do is watch and wish I was there, and it terrifies me, not being there when you really need it. And how am I supposed to be a hero if I can’t even protect those I lo-”

“Izuku.” Katsuki’s voice is firm, but his hands are firmer as they snake up, clasping the sides of Izuku’s face and prying him off his shoulder. Their eyes meet, solid on watery, and this may be the first time they’re looking eye-to-eye. “You trust me that little?”

All the words build up on his tongue scatter. “No, I—you’re the strongest person I know.”

“So let go of me.”

Izuku bites down a protest and obeys. Katsuki splays apart his arms, baring his chest, and living together might mean he’s accustomed to seeing flashes of skin, but this is different. This, Katsuki exposing every inch of his pale skin, is different. 

“What do you see?”

“What am I supposed to…” It sinks in. Although he’s covered in scars, most are fading, anecdotes of struggles long past. “You’re not hurt.” 

“Exactly. Fucker didn’t lay one finger on me.”

“When you fell-”

“Place was gassed up,” Katsuki says. “Hydrogen sulfide. We were aware of it and I decided to go in anyway. Point is, don’t think I’ll go down so quickly. Especially not if I have to haunt your sorry ass after.” 

He wriggles into the top of his costume, fingers clawing behind his back to search for the zipper. Izuku moves forward. “I can do it.”

In silent permission, Katsuki’s fingers drop away. Izuku catches the metal tab between his thumb and forefinger, sealing away past pains as he zips it up. He only realizes his hands are shaking once he’s finished. 

Katsuki mercifully doesn’t comment, not on his trembling hands, nor when Izuku tips forward, forehead meeting his nape. However, when the shaking doesn’t cease, he clicks his tongue and twists around. Izuku opens his eyes just in time for Katsuki to grab his face. 

It’s the second time he’s done this today, huh? 

“Crybaby,” Katsuki huffs, and Izuku becomes aware of the thick tears tracking down his face. Humiliated, he tries to rub them away with a shoulder, but those powerful hands hold him put. “I’m fine, I’m not even injured, so what else do you want?”

“I just—I don’t know why I’m-”

Another tongue click. Katsuki’s thumb swipes under his eyes forcefully, as if it’ll keep them from watering. All it does is lower the floodgates further, more tears slipping out.

“Kacchan, that hurts-”

“Shut up. Quit crying, you look really ugly right now.”

“S-Sorry.” 

Under the threat of his hands, Izuku manages to get his tears under control. Releasing him, Katsuki’s eyes drop to the ground. “Did you seriously come out with house slippers?”

He doesn’t need to check to know he’s wearing his All Might slippers, velvet blue with a golden eyebrow on the top of each. “I was in a rush.”

“Clearly. Get up, I fucking hate the smell of hospitals.” 

Katsuki signs his release form at the front desk in large, looping letters while Izuku sniffles and brushes away the last of his tears. A nurse leans over to pat his hand comfortingly before passing him a plastic-wrapped lollipop. If that doesn’t make him feel like a child, Katsuki grabbing his arm and hauling him out does. 

“Any explanation as to why they all think we’re married?” he asks, and Izuku, unprepared, splutters. “Thought I told you to drop this before.” 

“I said partner,” he insists. “I didn’t expect them to take it that way. If I corrected them, I thought they might make me leave-”

“So you lied?” Katsuki doesn’t look angry. In fact, he looks amused as he watches Izuku squirm. 

“For a good cause.”

“You could’ve said family, or even boyfriend. Always jumping ahead of yourself. ” Shoulder knocking against his, Katsuki trudges forward. Against the setting sun, his frame draws a long shadow, bathing Izuku in its darkness.

Izuku blinks, and then darts forward, back to his side. He receives little defiance when he wraps his fingers around Katsuki’s wrist: just a half-hearted snort, a mumble of “clingy,” and nothing more. 

“Kacchan.”

“What?”

“Can I microchip you?”

“What the hell, Deku,” Katsuki says, but he doesn’t sound terribly upset. Izuku counts that as a win. 

Chapter Text

In the morning, sunk into their cotton sheets, Katsuki looks a bit like a dozing angel, or maybe a sleeping dragon. The tufts of his hair shine flaxen-gold and for once, his face isn’t screwed into some form of irritation. Instead, his mouth is open slightly, fingers curled into a pillow.

It’s always been difficult to look at Katsuki directly. But on days like this, when Izuku wakes earlier, the interval until Katsuki opens his eyes is an alternate dimension, one where he’s less of a supernova and closer to something Izuku can touch. 

Nothing changed since he got whacked over the head by his feelings for Katsuki. They continue to exist in the same space, continue to sleep in the same bed, and continue to binge episodes of All Might: The Golden Age—they’re on the sixth season now.

Izuku caved in and bought the Deku and Dynamight toothbrushes. Katsuki chewed him out for the unnecessary expense and then again when Izuku insisted on taking the Dynamight one. Looking at them, nestled next to each other in their respective holders, stirs up complex feelings.

Trust Izuku to get sappy over toothbrushes.

It’s strange, how, if it wasn’t pointed out, the days would’ve passed with him blissfully unaware. Like a press against skin which diminishes over time, between bloodied rags and the faint scent of nitroglycerin, the ache in his chest did too—until now.

Katsuki’s sleep-softened face draws taut, his nearly-invisible lashes fluttering from where they’re lit by the morning light. Izuku wonders what he’s dreaming about for him to make that face. Wonders if he’ll be allowed into his hand-grenade heart to check. 

Shadows spill into the room. Those lashes disappear into something wispy and barely-there as Katsuki’s eyes open. 

Time’s up.

“What’re you looking at?” Katsuki’s voice, hoarse and low, doesn’t hold the same ferocity as it does in the daylight. Izuku drags his eyes away.

“Nothing at all.”

Finding a name for the nebulous emotions haunting him since elementary school changes little. For a bit, things feel different. Izuku feels different, off-balanced, only for him to look closer and realize the knowledge has been here all this time. 

In the form of a toothbrush. In the form of antiseptic and bandages. In the form of matching All Might keys. In the form of a steaming bowl of katsudon, whisked over the counter to him. 

Izuku’s weary eyes take a moment to focus before growing wide. When he doesn’t say anything, Katsuki huffs. “I thought this was your favorite.” 

“It is,” Izuku says, reaching to wrap his hands around the bowl. Heat bleeds from the ceramic to his achy fingers, and when he takes a deep breath, it smells exactly like receiving his acceptance letter to UA, followed by his mother cooking his favorite meal in celebration. “You remembered?”

“Half of it is my name,” Katsuki deflects. Although he’s the perfect image of neutrality, the line of his shoulders is tense as he waits for feedback.

It looks almost too good to be real. Each slab of bread-crumbed pork has been fried to a rich golden-brown, layered atop a thin, lacy sheet of egg—both which are enveloped in a bed of moist, white rice. 

“Wow.” The single word drops Katsuki’s shoulders. Katsudon isn’t a quick or simple meal to make, and noticing the full sink and scattering of ingredients, he realizes the other must have been cooking since he got off his shift. “Did you have a craving?” 

Katsuki snorts. “Of course you don’t know.”

“Huh?” It’s becoming difficult to follow along, and he fumbles with the chopsticks Katsuki tosses him.

“Welcome home, number ten.”

His brain spends so long lagging on the first part, he nearly misses the second. Izuku’s head snaps up.

“The Hero Billboard Chart rankings-”

“Came out today. I expected you of all people to keep up with yourself online.”

“I got busy,” Izuku says. Between new realizations and remaining static at the twelfth place for months, he’d completely forgotten to keep up with the rankings. Number ten. It sends a tingle down his spine. He’s so close, his goal within eyesight, but- “What about you?”

“Think about yourself for once,” Katsuki says, but he answers anyway. “Eleventh.”

“That’s incredible! You jumped down three whole spots! You got a lot of good publicity from your last rescue, huh?” 

Although he rolls his eyes, Katsuki doesn’t deny the praise. “Don’t get too comfortable. I’ll be kicking you out soon enough.”

“I wasn’t expecting anything else.”

He takes the opportunity to pinch a pork slice with his chopsticks, mouth watering when he sinks his teeth into it with a satisfying crunch. Katsuki’s own bowl remains untouched as he watches him intently. 

If the smell reminds him of home, the taste transports him there. He blinks, staring into the bowl until colors swim before his eyes. “This is…”

“I got the recipe from your mom,” Katsuki blurts. His shoulders hunch, eyes dropping to his own bowl. He’s flushed up to his neck, but that could be because of the stuffy kitchen. Izuku is too caught up processing the statement to decide. 

“You have Mom’s number?”

“Obviously not. I got it from mine.”

“Huh.” Izuku chews slowly, savoring the tender pork. “That’s not fair. I want to talk to Auntie Mitsuki too. Can I-”

“Hell, no! As if I’ll let her run her mouth to you. That hag already sticks her nose into my business way too much.” 

“I think she’s just proud of you. That’s why she has all those photos of you up.” He’s mid-bite when he notices Katsuki’s furrowed brow. “I had to drop off some things after graduation. That’s how I found out you moved out.” And moved on , but Izuku skips disclosing that bit. “She didn’t tell you?”

“She doesn’t tell me shit.” Katsuki cleaves into his pork cutlet with practiced ferocity. “If you knew where I went, then why didn’t you ever visit, huh?” 

His tone is casual, but something about the question pricks the hairs at the back of Izuku’s neck. “I, um, didn’t know if I was welcome to.”

“Idiot,” Katsuki mumbles. Inexplicably, he picks up a slice of pork and tosses it into Izuku’s bowl.

Izuku smothers the warm swell in his chest in favor of bowing his head to his meal. His phone lights up with a text and without checking, he knows who it’s from.

Mina Ashido
did u convince him!? 

He’s been putting it off but now seems like a good time, with Katsuki scrolling his phone with one hand, cheek squished against the other. It isn’t rare for him to be calm and conciliated, not anymore, but it isn’t common, either. Might as well take the risk.

“Kacchan,” he calls. The other grunts in response. “D’you mind doing me a favor?”

“Depends.” Although he looks apprehensive, he puts his phone down. His expression closes off with every word Izuku adds, before- “No.”

A lesser man would back down, but when it comes to cajoling Katsuki, Izuku has a lifetime of experience. Putting on his most winning smile, he gets to work.

“I fucking hate the cold,” Katsuki growls as they trudge down dimly-lit streets an hour later. Izuku avoids pointing out it’s barely winter—fall has only just swung in. Instead, he takes the moment to glance at the other. 

The tip of Katsuki’s nose has gone pink, poking out from where the lower half of his face is tucked into his beige scarf. He’s draped himself in a thick, padded jacket, giving him an overinflated, balloony appearance. He looks so cute it makes Izuku want to do something stupid like tell him that or maybe hold his hand, both of which would likely leave him with a bloody nose, so, for once, he keeps his mouth shut and his hands to himself.

“You can use my scarf, if you need it,” he suggests. Katsuki slumps deeper into his scarf.

“I don’t need anything from you.”

“Right.” Months of living with him has made Izuku an expert in Katsuki-speak. All he does is smile and nod, and sometimes, add in an, “Of course, Kacchan!”

It pisses Katsuki off to no end, usually. 

The deeper they get into Tokyo, the more densely-packed their surroundings become. People of all sorts mill about: suit-clad men and women returning home, teenagers freshly out of cram school, backpacks dangling off their shoulders, and small children who barely reach up to Izuku’s knees, dashing past them. He watches them go, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards.

It’s odd to be on the same footing with the people he protects daily. Sometimes, he forgets how it is to see the world from eye-level, rather than from above. He wonders if Katsuki feels the same, but with his back to Izuku as he shoulders mercilessly through the crowd, he can’t tell.

He curls his fingers into the puffy hem of Katsuki's jacket to keep them from separating. If he feels it, he doesn’t bother telling Izuku off. 

The weather of the outdoors is offset by the warmth of the well-lit bar they stumble into. Izuku only realizes his fingers are stiff with cold when he uncurls them, soaking up heat. On a weekday, the bar is sparse, and before he can ask Katsuki if they’re at the right place, someone calls out to them.

“Is that Kacchan?”

Kaminari materializes before them, the ends of his hair sparking with electricity. He surges forward, trying to sweep Katsuki into a hug, who side-steps. 

“You dumbass! You’ll shock me!”

“I can’t believe you’re here! I was texting you for like, a week, but you didn’t reply, so I was like, huh, maybe his phone’s broken, and I basically gave up, but you’re here! Who managed to-” He notices Izuku for the first time and an impish grin splits his face. “It was you, huh, Midoriya? You stuck taming the beast even after graduation?”

“Well,” Izuku says, aware that Katsuki is beginning to look positively murderous. He’s saved from answering by Jirou. 

“Don’t loiter at the entrance, idiots!”

“You didn’t tell me all the fuckers would be here.”

“I didn’t tell you they wouldn’t.”

Kaminari chooses that moment to drape his arm over an unsuspecting Katsuki’s shoulder, who startles with a swear. “I’ve got so much to tell you about—half of which you’d know if you didn’t quit leaving the group chat. Like dude, how is it supposed to be the ‘Bakusquad’ if you aren’t even in it-”

“Stop adding me back to it,” Katsuki says, shrugging his arm off, but he follows Kaminari anyway.

It’s even warmer here. Ashido had managed to get most of their class together, save for those who worked outside of Tokyo—Asui with the Oki Mariner Crew—or had tightly-packed schedules—Tokoyami at the Hawks agency. Izuku counts twelve heads before he’s interrupted.

“Deku-kun!”

Uraraka waves him over. Seated around her are a number of familiar faces: Iida, Todoroki, and Yaoyorozu. He slides into the seat next to her, and is immediately greeted with an arm locked around his neck. “Nice to see you too, Uravity.”

“I’m Ochako when we aren’t working,” she scolds. Clearly, she’s had a bit to drink, if the flush high on her cheeks is any indication. Izuku knows better than to argue with her.

“Congratulations on number ten,” Iida greets. Unlike the others, he isn’t drinking or eating, hands folded in his lap. He gives Izuku an approving nod. “You are the pinnacle of what a UA alumni should be.”

“You’re so stiff,” Uraraka says. “Go on, show what you’ve learned.”

“Ahem.” Iida looks uncomfortable but with an encouraging nudge, he continues. “Great job, Deku. You ‘ate.’”

 Uraraka bursts into hiccupy laughter, muffling them against the table. Yaoyorozu giggles. Over his steaming bowl of soba, Todoroki cracks a smile. 

“Thanks, Iida-kun.”

Next to them, Katsuki seems to have reached his limit of smothering. He yanks himself out of Ashido’s grasp, spitting profanities all the while. “I’m going to blast your hands if you don’t get off of me, Racoon Eyes-!”

“Bakugou-san hasn’t changed at all,” Yaoyorozu says. “It feels like I’m back in the dorms again. Did you come together with him, Midoriya-san?”

“We-” The question catches Izuku off-guard. With meet-ups being minimal, most of their classmates weren’t privy to Katsuki moving in. Only a select few were aware, and he doesn’t know how much Katsuki disclosed about his living situation. With how private he is, likely not much.  “We ran into-”

“They live together.” Todoroki interrupts. He’s already returned to slurping noodles when Izuku gawks at him, betrayed. 

“Oh, my.” Yaoyorozu blinks, before smiling. “Jirou-san and I do as well! Living with another hero is quite efficient. And pleasant, for the most part.”

Uraraka giggles. “You mean when Kaminari-kun isn’t over.”

“...I treat all my guests with respect.”

“Doesn’t sound like a ‘no’ to me.”

It’s simple, even comforting, to sink back into the chatter of his former classmates. Uraraka tries to teach Iida more pop culture terms, shrieking in laughter each time he hesitantly echoes her. Yaoyorozu somehow ends up inviting all of them to tea. Time to time, Izuku’s eyes slide over to Katsuki, surrounded by his friends, not-quite happy but not-quite upset, either.

Just once, his intense features soften as he snorts at one of Sero’s jokes, and it’s pathetic how quickly Izuku’s heartbeat goes thick. His train of thought is interrupted by Kaminari, scooting in next to him. 

“Midoriya, you didn’t tell us you and Kacchan were living together! You’ve got to tell me a dirty secret of his now—does he like, snore really loudly? I know! He’s got some freaky obsession, right?” 

“Uh.” Every memory with Katsuki feels oddly unshareable. “...He has All Might boxers?”

“Oh my God. Thanks, man.” Kaminari pats him on the arm before scampering off, back to where Ashido has managed to coax Katsuki into taking a shot. Izuku blinks.

“Should I be worried?”

“Yes,” Todoroki says. “Bakugou said you’ve been acting strange.”

Izuku’s head whips in his direction. As if he didn’t just drop a bone-chilling statement, Todoroki reaches for another bowl of soba, and frowns when Izuku whisks it out of his reach. 

“My soba.”

He tamps down on the guilt. “Repeat what you just said. Kacchan said I’ve been acting-”

“His exact words was ‘like a fucking weirdo.’ When I asked what he meant, he told me to ‘mind your fucking business, Half’n’Half Bastard.’”

Todoroki delivers the successive expletives in monotone. Izuku’s stomach lurches. 

“Why would he say that? I haven’t been any different.”

“Well,” Todoroki says. “Maybe because you’re always looking at him.”

In the back of his mind, Izuku always knew his fixation with Katsuki wasn’t typical. For a time, he trained himself out of it; he kept his head down, bit his lip, and curled his fingers. Being let back into Katsuki’s life crumbled away at his restraint. Brick-by-brick, his fingers uncurled, he released his lip, his head rose, and he could no longer look away from Katsuki. 

He always knew it was atypical but to hear it from an outsider is another thing. 

“Can I have my soba back?” Todoroki, patiently waiting all this while, asks. Muttering an apology, Izuku passes over the bowl. It’s warm and noisy in the bar, but currently, the chattering of their friends is another realm. 

“Don’t tell him,” Izuku says. “It’s not like that for him.”

“Really.”

“Yes.” After his conversation with Uraraka, he thought about it long and hard, and discovered a pattern. Whatever Katsuki offers to him, Izuku takes it, and swallows it whole. Instead of becoming appeased, however, he opens his mouth, begging for more. A parasite, leeching off its host. “I know it isn’t.”

“He moved in with you.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” Because Katsuki had lived with Kirishima as well. Because there is always the possibility that, no matter how small, Katsuki will leave. “I won’t mess this up.”

He refuses to. Todoroki sets down his chopsticks, mismatched eyes wandering over his face. Izuku wonders what he finds there. “But you want him.”

Izuku bites down on his cheek, hard enough to taste blood. “More than anything.”

Before either of them can digest his words, a harried Kirishima appears. “It’s Bakugou. Kaminari egged him on and he had like, four shots in a row, and he says he’s not drunk but he also won’t quit calling all of us ‘Shitty Deku.’ So, uh, could you help?”

Izuku can’t look at Todoroki as he stands. “Yeah.”

Slumped against one of the booths is Katsuki. Although his face is washed in pink, his gaze is sharp, aware as they snap over to him. When he growls “Deku,” he doesn’t sound drunk.

“Hey, Kacchan,” Izuku greets. His previous conversation is too-fresh and his cheek throbs. “You drank a lot, huh?”

“The fuck? I’m not drunk.” Sitting up, Katsuki addresses a worn-out Sero. “Pass me another drink, Fucking Deku.”

“See?” Kirishima says. “He won’t stop doing it.”

Izuku doesn’t want to think about drunk-Katsuki defaulting to his name, so he doesn’t. He shoves it back into the corner of his mind where he can accidentally stumble across it later and probably sprain his ankle. “You shouldn’t have any more drinks. Can you stand?”

“‘Course I can.” Pushing himself to his feet, Katsuki glares at him—and tips over. 

Kirishima moves forward, but Izuku is faster. Sweeping in, he curls an arm around Katsuki’s torso, who grumbles. 

“Get off of me.”

“I’ll take him home,” he says. The others nod eagerly. “Can you tell everyone goodbye for me?”

“Sure, Midoriya,” Ashido chirps. “Good luck with Blasty there!”

He might need it, especially since Katsuki is already struggling against him. There’s a tiny pop and he prays his one good button-down doesn’t end up ruined. 

“I’ll come to the door with you,” Kirishima volunteers. 

The cold they step out into reaps a storm of curses from Katsuki. Before Izuku can bid his goodbye, Kirishima beats him to it. “You were right.” At Izuku’s confusion, he clarifies. “You two figured it out.” 

Oh. Their conversation from what seems so long ago. Kirishima grins broadly. 

“I’m glad. Bakugou’ll be angry if he hears this, but you two are good for each other.”

“I’m right here,” Katsuki says, but it’s faint. 

“Anyway! Nice seeing you, Midoriya. You guys need to come over to my place!” With some difficulty, Kirishima wraps him in a hug. “You’ve got this!”

Izuku doesn’t manage to ask what he’s got because, with a clink of windchimes, Kirishima flits back in. He shifts his attention to Katsuki, slumped to his side. “If you can’t walk-”

“I can walk, idiot.”

He doesn’t believe him but once he starts moving, Katsuki is able to follow. Izuku tips his head back, his breath condensing into a cloud. He watches the mist dissipate. “Kacchan, why did you move in with me?”

“Huh? Where’d that come from?” 

“I’ve been thinking about it recently.”

A squeeze around his shoulder forces him to turn his head. Discerning red eyes meet his. “You’ve been acting weird,” Katsuki says. He’s close enough that the puff of his breath passes over Izuku’s lips.

Izuku’s mouth goes dry. 

“I’ve been the same.”

Katsuki expels a disbelieving huff. “I’ve known you since we were kids.” He points an accusing finger at Izuku’s face. “Right there. It’s that fucking face. All you’ve been doing is looking at me with it. Did I do something, huh?” 

Sometimes, Izuku forgets he isn’t the only one who’s known the other forever. Katsuki spent an equal number of years with him. Whether willingly or not, they knew each other best, and he was foolish to expect his behavior to slip by unnoticed. 

“So?”

“It’s nothing,” Izuku murmurs. Katsuki is still too close and, without permission, Izuku’s eyes drop to his mouth, pink and bitten by the cold. Flushing violently, he averts them. “Can you just answer the question?”

“Fucking…” Katsuki looks as if he wants to press him, but in his inebriated state, lacks the vocabulary to. “This is what it’s about? 

“Maybe it’s stupid, but it’s important to me. Did you agree out of pity? Because I looked pathetic, begging you to stay with me? Or only because it was convenient for you? Or-” 

“You-” The way Katsuki puffs up and pushes him away is less threatening and more comical, especially since he can barely stand straight. “You’re such a goddamn Deku.”

“I know-”

“No, you don’t. Quit jumping to conclusions and use your fat head to think.”

“Um.” People are beginning to stare and it’s only a matter of time before they’re recognized. He tries to steer him away gently, but only gets shrugged off. “Kacchan-”

“I need you, dumbass,” Katsuki says, and the breath empties from his lungs. The other sways dangerously, but doesn’t tip over. “Like you need me. We’ve been jerking each other around all our lives—there’s no way we’ll be able to stop now.”

“You need me.” The words taste foreign in his mouth. “But you—we don’t-”

“It hasn’t been simple for me,” Katsuki grits out. “You can’t say it’s all been rainbows and sunshine for you, either. But I’ve accepted whatever feelings I have about this—about you. Why can’t you do the same?” 

He can’t. He’s told Uraraka, Todoroki, and himself dozens of times. He can’t accept any of his convoluted feelings because it means feeding his parasitic heart. But Katsuki’s burning eyes pin him down and there’s no way he knows the extent of what Izuku feels about him but-

“I didn’t realize I was allowed to.”

“As if you ever cared about rules.”

“Right on.” Izuku scrubs his burning face with his hand. He can’t, but he wants to. More than anything. “I’ll do it. I’ll accept everything.”

“Fucking finally.” Katsuki steps forward and topples over. Izuku is there in a flash, catching him around the middle.  “Stupid Deku.”

“That’s me.” When he adjusts his hold, shifting closer, Katsuki doesn’t complain. “Let’s go home.”

Excessive drinking and Katsuki don’t mesh well. The scent of smoke and the ash on the sheets is proof. The temperature reading at forty-one degrees Celsius only adds to the evidence. 

The moment it beeps, Katsuki spits out the thermometer. Izuku flips it over, unsurprised to see the triple numbers flashing on the tiny LED screen. “Definitely a fever.”

“The thermometer’s messed up or something. I’ve never gotten sick.”

“This is the third one we’ve tried.” He’d gone all the way to 7/11, all because Katsuki claimed their thermometers were malfunctioning. “What do you mean, you’ve never gotten sick? That makes no sense.”

“Losers like you wouldn’t know,” Katsuki says. He tries to swing himself off the bed, only to be held down. More than anything else, his struggle to shrug off Izuku off is a testament to his health. “Let go of me, Deku, I’m fine-!”

“You set the bed on fire,” Izuku says. “You’re literally bathing in a pool of your own sweat right now.”

“My sweat makes me stronger-”

“All you are right now is a walking fire hazard. I already texted Todoroki-kun about what’s going on, and you’re not allowed to go back to work until your temperature comes down.”

“Why the hell would you tell Half’n’Half-” Katsuki stops mid-sentence, mouth clicking shut. Izuku takes the opportunity to roll him over onto his back. He doesn’t look well—his skin is pale, coated in a sheen of sweat, his pupils watery—and it unsettles him. 

“Do you want me to get a-”

“Shut up.” Katsuki wrenches himself out of his grip. “I’m going.”

He takes one step before his hand shoots out, grabbing hold of the bed frame. Izuku watches, frowning. “You shouldn’t have let Kaminari-kun goad you into drinking so much.”

“I drank because I wanted to.” He doesn’t move, however, and Izuku takes the chance. With a hand and three percent of One For All, he drags Katsuki back onto the mattress. “What—I’ll kill you-!

“Sure. After you’re not sick anymore.”

Katsuki garbles something, jerking upwards, but Izuku is quicker. The covers are as good as constraints and he wraps them tight, so Katsuki is unable to move a muscle. Satisfied with his work, he steps back.

“I’ll leave you medicine, okay? Make sure you take it.” 

No answer. Whether because of humiliation at getting overpowered or finally succumbing to his fever, he stubbornly faces away from Izuku. Silent treatment, huh? 

Boldly, he grazes his fingers over Katsuki’s overheated nape. “I’ll be back, Kacchan.”

Katsuki shifts, turning over fully. The ignoring is better than him fighting. Izuku is tempted to call out from his own work, but it would most likely only make him angrier. 

Sparing a final look at the back of Katsuki’s head, he switches off the lights.

For the rest of the day, he’s distracted. Throughout pinning purse-snatchers and collecting cats from trees, his thoughts hopscotch back to Katsuki. Is he doing alright? Did he take his medicine? Hopefully, he hasn’t set fire to the sheets again-

“Deku,” Uraraka says, on their last hour of joint patrol. “Why don’t you head home early? I’ve got this.”

“Are you sure? Won’t it be too much?”

She pats his shoulder. “Just go. I can hear you thinking from here and I need some peace and quiet.”

For the first time, Izuku ends his shift early. He briefly drops by the grocery store before returning to their apartment, plastic bags swinging in his hands. There’s no signs of activity, and Katsuki’s boots at the doorway make him sigh, relieved. 

He tiptoes over to their bedroom, taking care to twist the knob with light fingers. It’s dark and cool, and save for a scattering of foil packets, everything is untouched—even the glass of water on the nightstand is filled to the brim. Did Katsuki dry-swallow pills?

More importantly, has he been sleeping this whole time?

The Katsuki-shaped lump on the bed shifts; at some point, he’s rolled over onto his back. The tense line of his mouth and the beads of sweat gathered on his brow indicate he hasn’t been having the best time. 

Clumps of hair stick to his sweat-slick temple and Izuku reaches to move some away. The tips of his fingers barely brush skin and Katsuki’s eyes slide open. 

“Kacchan,” Izuku says, already racing to form an excuse. It ends up being unnecessary.

Katsuki makes a small, confused noise. As if he’s having difficulty keeping them up, his lashes flutter, before he groans “idiot—Deku,” and passes right back out. Poking a cheek yields no response. He really gained consciousness just to curse Izuku out. 

“It’s sweet I’m the first thing on his mind after waking up,” he mutters. It’s concerning, however, that Katsuki’s basically been stuck in a state of hibernation. “Did he even eat anything?” 

Since Katsuki did all his food-prepping at the beginning of the week, the refrigerator is empty. Izuku considers their stock of ingredients. Even if the other does most of the cooking around here, he’s capable of whipping up something edible.

Breathing in, he retrieves the cutting board and makes a few calls.

“How much salt? Okay, okay-” Beep! “Oh, that’s the rice cooker-”

Swapping his phone over to the other shoulder, he bustles over to the rice cooker, jerking back from the billow of hot steam. His mother’s voice is calm and instructive through the phone.

“Eggs? Yeah, I think we have them—let me-”

A yolk jiggles dangerously in its half-cracked shell. It’s easy to remember why he was confined to a diet of takeout and prepackaged meals before Katsuki moved in. Cooking took time, precision, and most important of all, care. 

“The hell are you doing?”

Izuku jerks, wheeling around, and comes face-to-face with Katsuki, bleary-eyed and barefoot. With a thumb, he ends the call before doing his best to block the mess. 

“Nothing.” The answer doesn’t satisfy Katsuki, who shoves past him to peer at the watery concoction inside the rice cooker. Izuku winces, ready to be ridiculed. “You shouldn’t be up.”

“‘M not about to eat your unseasoned meal,” Katsuki shoots back. Although he’s lucid, he doesn’t look any better from earlier. “Pass me the salt.”

Izuku ignores him. “Go sit down, Kacchan. You sound like a smoker.”

“ What’d you say-” Katsuki’s rage is interrupted by a series of dry coughs—he sounds even worse than earlier. 

“You might need to go to a doctor.”

“Give me the rice already.”

“Okayu,” Izuku corrects. Ladling the thick porridge into the bowl, he watches nervously as Katsuki takes a bite of the thick, slushy porridge. “I asked my mom for the recipe, so it should taste fine, but…”

Although Katsuki’s expression doesn’t change, his spoon is clean when he drops it back into the bowl. 

“How is it?”

“I can’t taste shit.”

“Seriously?” Izuku wilts. There goes half-an-hour of his and Inko’s time. He has little hope as he digs in, only to frown. “Wait. This is good.”

It’s nothing spectacular. But the rice porridge is warm and it tastes like skipping school when sick. Katsuki scowls at his bowl, the salt shaker in his hand. 

“You lost your sense of taste?”

“Shit. I must’ve.”

“You should still finish your bowl—you didn’t eat all day.” When he faces no resistance, he adds, “and go back to bed afterwards.”

“I’ve been in bed all day,” Katsuki says. Still standing, he obediently shovels the rest of the porridge into his mouth. A kernel of rice flecks the corner of his mouth and Izuku shuts down the urge to thumb it away. “Fuck, I feel disgusting. I’m taking a shower.”

Without depositing his bowl into the sink, Katsuki lumbers off. Izuku washes it out for him. He’s in the midst of stacking cutting boards and drying off knives when there’s a soft thud .

It’s from the washroom. “Kacchan?”

No response. Gnawing on his cheek, he abandons the sink, making his way over to knock on the washroom door. He exhales, relieved when Katsuki grunts, “The door’s open.”

From where he’s hunched over the sink, Katsuki pants like he’s struggling to draw breath. The low-slung towel around his hips leaves his bodywide flush evident, and when Izuku feels his clammy forehead, Katsuki shudders into the cool touch. 

“It’s too hot,” he says. Izuku swallows.

“Come on. Let’s go to bed, okay?”

“...Whatever.”

He debates lifting him entirely but assumes even a feverish Katsuki has his pride, and half-drags, half-carries him over to the bed instead. He slumps face-first onto it, batting away Izuku when he tries to help him dress. 

The tips of his wet hair bleed patches onto the pillow. Izuku nudges him. “Don’t fall asleep yet—you need to take medicine. And don't dry-swallow the pills this time.” 

For once, Katsuki doesn’t argue. He reaches out to take the glass, perspiring fingers slipping a little. Izuku watches the bob of his throat as he swallows. “So even Kacchan can get sick.” 

“Shut up.” 

Katsuki flits somewhere between drug-induced sleep and muddy awareness. It doesn’t feel right to see him like this, so brittle, but it’s a misplaced feeling. Over the last few months, Izuku is coming to realize exactly how vulnerable he is, and he finds himself entranced with every bit exposed.

He said he needed him. He told Izuku to accept all his feelings. It’s easier said than done, but something about his translucent lashes and pale throat sickens Izuku with crippling longing. 

A mumble. “Izuku.”

His heart leaps to his throat. “I’m right here.”

Katsuki doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he snores, fast asleep. Izuku watches, and wonders.

A little ways from him is Katsuki’s hand. Izuku debates before snaking his own forward. He feels nauseous, and when he finally tucks his little finger over Katsuki’s, he thinks he might be violently ill.

But Katsuki is still asleep and their fingers are resting together, and Izuku burns.

But you want him.

More than anything.

In the simplest sense, Izuku wants Katsuki. He wants his violence, his eclipsed softness, his volatile hand-grenade heart. He wants to feel the coarse skin of his clammy palms and the strength of his explosions. He wants to brush his fingers against each and every part of Katsuki: his quiet, his screaming, his thrashing. 

It might be love. No other word explains his inability to stay away. To keep his eyes from lingering. 

Midway through pulling on his hero costume, Katsuki notices. The third time he catches Izuku staring, he asks, “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Quit staring, weirdo. I’m changing.” 

When he reaches for his zipper, the request falls from Izuku. “Can I help?”

The look Katsuki levels him with is a mix of disbelief and perplexion. He rolls his eyes. “Hurry up.” 

Izuku fumbles to drop his respirator around his neck before shifting towards Katsuki. The zipper for his winter costume runs all the way up to the back of his neck, and there’s something mesmerizing about the expanse of skin peeking between unfastened fabric. 

Where Izuku is freckled and tanned, Katsuki is bare and creamy, save for a smattering of scars. If Izuku ran a finger along his shoulder, the pad of it would catch against the raised scar there. If he placed a hand flat to Katsuki’s spine, it would cover the firework-shaped one embedded into his body.

He swallows and zips him up, tingling all over once he steps back. “Done.”

Katsuki cracks his neck, rolling his shoulders back. His muscles ripple with the motion and suddenly, Izuku can’t be here any longer. Snatching up his gloves, he heads for the other, and freezes when Katsuki calls out to him.

“Where’re you going?”

“Work?”

“You’ve got an hour,” Katsuki says. He looks confused, and rightfully so. Izuku tends to head out ten minutes before his shift and takes it as a personal challenge to make it on time. He fumbles for an excuse. 

“Joint agency mission with Todoroki-kun. He, uh, told me to come early to smooth out some details. I’ll see you later, Kacchan.”

“We’re heading to the same place-” Before Katsuki can finish his sentence, Izuku ducks out. He doesn’t look back until he’s sped down stairs and out onto busy Tokyo streets, crowded with commuters. 

He breathes out. These days, it’s difficult to spend too much time with Katsuki. Izuku feels like an active bomb: if the timer ticks down too far, he might release something dangerous.

Already prepared for his arrival, the Endeavor agency waves him in without preamble. Various sidekicks greet him warmly and he responds with rushed bows and even hastier pleasantries, eager to reach the safety of Todoroki’s office.

As the likely-heir to the agency, it’s no surprise that instead of a cubicle, Todoroki has an office instead. Katsuki has the same, but Izuku suspects the former has something to do with it. Without bothering to knock, he bursts in. 

“Bakugou,” Todoroki, nursing a cup of tea, says with the practiced weariness of someone who goes through this daily, “the next time you break down my door, I will tell Endeavor to dock the costs from your next paycheck-”

“How often does he do that? Blow up the door?”

Todoroki blinks. Upon seeing Izuku, his expression smooths out. “Midoriya.” His eyes flick over Izuku’s shoulder before settling back. “You’re early. Tea?”

“No. Yes.” Caffeine might set him straight. Todoroki offers his own half-empty cup. 

“This was my last tea packet,” Todoroki says. He smiles. “We can share.”

The two of them have fought back-to-back. They’ve scrubbed blood and dirt off their costumes together. Sharing a cup of tea isn’t any different, so he accepts gratefully. Todoroki is gracious enough to reheat it with his left hand.

“Are you here to talk about Bakugou?” he asks, and Izuku chokes around a gulp of tea. The liquid scalds his throat and Todoroki extends his right hand. “Too hot?”

“N-No, it’s fine. I wasn’t going to talk about Kacchan.” His face is too warm and he passes the tea back. “There’s some paperwork we have to go over beforehand, right?”

Nodding, Todoroki reaches over for a folder. Izuku drums his fingers against his thigh, biting his lip. 

“...By chance, did he mention anything about me?”

Todoroki slowly retracts his hand. “Hm. He told me your face when you wake up makes him angry.”

“It does?” That’s a stark contrast to how Katsuki’s morning face makes him feel. “Anything else?”

“Your choice of groceries is terrible. And shampoo, too.”

If they’d gone as far as to discuss his routine, what else had they talked about? Suddenly self-conscious, he shakes his head. “Nevermind. Let’s just get on with the paperwork.”

Izuku loses himself in the scratch of pen against paper, only interrupted by a muted bang on the other side of the wall. Todoroki doesn’t bat an eye, explaining, “Bakugou.” 

“Oh.” A part of him squirms, envious. Although he and Katsuki briefly touched on starting an agency together, most of it was wishful thinking. It would be a dream come true, Izuku thinks, being given the privilege of fighting at Katsuki’s side. He reaches to drain the rest of the tea.

“If you’re planning on telling Bakugou you’ve in love with him,” Todoroki says, sending Izuku into his second coughing fit, “shouldn’t you do it before he leaves?”

“All of a sudden?” Izuku sputters before he takes in the rest of the question. “Leave? Like, the apartment? Did—did he talk about moving out?”

“No. That’s not what I-” Todoroki pauses, frowning. “He didn’t tell you.”

A sense of wrongness seizes Izuku then, creeping up his spine. A part of him doesn’t want to know, but he shuffles forward anyway, damp palms squeezing his knees. “Am I supposed to know something?”

Izuku’s fatal flaw has always been his emotions. He feels too much, reacts too aggressively. Which is why on their following joint mission, consisting of a raid into a drug cartel warehouse, he destroys half the building. 

“A disappointing performance from a hero in the top ten,” Centipeder rebukes as he stands, grimy and shameful, in her office to report. “It’s a miracle the Endeavor Agency wants to continue working with us. What happened?”

Her tone softens into concern and he stares at his iron-tipped boots. “I prioritized my own goals and as a result, put the safety of all my teammates at risk. There’s no one else to blame but me.”

A sigh. Centipeder massages her temple. “This isn’t like you, Deku. It goes without saying I don’t expect such conduct in my agency again. I advise you to rest today.”

“I understand.”

His stomach churns as he shuffles out of her office. Todoroki, covered in dust, and Uraraka, eyes big and brown, are already there, waiting for him. Uraraka takes one look at him and clicks her tongue sympathetically. “Oh, Deku-kun.”

Although it does little to make him feel better, he accepts the hug Uraraka wraps him into. Todoroki doesn’t physically comfort him, but his creased brow expresses enough. 

“Thanks, both of you,” Izuku says. He squeezes Uraraka once more. “You should get back to work. I’m going to head home.”

Uraraka looks hesitant, but she releases him. It’s Todoroki who follows him outside. Before he can plod off, Todoroki stops him with a hand on the shoulder. “Midoriya. Bakugou, he…” Hesitating, he shakes his head. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Izuku says. He gently shrugs off Todoroki’s hand. “Come over for dinner again soon.”

Todoroki looks like he has more to say but Izuku doesn’t give him the chance. Although his muscles burn and disappointment weighs heavy in his chest, he’s grateful the day is over. Even if, right now, the idea of going back to the apartment sickens him. 

His legs are too-heavy as he trudges up the stairway. When he lifts his aching neck, he freezes; bent against the door to their apartment is Katsuki, arms crossed over his chest. Izuku didn’t anticipate seeing him so soon. He didn’t want to see him so soon. Not like this.

Hearing footsteps, Katsuki looks up. He pushes himself off as Izuku draws closer. “Left my keys inside,” he says, which is out-of-character for him. Although he claimed he was all better from his fever, little things like this tip him off. Izuku doesn’t have the heart to point it out, silently fishing his keys out instead. “Hey.”

He glances from where he’s fit the key to its lock. Katsuki searches his face.

“What’s up with you?”

“What?”

“No ‘welcome home?’ I thought you were all over that shit.”

“I’m just tired,” Izuku says blandly. The door swings open and he steps inside, the other hot on his heels. He doesn’t manage to step out of his shoes, not when Katsuki grips his shoulder, forcing him to turn. 

“Something’s obviously wrong. Spit it out.”

It’s unfair, Izuku thinks bitterly, that Katsuki is able to read him so well. That he immediately knows when something isn’t quite-right. That he expects Izuku to confide in him immediately, when he hadn’t—when he hadn’t even-

“Kacchan,” he says. “Do you have plans for next month? There’s a charity gala coming up, you know.”

“Huh? I got nothing to do with that.”

“So you do have plans.”

“What are you…” Katsuki’s grip tightens before it falls. He takes a step back, taking in Izuku’s thin mouth, his clenched fists. He’s been working on holding back his emotions but as he comes face-to-face with Katsuki, it’s difficult to continue to keep his composure. “Why-”

He sounds lost. Izuku sets his jaw. “When were you going to tell me you’d be leaving?”

For three months. He had a mission scheduled for three months, which Izuku had heard nothing about. Understanding floods Katsuki’s face. 

“Todoroki told you.” 

“Yeah. Seems like he was the only one willing to.” It isn’t fair to snap like this, but since his conversation with Todoroki it’s all been building up. Katsuki’s expression hardens. 

“I didn’t hide shit,” he says. “You were obviously going to find out.”

“Kacchan,” Izuku says, slowly. “Your flight is in two weeks. You’re going to America. A whole different continent. ”

“And?”

“And you didn’t think that maybe you should tell your-” It happens again, the words sticking in his throat— friend, roommate, something more, something less —and he shakes his head. “That you should tell me about something like this? Were you waiting for me to find out from someone else?” 

His voice splinters, going weak. 

“Were… Were you going to tell me at all?”

If Todoroki didn’t tell him, would Katsuki have packed his bags and left, without a word? It’s happened before, after all. The memory of months without contact is too-fresh, and imagining Katsuki disappearing on him, after everything, aches. 

Katsuki doesn’t share his sentiment. “Don’t make a huge deal out of nothing. Am I supposed to tell you everything just because you want to know, huh?”

“You are if it’s something like this.”

After all the time they spent together, they were beginning to recognize each other a little more. Izuku shouldered his way in, and Katsuki let him. Or so he thought, because looking at Katsuki now, he isn’t sure anymore. 

How is it possible to know someone for so long, and yet, still fail to understand them at all?

“You told me you needed me,” Izuku says. The words had comforted him, but maybe they’d been the ramblings of a drunk. “It made me feel good. But then you do this, again and again. You let me in and push me away. When I think I’m starting to understand what’s going on in your head, I get confused all over again. I can’t figure you out.”

Katsuki’s facial muscles are pulled taut. “What do you want from me, Deku?”

You. It’s awful, how, even in the throes of anger, the three-letter word surfaces instantly. He wants Katsuki to ache the way he does, he wants him to burn the way he does. All I’ve ever wanted is you.

“I thought we were getting better,” he says instead.

Something unfurls in Katsuki’s face, then, but Izuku doesn’t give it, whatever it is, the chance to mess with him. The way he kicks off his shoes and storms off is childish, but his head spins and his breaths come short, drowning out the slam of the door behind him. 

Fumbling to take off his gloves, he tosses them to the floor. His hands are raw and shaking, and when he curls them into fists, pain cramps them tight.

He sucks in a breath, and bursts into tears. 

The two of them have gone a number of times without speaking. When Izuku surged in to claw sludge off of Katsuki, he was rewarded with peace for the remainder of their middle school years. After Katsuki’s devastating loss at Ground Beta, out of pure spite and determination, he didn’t spare Izuku, sitting right behind, a glance. 

Izuku assumed they had put such juvenile behavior behind them. The week of silence which follows their argument proves otherwise. At the end of the day, they’re still those foolish boys who talked better with their fists than their mouths.

It’s impossible to box each other out entirely, especially while living together. They may not speak, but they share a bed. They don’t greet each other at the doorway, but their shoulders still brush as they kick off their shoes. Katsuki doesn’t pack him lunch, but Izuku always discovers leftovers on the stove.

(He chooses to believe they’re left on purpose.)

What might be most difficult of all is not butting into Katsuki’s business. 

Where have you been? tickles his throat when Katsuki returns home long past midnight. Why do you look so tired? whispers his mind when he notices the shadows staining Katsuki’s eyes. Will you let me in? aches his heart when Katsuki glances at him, so quick it might be a trick of the light.

His selfishness wins just once. The golden light spilling from the cracked-open washroom door beckons him, and his arm extends before he can think over it, pushing it open fully. It takes a moment for his weary eyes to adjust to the warm lighting.

A first-aid kit has been upended, packets of antiseptic wipes and rolls of gauze and bottles of aspirin scattered across the tiles. Katsuki is crouched amidst the mess, naked from the waist-down, and cursing lowly as he rolls strips of cloth around his thigh. It’s drenched in blood.

Izuku exhales sharply and Katsuki startles, neck snapping up. He looks a little like a wild, wounded animal caught licking its wounds.

“Are you-” Izuku begins, stepping forward, and Katsuki bristles.

“Get out,” he snarls, with a viciousness Izuku hasn’t heard since middle school. It isn’t nearly enough to dissuade him but what does is the cornered-prey look in Katsuki’s eyes, bordering on desperate. 

Izuku draws back. He lingers at the threshold for one, long moment, and ultimately turns his back, shutting the door behind him.

He can still hear Katsuki’s hissed swears from behind the wood and see the slippery red of his skin.

Sleep doesn’t come easily that night. 

Throughout Izuku’s first and second year at UA, nightmares ran rampant. However, by the third, they became a fleeting occurrence, and once Katsuki moved in, his dreamcatcher-like presence dwindled them into nothing. 

Bony fingers and wrinkled leers are still fading when Izuku startles awake, a half-scream caught in his throat and arms stiff at his sides. It takes a moment for him to pick out the creak of the pedestal fan and the poster on the wall, reminding him where he is.

His head cracks to the left. Katsuki is fast asleep, cheek smushed against his pillow as he snores soundly. One of his legs has managed to get tangled against Izuku’s. The sight calms him, but not completely—his heart pounds too quickly, and his head is light. 

Gently maneuvering around Katsuki, he slips out of bed. He’s light-footed as he pulls a sweatshirt on. 

“I’ll be back in a bit,” he whispers. Katsuki snores in response, rolling over onto his back.

The chilly morning air eases the rushing of his heart. With the sun barely peeking over the horizon, everything stands still, and it feels almost criminal to be breathing, to kick up plumes of dust with his sneakers as he jogs. 

One loop around the building. Two. Three. Sweat beads on his collar and he pants as he completes a fourth loop—he should have brought water with him, he muses as he mops sweat off his brow. 

A crunch of shoes against gravel. Izuku looks up just in time for his eyes to widen, arm shooting out to snatch the bottle hurtling his way. The plastic is cool to the touch, condensation slick against his fingers. Katsuki, still dressed in his sleep-creased shirt, stands a little ways from him, arms crossed over his chest.

“Let’s spar,” he says, and something settles in Izuku’s chest. 

“I’ve improved a lot since we last fought,” he says as Katsuki taps his card to the sliding doors of the apartment complex’s gym. It’s a large, roomy place, built for a wide variety of quirks. There’s plenty of space to fight. “I might even win.”

Katsuki snorts, moving fluidly into a stretch. “Cocky.”

Who does he think Izuku learned it from? Instead of pointing this out, he mirrors Katsuki’s languid motions: arms over head, pulled behind his back, one splayed in front of the other. 

“No quirks.”

“Obviously.”

“First to get the other down for sixty seconds wins.”

Izuku shakes his head. “That’s too long. Thirty seconds.”

“What, can’t keep me down?” Katsuki sneers, before complying. “Fine. Thirty.”

“Okay.” A familiar buzz, one he hasn’t felt since UA, tingles down his spine as he plants his feet, hunkering down low. All his attention is on Katsuki’s right arm, and the other knows it too. “Three… Two…”

They lunge forward and meet in a clash of limbs. Playing into his prediction, Katsuki swings with his right. Izuku’s move to block him leaves his side exposed, but not without a plan—when Katsuki’s knee jerks up, aiming to dig into his stomach, he’s ready, diving low to grab him around the torso.

Katsuki easily breaks out of his hold with an elbow to the face. When he draws back far enough for Izuku to see him, there’s a feral, upwards curl to his lips. “You finally going to stop being a coward and actually talk?”

Izuku rolls his eyes. His cheeks smarts from where the other’s elbow caught it. “You were the one who refused to talk to me.”

“Huh!? I was giving you space, or whatever you losers call it.” 

“I’ve never wanted space from you,” Izuku says. 

The flow of conversation doesn’t keep him from surging in, feinting a punch. Katsuki grabs his wrist before it can reach him, ultimately drawing them closer together. It’s the perfect distance for him to sweep out a leg and knock Katsuki off-balance. 

He tilts backward but instead of letting go, his grip tightens. By the time Izuku realizes what he’s planning, he’s already getting swung over Katsuki’s head. His back hits the ground, knocking the breath out of him, and he groans. Stars burst behind his eyelids as his skull throbs dully. 

From somewhere next to him, Katsuki says, “Take this seriously.” 

Izuku lurches up, bounding to his feet. Katsuki does the same, albeit slower as he wipes at his bleeding nose—did he land on his face? “The only one who isn’t taking us seriously is you.”

They make brutal contact once, twice, thrice. Something close to frustration imbues Katsuki’s movements, made clear when he kicks out too obviously. Izuku’s fingers wrap around his ankle, stopping the movement. 

“I’m trying,” Katsuki grits out. His shoulders are bunched like an accordion, forehead shining with moisture. He’s so gorgeous it makes Izuku’s chest hurt. “I thought I was doing okay. But there’s always something missing with you. What is it about you that-”

His voice trails off. Izuku’s breath quickens and as if picking up on it, Katsuki’s gaze sharpens. In a single, fluid movement, he rips his ankle out of Izuku’s grip, wheels around, and jabs him, right in the nose. 

“Shit-!” Izuku stumbles back, cupping a hand over his nose. When he pulls it away, his palm is stained in red. They have matching bloody noses now. It’s sweet, in a morbid way.

Even after landing a hit, Katsuki doesn’t look pleased, only wary. He keeps himself low and ready. This is morbidly sweet, too. How familiar their bodies are with one another. For every one of Izuku’s attacks, Katsuki has a counter prepared, and vice versa. 

This familiarity tips him off about what’s wrong with Katsuki. Although he covers it up well enough with his quick reflexes and overwhelming power, the balance of his body is off. Whether consciously or not, he’s shifted most of his weight onto his left foot. 

Izuku notices, and plots.

The next time Katsuki comes at him with a kick, Izuku fights against the instinctive jerk back. Instead, he leans into it, arm shooting out.

Katsuki’s noise of confusion morphs into a pained “fuck!” as Izuku’s hands seize his right thigh. Target captured, he releases the entirety of his weight.

They plummet to the ground. 

“I don’t fucking think so,” Katsuki snarls, and then strong legs wrap around Izuku’s waist, twisting them over, and it’s him who’s wheezing for breath as his back hits the ground for a second time.

Izuku wrenches himself up, or tries to. It’s nearly impossible when all of Katsuki’s weight rests on his abdomen, knees firmly bracketing his hips. But nothing is heavier than his explosive palm, splayed out over Izuku’s chest. 

Their ragged breathing is audible. There’s no doubt Katsuki can feel Izuku’s heaving breaths underneath his fingertips. 

“I win if you’re down for half a minute,” Katsuki says, but he doesn’t sound certain. He’s staring at Izuku like he’s the final piece to a puzzle, one he’s been trying to rotate to fit properly. “You…”

But he doesn’t continue. His brow furrows deeper. A drop of sweat glistens on the side of his face. His throat bobs in a swallow. Izuku has never been religious, but he thinks whatever is swelling in his chest is the closest he’ll ever get to reverence. 

A mumble spills from him. “I wish I knew what you were thinking about.”

Just like that, the oppressive heat of Katsuki’s palm fades. Izuku has always been an opportunist, and now is no different. Jerking up, he grabs Katsuki’s torso, taking advantage of gravity to slam him down onto the mat. 

It happens too quickly for Katsuki to react. He lays there, stunned, as Izuku gulps down oxygen.

“Thirty,” he says, finishing the count. “We still had five seconds left to go. I win.” 

A bark of sound startles him. It’s quick to transition into snickers, Katsuki’s head smacking against the floor as he laughs. 

“Fucker,” he says. “How many times do I have to tell you? If you want to know everything, then ask.”

They’re close. Katsuki’s legs are still wrapped around his waist, his bare heels digging into the small of Izuku’s back. They’re so close. It’s difficult to tell where one of them ends and the other begins. Izuku staggers forward without realizing, catching himself with a hand on the mat. They’re too close. Katsuki’s hair spreads out around his head like a blinding halo.

Izuku’s tongue darts out to scrape over his parched lips. Katsuki’s eyes flick to the movement. 

As if in a trance, he dips down. The space between them smells sweet. His hand feels too slick, and it slips down to Katsuki’s thigh-

“Fuck.” Katsuki’s whimper temporarily fizzles out the hearing in his right ear before realization crashes into him. He releases his grip as he rears back, allowing Katsuki to wiggle away. There’s a dark splash of color against the light fabric of his sweatpants. All at once, his unbalanced weight makes perfect sense. 

“Your injury-!”

“Banadages must’ve got loose,” Katsuki says. Although his voice is cool, the tense line of his shoulders is telling. “Fucking annoying.”

“I’ll help you,” Izuku says immediately. His head buzzes from leftover adrenaline and whatever had followed, but he manages to piece himself together enough to pull Katsuki to his feet. “How did you get it, anyway?”

“Feral heteromorph. Tried to take a chunk out of me.” And then, “You don’t have to help me.”

The soft-spoken words are a stark contrast from the Katsuki who rejected every form of assistance. Izuku smiles lightly.

“But I do. You need me, I need you, right?”

Katsuki doesn’t protest when he opts for the elevator instead of the stairs. An automated female voice cooly informs them of their floor number. As they step off, Katsuki grabs him. “Hey.”

He looks back.

“I’m sorry,” Katsuki says. “For not telling you about this. About things. I’m used to… keeping shit to myself.”

“I didn’t try asking either,” Izuku says, warm all over. “I’m not sure if I want to fight every time we have to talk something out, though.”

Katsuki snorts. Izuku shuffles closer.

“I got better, right, Kacchan? I finally beat you.”

“Don’t get all high and mighty, Deku. I’m going to kick your ass next time.”

“Man…”

The wound looks worse than it actually is. Katsuki isn’t shy about rucking off his pants and Izuku’s hands are steady as he unwinds the blood-drenched gauze. From where they’ve settled on the kitchen floor, Katsuki barely flinches as Izuku presses alcohol-soaked cotton to his skin.

“How did you even manage to take care of this on your own? Could you even see all of it?”

A shrug. “I guessed.” 

Izuku wisely chooses not to comment, especially not when he’s close enough for Katsuki to bite his head off if he wanted to. Instead, he continues to dab away blood. “You’re leaving in a few days, right?”

“Three. Can’t tell you any details about the mission, though.”

“That wasn’t what I was wondering about,” Izuku says. Most agencies keep their missions strictly confidential; both of them are aware of this, and don’t pry into each other’s businesses. “Can I come to the airport to see you off?”

“Why the hell would you do that?”

“...So, no?”

Katsuki rolls his eyes. “It’s your time wasted, not mine.”

“Okay.” Izuku tries to keep his face clear and fails, if the huff of breath and hand shoving away his cheek is anything to go by. 

“Quit smiling like a weirdo. And get off of me.”

“W-Wait, hold on! I’m not done with cleaning it up yet!” he yelps, grabbing at the other. They end up wrestling on the kitchen floor and Izuku claims a second victory through pinning a struggling, cursing Katsuki to the floor with one hand (and maybe ten percent of One For All), the other hastily plastering adhesive bandages on his thigh.

It’s only later, once he’s washing blood off his hands, does he realize he nearly kissed Katsuki. 

“You better not die while I’m gone,” are the last words Katsuki tells him. Izuku is simultaneously touched at his concern and disappointed in his lack of trust. 

“I’ll be fine! I lived alone before, remember?"

“And you were half-dead when we met again,” is tossed back at him, which, unfair. Before Izuku can come up with a response, Katsuki steps over into the security line.

It’s been over sixty-four hours since then. No, Izuku isn't counting. His foot shakes as he glances at his phone, the tips of his wooden chopsticks having gone soft from his anxious chewing.

Katsuki had messaged him about his arrival: a straightfoward, single-word text of landed , with no room to further the conversation. Izuku responded accordingly—three lines wishing Katsuki luck, filled with an assortment of kaomoji—and now he sits on their couch, drumming his fingers against his thigh. 

Finally, he abandons the black bean noodles he’s been trying and failing to work through, falling face-first onto a cushion instead. He turns his head to stare blearily out the window. “Maybe I should start taking more shifts.” 

His phone screen lights up as he flicks it on. Still no text. Not that he’s expecting any. He frowns, dropping the phone and swinging himself off the couch.

“C’mon, Izuku. You have a life outside of work and Kacchan! Think!”

He sits there, thinking for an uncomfortably long time. There’s always the option of renting the newest All Might film—but Katsuki had mentioned watching it together. He can grab drinks with Iida or Uraraka—wait, shoot, they both have daytime shifts. Then-

“Gym,” he concludes.

A small, knowing part nags at him. He ignores it in favor of slinging a towel over his shoulder and heading out the door. The last time he was at the gym, it was to spar with Katsuki. Where he won and almost k…. kissed-

Izuku reaches for the heaviest weight on the rack.

Working up a sweat does little to ease his thoughts. If anything, it intensifies them, and an hour later finds him back to square one: slumped against the couch cushions. His phone is back in his hand and for some reason, Katsuki’s contact is pulled up.

Kacchan with a blank profile picture. “I should set it to something,” he mumbles, sliding over to his camera, and woah, those are a lot of photos of Katsuki. What did he even do before the other moved in?

Cry about missing him, a voice suspiciously similar to Uraraka’s whispers in his head.

He settles on a photo where Katsuki’s mouth is open, his chopsticks halfway to his mouth. It makes his lip twitch, amused, and he goes to tap onto the icon-

And hits the call option instead.

The dial tone begins to ring cheerfully and Izuku’s eyes widen. “Fuck.” His shaking hands somehow miss the end call button. “End, end, come on-”

Click. Katsuki’s sleep-rough voice comes through the other end. “It’s four in the morning, Deku.”

“S-Sorry, Kacchan! I was just messing around with my phone and somehow ended up calling you, it was a total accident! I’m hanging up right now, go back to sleep-”

“Shut up. You already woke me up.” Sheets rustle as Katsuki presumably pushes himself up. Izuku sits, frowning, torn between obeying or not. 

Katsuki’s “if you hang up now, I’ll be pissed,” makes the decision for him. 

Silence lingers between them. Izuku has been agonizing about the lack of communication for sixty-six hours, but now that he has Katsuki on call, he isn’t sure what to say. “Well, what d’you want to talk about?”

“The fuck? Aren’t you the one who called?”

“It was an accident. How’s Canada?”

“Boring. Can’t-”

“Tell me the details, I know.” Izuku chews on his lip, feeling stupid. This is, he concludes, incredibly awkward and was an awful idea. His finger begins to slide towards the end call button. “You should get some sleep, so I’m going to-”

“Fucking Deku. Don’t nerds like you always have shit to mumble about?”

“Do you mean-?”

“Tell me about your day, or whatever,” Katsuki huffs.

Oh. Oh. Belatedly, it hits him that Katsuki wants him to stay. Has he been waiting for Izuku’s call? The idea sends him into a tizzy and he adjusts his slippery hold on his phone, bringing it closer to his ear. “Well, there was a villain last night…”

It’s a little unexpected, but Katsuki is a good listener. He hums and responds to all the right parts, and even hits him with questions every-so often.

“Why didn’t you use Air Force?”

“That would have risked knocking over the whole building,” Izuku explains. 

“Makes sense.”

The screen pressed to his ear grows warm, almost unbearably so, but Izuku endures it to drone on. He’s in the middle of breaking down the newest, most-controversial support item on the market, when he realizes Katsuki hasn’t chimed in a while.

“Kacchan?” he calls, waiting expectantly for a responding snap. He gets none. When he strains his ears, he can barely pick out a distant snore. It’s easy to imagine Katsuki fighting sleep throughout his rambles, easier to picture him sprawled out, mouth half-open as he snores away. Izuku smiles.

Something festers at the tip of his tongue, and he blurts it out before he can help it.

“I miss you,” Izuku whispers, and smashes his thumb to the end call button. His heart hammers in his throat embarrassingly. It isn’t as if Katsuki is even awake to hear him—a coward once, a coward always, he supposes.

He slides into their chat room.

Izuku
sleep well! 
good luck tmmrw! (o^▽^o)

Later, as he’s tucking himself into bed, a notification pops up onto his screen. 

Kacchan
Yeah. You too. 

“Bakugou just told me to,” clearing his throat, Todoroki lifts his phone to eye-level, “‘G-T-F-O my house and quit draining my fridge, Half’n’Half Bastard.’”

Izuku, midway through typing a text, winces. “I might have told him you were over and he wasn’t exactly happy about it.”

“Hm.” Todoroki doesn’t look too perturbed, picking up his chopsticks to slurp away from a styrofoam cup. Before leaving, Katsuki packed multiple days’ worth of meals, each labeled in detail, but two weeks in, Izuku finds himself reverting to his previous habit of takeout and precooked meals. “Tell him I miss him.”

A chuckle. “I don’t know if Katsuki would take that well.” 

“He would if it was from you.”

“Huh?” Izuku says, looking up, but Todoroki is already reabsorbed into the soap opera on television, where a plump lady swoons into the arms of a burly man. Earlier, Izuku tried to swap over to the hero cartoon channel, only to notice Todoroki’s rapt attention. 

Izuku doesn’t understand it himself, but he supposes something about the impassioned dialogue and dramatic arm movements grab attention. He texts Katsuki as much, who predictably responds with of course he’s got shit taste in shows too. 

He cleans out his oily-bottomed cup. The grease rests uncomfortably in his stomach, and if he’s honest, the idea of living off of store-bought food for the duration of Katsuki’s absence isn’t appealing. 

“Todoroki-kun,” he says, his serious tone managing to draw attention. “Should we learn to cook?”

Todoroki blinks. He chews, cheeks full, and Izuku takes that as his cue to continue. 

“I can’t expect Kacchan to be around forever,” he says. “And cooking is an essential, long-term skill. Isn’t your sister really good at it? Do you think she’d be willing to teach us?”

Todoroki swallows. “Last time Natuso-nii and I cooked, she cried because of how salty it was.”

“...Right. YouTube it is.”

They settle on a relatively simple dish of curry. It takes a minute for Izuku to scroll past the life story inscribed in the article before he reaches the recipe itself, beginning to mutter the list of ingredients to himself.

“Garlic… I think we have that. Not sure what cumin is, though. Kacchan would know…”

“You should call him,” Todoroki suggests. He digs up Izuku’s—more so Katsuki’s— Kiss the Cook apron, slinging it over his neck. “He’d probably like that.” 

Izuku flushes. “N-No, I can’t do that—he’s busy and I shouldn’t bother him—what do you mean, he’d like it-”

“He just sent me ‘Top Ten Endeavor L’s, Not Clickbait.’ I don't think he’s doing anything.”

On cue, Izuku’s phone chimes with a text from Katsuki, complaining about the Canadian cold. He hesitates before drafting up a message.

Izuku
can you help me with something? 
(*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ)

“This better not be a waste of my time,” Katsuki says when he picks up the phone. They haven’t spoken to each other since their last call, and Izuku has to shake himself out of his stupor.

“I swear, it’s serious! I was thinking I should get some cooking done, and since you’re really good at it, I thought you could give me some pointers? If you’re too busy, it’s fine-”

“Just ask for help like a normal person. The fuck are you making?” 

He agreed! Izuku mouths, and Todoroki squints, unsure. He nods in understanding when Izuku flashes a thumbs-up instead. “Maybe curry? It didn’t look too difficult.”

“Potatoes and carrots are in the refrigerator. The chicken needs to be defrosted, it’s in the last shelf of the freezer. Soy and oyster sauces are in the cabinet next to the sink.”

The onslaught of information makes his head spin and Izuku rushes to follow along. “I found the carrots! The recipe also wants ginger, do we—oh, it’s right here.”

Todoroki holds a pack of frozen chicken between the tips of his fingers. It swings slowly. “Should I warm it up with my quirk?”

“-and Todoroki better not touch anything.” 

Izuku guiltily gestures for Todoroki to put down the chicken. He winces when the other drops it into the sink with a soft plop.

There’s surprisingly-minimal cursing from Katsuki. Rather, his instructions are straightforward and brisk, and with his phone propped against a stray condiment bottle, Izuku finds himself keeping up well enough. Todoroki, deemed unsafe near the stove, winds up with passing-ingredients duty. 

The sound of a honk catches Izuku’s attention. “Are you out right now?”

“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep.” He exchanges a look with Todoroki as the casual admission. It explains why Katsuki is up so late. “Put the paprika in now. No, the paprika.”

The label underneath the glass shaker indeed reads cayenne pepper. “How did you know?”

“I don’t need to see you to know you’re grabbing the wrong thing.”

Izuku’s lip twitches upward as he seeks out the correct shaker. The sounds of Katsuki walking around, breathing, existing, comforts him, and he listens to the other stop and converse to someone in nearly-fluent, albeit stiff, English. He hadn’t gotten top marks in their English class for nothing. 

“Kacchan’s English is cute.”

“Shut up. You done with the carrots yet? Chicken’s next.”

“Just finished.” With the edge of a knife, he slides carrot cubes into the frothing pot. “Are sure it’s okay for you to be on the phone…?”

“It’s fine. ” Izuku has to strain to hear what he says next. “S’weird not hearing you rambling all the time.”

His mouth goes dry, fists going tight. “Oh. Really?”

Todoroki pipes up. “So even Bakugou can be sweet. Also, Midoriya, you’re ruining the chicken.”

“Oh, no-!” He winces at the mangled remains of a raw chicken breast, smashed into a pulp. Katsuki has gone oddly silent.

“I’m on speaker?”

It sounds like a trick question. Izuku scrapes squashed chicken off the cutting board. “Uh. Yes?”

“Fucking-” Katsuki’s voice comes through way too close, way too loud, and Izuku jumps—he must have put his mouth right next to the microphone. “I thought I said to get the fuck out of my house, Half’n’Half.”

“So that’s what G-T-F-O stands for,” Todoroki says thoughtfully. “I miss you too, Bakugou.”

“I’m going to beat your ass when I’m back.”

The line goes dead, leaving Izuku standing, confused. There would be no chicken in the curry, apparently. 

“Charming. Is the curry done yet? It smells good.”

“The curry!” Izuku rushes over to switch off the stove. He’s relieved to find it unspoiled. “I wonder why Kacchan hung up suddenly?”

“He got embarrassed.” Noticing Izuku’s questioning look, he clarifies, “Since he was caught.”

Izuku wants to ask what he means by that, but Todoroki is already ladling curry into a bowl—when did he dig that out?—and so he drops the matter. Without waiting for the curry to cool down, Todoroki jams a spoonful into his mouth. “How is it?”

“Really good.” It’s a vague answer, especially since Todoroki is known to willingly eat almost anything. Izuku is nervous as he digs in, but-

It’s good. No, Todoroki’s right—it’s really good, and it tastes just like… It tastes just like…

An awful feeling cinches his chest. Oddly, he finds himself blinking back tears.

“It is a bit spicy,” Todoroki agrees. Izuku simply hums in agreement. The hot curry singes his taste buds but he can’t hold back from shoveling more into his mouth, as if each bite smothers the feeling more. 

He only reaches for his phone once Todoroki, armed with a massive tupperware of curry, bids him farewell. There are a few, angry texts from Katsuki— he got embarrassed —which Izuku ignores in favor of calling.

Katsuki picks up on the first ring. “Why the fuck are you-”

“Todoroki-kun left,” Izuku says, although he isn’t sure what spurs him to. “It’s just me now.”

"So?”

“Can we talk? Like last time?” 

“You mean when you babbled me to sleep.”

“Well-”

“Sure.”

“-I’ll tone it down—wait, really?”

“You want me to reconsider?”

“No! I’m just surprised.” He searches for a conversation topic. “The curry turned out really good!”

“Duh. It’s my recipe.”

“Are you still out, Kacchan?”

“Nah. S’way too fucking cold outside.”

“Canada is one the coldest countries.” Imagining Katsuki, wrapped in layers of fleece as he scowls heavily, puts a grin on his lips. “Be careful not to get sick.”

“Ugh. You sound like the hag.”

“She just cares about you…”

As the call timer ticks up, Katsuki’s responses turn softer, more lethargic. When he’s tired, Izuku discovers, he tends to adamantly deny it, and slur his words while doing so.

“Kacchan, are you asleep?” 

“Fuck, no. I’m awake, Shitty ‘Zuku."

“‘Zuku?” he repeats, amused. “You sound tired.”

“Keep talking,” Katsuki demands, and Izuku complies. He doesn’t manage to go on for long; five minutes in, he’s greeted by the telltale sound of snores. 

“So much for being awake.”

He makes a move to terminate the call and finds him hesitating. Katsuki’s breaths come soft and staticy through the speaker, and Izuku thinks he can fall asleep to the sound of them.

There it is once more, the tightly-wound feeling of something in his chest, of something at the tip of his tongue.

“I miss you,” he mumbles quietly, and receives no response.

When he drifts off to sleep, his phone is stovetop-hot between his fingertips, and the timer continues to tick up, all the way into double digits. 

The calls become a thing.

They’re brief and fleeting, usually when Katsuki is done for the day, and Izuku has only just risen. While the other never admits to it, Izuku pieces together that he hasn’t been resting well. And—although it may be wishful thinking—Izuku’s chattering seems to help put him to sleep. 

Sometimes, Katsuki breaks out of their usual pattern. Sometimes, he calls late, when Izuku is half-asleep and fumbling to hold his phone. Before he can say anything, Katsuki cuts in with a half-pleading, half-desperate, “talk.” 

Izuku talks. He talks about the hero rankings, Uraraka’s paper stars, the convenience store gyudon. While Katsuki tends to be quiet over their calls, he usually makes an effort to chime in, to show he’s listening. Today, he does nothing of the sort, dead-silent as Izuku prattles on about every little thing.

And once he runs out of words to say, Katsuki cuts in with a mumble of gratitude. The call goes dead, leaving Izuku clutching at his phone, wide-awake and worried. 

He brings it up when they’re on call. It’s night for Katsuki, early morning for him. “Was everything okay yesterday, Kacchan?”

“Yeah. Just-”

He doesn’t finish, but Izuku understands anyway. “Call me anytime. I just wanted to check in case something happened.”

“Mhm.”

As usual, Izuku slips into conversation, loose-tongued and even more loose-lipped. Katsuki isn’t quite back on his feet yet, if his single-worded responses are any indication. 

“It’s been almost two months since you’ve been gone, huh?” Izuku says. “It’s weird not having you here. It kind of feels like how we were after graduation. Well, I guess we weren’t talking then, so it’s not the same at all. I’m glad we’re talking now.”

No response from Katsuki. Did he already fall asleep? Still, Izuku carries on.

“I’ve never really talked about it, but I wasn’t doing too well back then. It was kind of obvious, though.” The reminder of his sorry state barely eleven months ago makes him wince. “You know, Kacchan, once you come back, it’ll be a year since then.” 

It’s a little difficult to comprehend how far they’ve come. Izuku has always hungered to be near Katsuki, to bask in his ever-brilliant light. He never thought he would be allowed in the same space as him, let alone talk to him so casually over the phone.

“I never imagined I’d get to be so close to you.” He pauses, words thick in his throat. “I miss you.”

He reaches to switch off his phone. Except Katsuki’s voice comes through the speaker, softer than it’s ever been before. “I’m not asleep, Izuku.”

Izuku nearly bites through his tongue. He thinks the other starts to say something, but none of it computes because he crushes the end call button, before scampering off the bed. 

His heartbeat butterflies in his chest. The rush of his blood is deafening. He stares at his phone like it’s a live grenade, and recoils when the screen lights up with an incoming call: a call is here! A call is here! A call is here!

“Fuck,” he whimpers, burying his face into his hands. “Fuck, fuck. He heard me. He-”

For one, hysterical moment, he weighs the merits of changing his phone number and moving out. Sure, he might have said a number of things to Katsuki upon their reunion, but he’d also been concussed and doped-up on drugs then. This is different.

A call is here! All Might announces for the fourth time. Summoning his courage, he slings himself onto the bed once more, snatching his vibrating phone.

“What the hell, Deku.”

“I didn’t know you were awake,” Izuku says, miserable. The panic is beginning to wear off, leaving behind red-hot embarrassment. “If I knew, I wouldn’t have said anything. Do you think you can pretend you didn’t hear anything?”

Katsuki makes a noise of indignation. “Too late.”

“Please?”

“Fucking… What happened to being obsessed with what I’m thinking about?”

“Well, that was…”

“Are you gonna half-ass this, too?” 

“No,” Izuku says. He steadies his breath. That’s right—Katsuki gave him the right to know, and he’s done living in the uncertain. “What’re you thinking about?”

“For some reason, I miss your stupid face too. You’d know that if you ever let people say anything back.”

Izuku tries to speak, but all he manages is a strangled, half-choked noise.

“Don’t shit yourself.”

“I’m not!” he shoots back. Truthfully, he’s a bit faint, the emotion cresting over him threatening to leave him lightheaded. “I’m really happy right now.”

“Loser. Who knows how you’re surviving without me.”

“I’m not sure myself,” Izuku admits. “I miss you. And your cooking. And your sleeping face. And-”

“Don’t push it,” Katsuki says, sounding a touch embarrassed. “Freaking Deku.”

A residue of giddy looseness coats his tongue. “Can I see your face?”

The response is immediate. “Hell, no.”

“Please? For a minute? I have to head out for my shift soon anyway, it’ll be quick!” When Katsuki only continues to grumble, he says, “Look, I'll turn on my video chat first, okay? Then you do yours.”

Gulping down a hiccup, he clicks onto the video icon and flinches as his face fills up the screen. Angling it further away brings the rest of his face and his shoulders into frame. Katsuki snorts, and his face goes warm.

“Don’t laugh at me! It’s your turn now.”

“Your freckles are stupid.” Before he can protest, the video flickers to life, a mismatch of pixels. He blinks and suddenly Katsuki is there , lit in the dim glow of a lamp, damp-haired, tight-lipped, and almost as uncomfortable as Izuku. “Happy now?”

Oh. Katsuki’s blushing, face awash in pink. Izuku is certain he is too, flushed all the way from his neck to his ears. There might be steam coming out of his ears. “D-Did you just take a shower?”

“A while ago,” Katsuki says. His voice is more muffled now, likely because of the video chat, but the trade-off is worth it. “What’re you staring at me like that for?” 

“It’s nothing. You look-”

“Tired?”

“Yes,” Izuku agrees instantly.

“Geezers have been working us to the bone while they sit around doing nothing. Pisses me off.” Katsuki sweeps a hand through his hair, exposing a pale strip of his neck, and Izuku’s attention snaps to it. “Shit. This is so weird.” 

“I like it! I like seeing you when I’m talking to you.” Red eyes shifting over to his almost change his mind. “Aren’t you sleepy?”

“You’re planning on listening to me sleep again, huh.”

“You knew-” Izuku is definitely blushing now, humiliated beyond belief. How many times did Katsuki overhear him confess to missing him and simply choose to spare him? He almost asks but ultimately decides against it. “It comforts me.”

“Weirdo,” Katsuki says. There’s little heat to it. “Get up. You’ve got a shift in an hour.”

Izuku makes a tiny noise. All he wants to do is stay here on video chat with Katsuki. It’s difficult to believe he’s thousands and thousands of kilometers away, not when he looks so… real. So…

“Pretty,” he mumbles. Katsuki raises a brow, bringing the phone closer to his face to hear him. The lack of distance, even though a screen, isn’t good for his health and Izuku jerks back.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. You’re really tired, I think. I’m going to-”

“Wait. Stay on the phone. Until you head out.”

“Of course.” The agreement spills from him even before it strikes him what Katsuki is asking for. “Should we switch to audio, or-?”

“This is fine.” Katsuki’s eyes skirt away. Cute. “Don’t fucking stare.”

“I’m not,” Izuku promises. For emphasis, he props up his phone and twists away, hands held above his shoulders. “See? No staring.”

“Annoying.”

Izuku hides a smile, shrugging off his shirt instead. Maybe he should be self-conscious, but after dressing and undressing together dozens of times, it’s pushed to the back of his mind.

“...Didn’t know you had a scar there.” Katsuki says. Overcome with exhaustion, he’s given up on keeping an image of propriety, slumped against a pillow as he watches Izuku through half-lidded eyes. Izuku cups the back of his arm.

“This one? I’ve had it since-”

“First-year festival. I’m talking about that other one.”

The knowledge that Katsuki recognizes where his scars are from sends something pooling in his belly, but he shoves it aside in favor of preserving his sanity. “This one?”

Shaped like a star, the scar blooms over his hip. Katsuki hums. 

“I got it on my second mission. I was, um, reckless.”

“Typical.”

“I’ve gotten better,” he defends, yanking spandex over his torso. “I wasn’t great at keeping damages low when I first started since I was so bent on saving people by any means, but I think I’ve finally found a balance which works for me-”

He trails off as he turns back. Katsuki’s face is nowhere to be seen—only a tuft of blonde peeks out from the corner of the screen. His phone must have slipped out of his grasp after falling asleep.

Just in time for Izuku to leave.

He wanders over to pick up his phone. When he lays his fingertips flat over the screen, he imagines, for a moment, he can sink them in and reach Katsuki. He imagines he can bridge the gap of nearly eight-thousand kilometers. He imagines the scent of burnt sugar and an almost-kiss. 

The screen goes dark, leaving his reflection staring back at him. 

Calls with Katsuki satiate one part of him and deprive another.

The almost-kiss haunts more than he cares to admit. Too often, Izuku finds his thoughts drifting to the image of Katsuki pinned beneath him, the shared heat of their bodies too-warm. Over the weeks of Katsuki’s absence, he twists the memory, paints over it, and transforms it into something new every day. 

In one, dream-washed sequence, Katsuki’s eyes are more intense. In another, he pushes him away. In yet another, when Izuku tips down, he arches up and-

Izuku snaps awake, dropping his red-hot face onto his pillow.

Long, draining shifts help soothe the burn. His friends, picking up on his despondency, go out of their way to keep him occupied. Uraraka, without asking him, frequently invites him over for beer. More often than not, Todoroki seems to inhabit his couch. Even Iida shows up once, arms overflowing with housewarming gifts. 

Izuku doesn’t bat an eye. However, when Kirishima appears at his doorstep, he begins to suspect something larger is at play.

“Not that I don’t appreciate it,” he says as he makes space for Kirishima to step in, “but did Kacchan put you up to this?”

Kirishima may be many things, but he isn’t a liar. His guilty smile gives him away. “That’s not the only reason I’m here, dude! You’re my friend.”

“I told him I’ll be fine alone. He really doesn’t trust me…”

“Nah, I don’t think it’s that. Bakugou sucks at showing it, but he worries, you know?” Depositing a grease-bottomed bag of takeout onto the counter, he looks around curiously. “I haven’t been here since he moved in, huh. What’d you end up doing to all your merch?”

“Uh.” He’s stuck with a sense of déjà vu. Unlike Todoroki, however, Kirishima notices his hesitation immediately.

“My bad. I forgot you two are-”

Not eager to hear his assumption, Izuku hastily fills him in. “It’s not like that. Kacchan doesn’t sleep well on the couch and since the bed is big enough, we ended up sharing.” What did Todoroki say, again? “It’s economical.”

“Huh. I could’ve sworn…” Clearing his throat, Kirishima rips open the takeout bag instead. “C’mon, Deku! You look like you haven’t eaten in days!”

“Really?” In his pursuit to stay busy, Izuku has been spending much of his free time at the gym. “Maybe I haven’t been lifting enough weights.”

The other brightens. “I’ll give you pointers.” 

It’s easy to understand how Kirishima managed to worm into Katsuki’s life. If Katsuki is the sun, then Kirishima is a rocket—he shoots off from the surface, hurtling relentlessly towards the other. 

Meanwhile, Izuku would be the moon, hopelessly chained to his orbit. If he was more like Kirishima, maybe he would understand Katsuki. Maybe it would be okay to feel this way. 

“What’s with the long face, Midoriya?” Kirishima asks, nudging him with a foot. Izuku realizes he's been scowling at his foil-wrapped burger. 

“Oh, nothing. I just really admire you.”

“Thanks!” He cocks his head. “That’s a little random, though. Something going on?”

“Well,” Izuku stares at the tomato slice slowly slipping out from between his burger buns. “I wish I understood Kacchan the way you do.”

The admission spills from him too-easily. Briefly, he wonders if his meal is spiked. Kirishima hums, startling him; caught up in his thoughts, he’d forgotten he’s there. 

“I don’t, though,” he says. Before Izuku can wave him off, he adds, “Not really. I don’t think it’s possible for anyone to ever fully figure out someone else—you’d need a mind-reading quirk for that.” 

“What if you can’t figure out anything about them? What then?”

He wants to know what Katsuki thinks. What he feels. He wants to be let in, not just one foot in the door, but all the way. Somehow, there’s always something stopping him. An injury. An argument. A misunderstanding. 

Kirishima looks at him carefully. Izuku doesn’t know what he’s searching for, but he’s certain it isn’t there. Finally, he says, “Do you want to understand him?”

“Of course-”

“Or do you not want to be misunderstood?”

Izuku blinks. “What do you-”

But he doesn’t need clarification and he stops, putting down his burger. Kirishima breaks out into a smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “That barely made sense, huh? Sorry.”

“No.” Izuku shakes his head. His mind runs a meter a minute, all of it leading to the same crushing realization. “No, you’re right. It’s not him, is it? It’s me. I’ve been… I’ve been holding myself back.” 

He told himself it’s because Katsuki wouldn’t want it, but that had all been in his head, hadn’t it? Somehow, while seeing the best of the other, he simultaneously assumed the worst, too. Maybe it’s muscle memory. After all, even if the smell of smoking paper and the feeling of rough pavement under his scraped hands fade, in the back of his mind, it’ll always be there. 

“I haven’t accepted any of it,” Izuku murmurs. Instead of coming to terms with his past, present, and future, he remains suspended in between all three, not trusting himself to step forwards or even backwards. “Even after he told me to.”

Katsuki’s tongue loosened, his hands grew soft, and yet, Izuku still cowered away, the same teenage boy who is guilty over his “gross” feelings, who is too afraid of burning to consider growing thick skin instead. 

“Midoriya? You’re going to make yourself bleed.”

Uncurling his fingers reveals half-moons embedded into his palms. The twinge of pain floods him with clarity. “I have to tell him. That I…”

Kirishima waits for him to continue. When Izuku’s throat only works around air, he shuffles forward, resting a hand on Izuku’s shoulder. “Hey, man. You don’t have to say it now. Save it for Bakugou.”

“You knew?” 

A shrug. “We all kind of did. You guys were always together.”

They were. Elementary to middle school. High school to adulthood. “It’s been so long. What if he-”

“Nah. You’d wait for him, right?”

“Yes,” Izuku says, without missing a beat. “Forever.”

Kirishima squeezes his shoulder. “It’s a good thing he’s coming back next week, eh?”

Katsuki instructs him not to wait at the airport. Izuku dissects the statement before responding with an, “Okay, I’ll be there!”

This earns him a plethora of grumbling but none of it sounds like refusal. Izuku thinks he hears the sound of his heart meter ticking up.

While Izuku has always thought too much, he’s never thought as much as he does the days leading up to Katsuki’s return. Accepting his feelings for Katsuki—all of them—shifts a weight off his shoulders and forms a knot in his chest.

I need to tell him. He tucks in the corners of his bedsheets instead. I need to tell him. He flicks to the next channel, watching a replay of Dynamight’s best battles instead. I need to tell him. He bites his tongue when Katsuki yawns over video chat instead. 

Izuku is done being a coward but something about spilling himself over text or call doesn’t feel right.

The hour-long delay of Katsuki’s flight makes him chew his cheek and he checks the flight progress obsessively. When he receives the single-worded text of “landed,” he bolts for the streets, furiously waving over a cab.

“Going to pick up someone special?” the driver, a man in his late fifties, asks conversationally. Izuku manages a smile, stilling the anxious drumming of his fingers. 

“Something like that.” Maybe this is the best description for the relationship between the two of them—something special.

“Young love…” the man muses. “I remember when my wife flew back into town, so many years ago. Should we stop by a flower shop?”

“Thank you, but I don’t think Kacchan is too big on flowers.”

His heart steadily rises over the course of his drive, settling in his throat by the time they pull up next to the curb. Izuku thanks the driver, too distracted to pay attention to the paper bills he passes over. 

The man’s eyes widen as he counts. “This is too much!”

“Buy some flowers for your wife on the way back,” Izuku says, shutting the door behind him. Profuse thanks follow him as he jogs off, checking his phone once more. “Terminal C, Terminal C…”

He walks straight into a woman and lifts his head to apologize. It never makes it out because his gaze snaps over her shoulder and—there he is.

After months of texting, phone calls, and video chats, Katsuki almost doesn’t look real. But it’s him, slouched against a wall, one hand on his luggage and the other cradling his phone. Izuku mumbles something under his breath, some trip of syllables, and it shouldn't be audible but as if he hears it, Katsuki’s chin tips up. 

Red eyes meet his. Izuku almost trips in his haste to squeeze through the congested mass of people, eyes never once leaving Katsuki’s. When he finally tumbles out onto the other side, his knees are weak.

Katsuki is still there, although he’s tucked his phone away. Something which might be a smile but is closer to a smirk plays across his lips. “D-”

The nickname turns into a wheeze as Izuku crushes him into a hug. He should ask, should check if it’s okay to encroach into his space, but it’s at the back of his mind as he presses his face into the crook of Katsuki’s neck.

He inhales deeply. Katsuki smells like sweat and smoke, and his mouth waters. To keep himself from getting light-headed, he forgoes breathing through his nose in favor of his mouth. 

Katsuki doesn’t move. He stands there, stiff between his arms. When Izuku moves to step back, however, he kickstarts, arms tentatively draping over his torso. Even through fabric, the contact sears.

“Kacchan.”

“Izuku.” The syllables of his name are quiet, a murmur beside his cheek. Izuku’s breath hitches.

It’ll take much more for him to tire of Katsuki’s closeness, but he forcefully extracts himself anyway. Katsuki’s hands drop away with the movement. “I was going to meet you at the gate.”

“You were taking too long.” There it is, the familiar indignation. Izuku doesn’t resist his grin. “What’re you smiling about?”

“Well, you’re back, for one. I can take your luggage-”

“I just got off the plane, not the hospital,” Katsuki retorts. “Get moving. People are starting to stare.”

It’s Izuku who’s finding it difficult not to stare. There’s a sense of detachment when seeing something through a screen but with Katsuki right here, it’s easy to pick out all the tiny, barely-there changes. His hair is longer, the ends of it curling over his nape. A bandage is wrapped around his left ankle. On his wrist, an elastic sits snug. 

“You look like you’ve got something to say.”

“I-” Before he can spill, Izuku bites his tongue. Not here. Not when they’re lost in the throes of a crowd. “Later. When we’re home.” Katsuki raises an eyebrow but doesn’t protest when he swaps the topic. “Your hair got long.”

“It’s pissing me off,” Katsuki says. He swipes away a strand of hair behind his ear and Izuku has to swallow hard to keep his composure. “Gotta get a haircut.”

“I think it looks good,” Izuku says. He eyes the elastic on the other’s wrist. “Is that for…?”

“I’m not tying it up for you.”

“I didn’t even say anything!” 

Katsuki grins at his spluttering, turning away to holler for a taxi. It feels dangerous to be out here, a confession stained to the roof of Izuku’s mouth. 

“I can’t believe you’re back,” he says.

“It was three months, Deku, not years.”

“It’s still a long time.”

“Clingy,” Katsuki says before fisting a hand into his shirt and dragging him into the taxi.

The female driver’s eyes widen when they slide into the backseat. She’s gracious enough to not voice her recognition, instead cheerily chirping, “Where to?”

Izuku wonders if they’ll end up trending across hero forums again.

Katsuki’s hand rests on the seat between them. It’s awfully close to Izuku’s own and he bites his lip, debating. Before he can inch his forward, Katsuki grabs it. 

Startling, Izuku’s neck snaps up, just in time to read dumbass off of Katsuki’s lips. His face goes warm, but not more than their palms together. 

He wants to say it so badly he can taste it. 

The bliss of Katsuki’s return doesn’t last long. Before Izuku can ask about the trip, the driver smashes the brakes. Wheels screech against asphalt and if not for their seatbelts, they would’ve been thrown forward. Within their connected hands, Katsuki’s knuckles go white.

“What the fuck,” he starts, but the woman doesn’t say anything. She only points outside with a shaking finger. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

A creature the size of a small tower dangles from the side of a high-rise building. Hysterical screams mesh with the honking of vehicles, and as Izuku watches, the creature opens its mouth, releasing a bellow which shakes the very ground.

“Kacchan,” he begins, “I think we should-”

The sight of Katsuki unzipping his luggage, gauntlet already in hand, makes him pause. “Way ahead of you. Keep up.”

Izuku fumbles with his seatbelt while Katsuki slides on his gauntlets. Their driver watches them, shell-shocked, and even more so when Katsuki gestures to her. 

“Listen here, lady. Don’t move. Don’t even think of getting out of the car, not unless more heroes or the police get here.” He pats his luggage. “Don’t lose this if you want an autograph.”

The woman nods hurriedly. Katsuki kicks open the door and zips out, Izuku right on his heels. “How did you know that she’s a fan?”

“Dynamight car hanger. Not even an hour back and I’m already dealing with Donkey Kong’s bitchier cousin.”

“At least I’m here,” Izuku says. “This’ll be our second time fighting together as heroes.”

“Don’t say sappy shit,” Is Katsuki’s only response, but Izuku thinks he spies the upwards tilt of his mouth before he fires off into the air.

As far as reunions go, this is rather typical for them.

It’s a testament to the faulty system that the paperwork takes longer to complete than eliminating the villain. By the fourth sheet of paper, Katsuki’s expression goes sour, his usually-tidy handwriting turning into an ineligible scrawl.

Izuku is the only one who bows to the authorities on their way out.

His luggage is safe and sound, courtesy of their driver. She shifts nervously before blurting out a request for autographs. Somewhere in the busy streets of Tokyo, a tiny Dynamight chibi dangles from the rear window, inscribed with both Deku and Dynamight’s autographs.

“I’m—fucking—home,” Katsuki announces as they spill into their apartment. He might be the one who’s returned after months, but Izuku feels as if he’s been away just as long.

“Welcome home,” he says. Katsuki tilts back to look at him and scowls. 

“You hit your head?”

“I don’t think so?” He reaches to touch his temple and winces at the unexpected tingle of pain. There had been dirt and debris flying everywhere—a pebble must have caught his face. “Maybe?”

“Idiot,” Katsuki says. He barely waits for Izuku to take his shoes off before dragging him to the kitchen, where he slams a first aid kit onto the counter. “How’d you go a day without me, huh?”

“Not sure.”

Katsuki isn’t harsh when he grabs his face to tip it to the side, but he isn’t careful either—he’s still learning gentleness, after all. The hysteria of the afternoon managed to distract Izuku before, but in the solitude of only them two, the steady thump-thump-thump of his heart starts up again.

He can say it anytime he chooses to. He can say it right now, with Katsuki close to him, the space between his brow cinched in focus. Izuku’s mouth is dry.

Feeling his stare, Katsuki meets it with his own. Only for a moment; it flicks away, honing back onto Izuku’s scraped face. Grasping tighter, he dabs harder. 

 “Kacchan,” Izuku whispers. And then, even softer: “Katsuki.”

This gets a reaction. Katsuki’s fingers go still against his face. Even if he doesn’t look at him, Izuku knows he has all of his attention. He tries it again, tasting the three syllables on his tongue.

“Kat-su-ki.”

“Sounds weird.” Izuku’s smile is interrupted by a wince at the burn of alcohol. How does Katsuki never flinch when he cleans his wounds?

“Really? I don’t think it’s bad. Change can be good sometimes, right?”

Something washes over Katsuki’s face. It looks a little like resignation and a lot like something Izuku can’t quite place. 

 “...Yeah,” Katsuki exhales. “It can.”

Izuku wants to draw back. He wants to put distance between them so he can take in the full scope of the peculiar expression Katsuki is making right now and study his crinkled features. Is he hurt?

Katsuki beats him to it. His feet stumble as he backs up, a bloodied wad of cotton still wedged between his curled fingers. “D—Izuku. You know, I-”

This, Katsuki fumbling with his words, is new. It fascinates Izuku to no end, and so caught up staring, he fails to ask if the other’s okay. 

“Not having you around,” Katsuki says, finally. “Made me realize a bunch of things. Like why you were the way you were at the hospital. I didn’t fucking understand it, honestly, why you were so upset. Back then, you said you couldn’t accept a life where I wasn’t near.”

Izuku straightens. It’s the perfect opportunity for him to speak, but he finds himself mute as Katsuki’s throat works furiously. Whether he realizes it or not, when Izuku steps forward, he backs up.

“I think I get it now, though. You’ve been a part of my life for so long, so it’s impossible to imagine that being cut away. I-” His voice trips momentarily. “But even if I had that choice, I wouldn’t take it.”

“Kacchan,” Izuku exhales. 

“I can’t live without you,” Katsuki says, and if Izuku was stunned before, he’s-

He’s-

Katsuki’s face is sunset-pink but without flinching, he meets Izuku’s gaze. “Take that as you want.”

What Izuku wants—what he wants is-

When he stumbles forward, Katsuki doesn’t move away. Doesn’t shove him away, even when Izuku’s hand clasps his, even when he brings it to his mouth to plant a sloppy kiss onto the back of it.

“You—Kacchan—Katsuki. Do you—do you mean it?”

Katsuki says, “I’ve never said anything I didn’t mean.”

Izuku laughs, and it’s wet. He should’ve known Katsuki would manage to astound him, all over again, and it feels a little like hiding behind a tree as he watches the other fend off bullies. 

“I’m in love with you,” he says. There are no firecrackers, no canned laughter, no explosions. “I’ve never not been in love with you. It just—it just took me a while to get it.”

Katsuki’s pupils are blown so wide that only a thin rim of red remains. He might be shocked. He might have expected this all along. It doesn’t matter because his lashes flutter and then he’s grinning that half-smile of his, a little pleased, a little giddy. 

“I told you to keep up, Izuku.”

“I’m trying. I always am.” For good measure, while he still has the privilege, he presses another kiss to Katsuki’s knuckles. “Can you wait for me?”

“You’re already here,” Katsuki says. 

His free hand curls into Izuku’s collar, and it’s not clear which one of them is trembling, but it doesn’t matter. One moment, he’s swept up in Katsuki’s molten eyes, and in the next, everything is warm breath and soft mouth and the sweet smell of burning sugar. 

Izuku makes a small, wounded noise—like an injured animal—before he melts in. Katsuki’s palm closes around his nape and he crooks forward in response to its weight, helpless to the other’s volatile touch and the uncertain, inexperienced slip of his mouth against his, so unlike his all-knowing exterior.

His fingertips, still lingering at Katsuki’s wrist, goes elastic-tight. The responding noise he releases skitters over Izuku’s skin like sparks, has him shuddering before tips forward, deeper, deeper, as if Katsuki is a lake and he’s drowning, as if the water is closing over his head-

They break apart. No amount of oxygen feels like it’ll be enough, not when Izuku can still taste the kiss imprinted against the roof of his mouth. 

“Kacchan,” he says quietly. Glassy eyes flicker to him. “I love you, and I won’t take it back, but—I’ll wait for you. You don’t have to say it right now.”

You’d wait for him, right?

Forever.

Katsuki hums. The kiss he brushes over Izuku’s mouth is light, but it sears all the same. “Never fucking understood why you wanted to do this so bad.”

“Huh?”

“This.” Katsuki’s hand slides off his neck, cradling his chin instead. When his thumb grazes over the flesh of his bottom lip, Izuku steams. “You think I didn’t notice you ogling me like a piece of meat?”

“I didn’t—I don’t-” Izuku fumbles, blushing all the way to the tips of his ears. Katsuki doesn't give him the mercy of looking away or giving him space, instead leveling with him a shit-eating grin. “I think we should talk about how you said you can’t live without me.”

Katsuki’s face puckers like he’s eaten a particularly-sour lemon. “No.”

“B-But I want to know when you realized! Was it while you were away? Or before? If you don’t want to give me the details, can you at least say it again? Wait, let me get my phone first-”

“Like hell, ” Katsuki says. He tries to shrug Izuku off of him, but he’s quicker—in a quick moment, he’s planted a hand on either side of Katsuki’s torso, caging him against the counter. “Move, Deku.”

“Deku?” Izuku fakes a frown, cocking his head. “I thought I was Izuku now.”

“You’re a little shit, that’s what you are-” His grumble is caught short as Izuku swoops in to kiss him again, fleeting and barely-there. “Get off!”

“But you were gone for so long! I should get a few more kisses, at least—OUCH, THAT’S MY INJURY-”

Their struggling elbows knock against the first aid kit, spilling all of its content onto the floor. Izuku pauses, grinning sheepishly, and Katsuki groans. 

Later, while Katsuki grudgingly plasters bandages onto Izuku’s temple, he asks, “Does this mean I can really call myself your husband at the hospital next time?”

“How delusional are you?” Katsuki says, but the kiss which follows tastes like permission. 

“Midoriya, Bakugou.” From where he’s peering into their refrigerator, Todoroki turns, his forehead creased. “You’re out of eggs.”

“For the last time, Half’n’Half, get the fuck out of the apartment.”