Archive of Our Own

Midoriya Izuku was born into a world that valued strength above all else, and from the moment he learned he was quirkless, that world began to reject him.

It started with the whispers at preschool—other children laughing at how Izuku couldn’t make sparks fly from his hands or float blocks in the air. By the time he entered middle school, the whispers had become shouts.

“Deku!” Katsuki Bakugou’s voice rang out, followed by the sharp pop of an explosion against Izuku’s notebook. “Why do you even bother? You think heroes are quirkless losers like you?”

Izuku scrambled to pick up the scattered pages, his hands trembling. He didn’t answer. There was no point.

“Oi, I’m talking to you!” Bakugou’s foot slammed into his side, sending him sprawling. The crowd around them laughed, some pulling out their phones to record the scene.

Izuku didn’t cry. He stopped crying long ago.

When he got home that evening, his mother barely looked up from the television. “You’re late again,” she said curtly, her eyes glued to the screen.

“I stayed behind to clean,” Izuku lied, clutching his notebook to his chest.

Inko Midoriya turned to face him then, her expression sharp. “Do you think cleaning is going to make you a hero? You can’t even defend yourself, Izuku. What kind of hero are you trying to be?”

“I—”

“Don’t bother answering,” she snapped, standing abruptly. “You’re hopeless. Just like everyone says.”

Izuku lowered his gaze, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Inko’s hand came down hard across his cheek, and Izuku stumbled back, his heart hammering in his chest.

“Sorry doesn’t fix anything,” she hissed.

---

Izuku stayed silent after the slap. His cheek burned, but the ache in his chest was worse. Apologies never worked. Words never worked. He thought of the kids at school, of Bakugou, and of his mother’s sharp tongue. It all blurred together in his mind, a constant stream of rejection and hurt.

“Go to your room,” Inko muttered, turning away from him. “I can’t look at you right now.”

Izuku nodded and shuffled to his bedroom. He closed the door softly behind him, not wanting to risk making a sound. His small, cramped room offered no comfort. The posters of All Might on his walls, once a source of inspiration, now felt like taunts. They reminded him of everything he could never be.

He sat on his bed, clutching his notebook to his chest. His trembling fingers traced the burned edges of the pages, courtesy of Bakugou’s explosions. He had spent hours sketching ideas for hero gear and writing down strategies, but none of it mattered. Not in a world that didn’t want someone like him.

The weight in his chest grew heavier, threatening to crush him.

Why do I keep trying?

---

That question haunted Izuku all through the night. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, unable to stop the spiral of thoughts. Every insult, every shove, every cruel word replayed in his mind like a broken record.

When the first light of dawn crept through his window, Izuku made a decision.

He didn’t belong here.

He grabbed his backpack and stuffed it with the few things he owned: some clothes, his notebook, and the old All Might keychain he’d had since he was a child. He hesitated for a moment before picking up a small photograph of him and his mother from years ago when she still smiled at him. He slipped it into the bag, unsure why he couldn’t leave it behind.

Before leaving, he placed his All Might figurine on his desk. “Thank you,” he whispered to the silent figure. “But I can’t be like you.”

The house was still. His mother’s snores echoed faintly from her room. He tiptoed to the front door, his heart pounding in his chest.

When he stepped outside, the cold morning air hit him like a slap. For a moment, he stood there, unsure of where to go. But he knew one thing—he couldn’t stay.

---

The first morning after leaving his home, Izuku wandered the streets of Musutafu aimlessly. His backpack felt heavier than it should have, its straps digging into his shoulders as he trudged along. He avoided looking at the faces of people passing by, scared someone might recognize him and drag him back to the place he had just escaped.

His stomach growled, but he ignored it. He had no money, no plan, and nowhere to go. All he had was the overwhelming need to be anywhere but home.

By the time the sun set, his legs ached, and his hands were shaking from the cold. He found shelter in a small alleyway behind a convenience store, curling up behind a stack of old crates. The noises of the city faded into the background as he stared at the concrete wall in front of him, his mind blank.

For the first time, he felt... free. But it wasn’t the kind of freedom he had imagined. It was heavy and suffocating, like being dropped into the middle of the ocean with no land in sight.

---

Over the next few days, Izuku quickly learned how cruel the world could be to someone who had nothing.

On his second night, a group of teenagers spotted him in an alley and decided he was an easy target. They laughed as they kicked over his bag, scattering his belongings onto the ground.

“What’s this?” one of them sneered, picking up his notebook. “Hero stuff? Are you serious?”

“Let’s see if there’s any money in here,” another said, rifling through his things.

Izuku didn’t fight back. He didn’t cry or plead. He just stood there, his hands hanging limply at his sides as they tore pages out of his notebook and threw his clothes into the street.

When they finally left, he knelt down to gather what little was left of his belongings. The pages of his notebook were smeared with mud, the sketches he had spent hours on rendered unrecognizable. He stared at them for a long time before shoving them back into his bag, his chest hollow.

---

By the end of the first week, Izuku had learned to avoid people as much as possible. He stuck to the edges of the city, sleeping in abandoned buildings or under overpasses where no one would bother him.

He survived on scraps—half-eaten sandwiches from trash bins, bread crusts that vendors tossed aside. It was humiliating, but Izuku didn’t feel ashamed. He didn’t feel much of anything anymore.

Sometimes, when the nights were particularly cold, he would look up at the stars and wonder if anyone missed him. The answer was always the same: no.

---

It wasn’t until the third week that he stumbled across the diner. The smell of food wafting from the kitchen made his stomach ache with hunger. He stood outside for hours, watching customers come and go, debating whether he should try his luck.

Eventually, desperation won out.

He stepped inside, his dirty clothes and disheveled appearance drawing the attention of the staff. The owner, a gruff woman in her sixties, narrowed her eyes at him.

“You here to eat or to cause trouble?” she asked, her tone sharp.

“I... I can work,” Izuku said, his voice barely above a whisper.

She looked him up and down before tossing him an apron. “If you can clean dishes, you can stay. But if you steal so much as a crumb, you’re out.”

---

For the next several months, Izuku fell into a routine. He worked long hours washing dishes and sweeping floors, keeping his head down and his mouth shut. The other employees gave him curious looks, but he avoided their questions.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” one of them said one night as they were closing up.

Izuku didn’t respond.

After a while, they gave up trying to engage with him, leaving him alone to work in silence.

---

The first time someone asked him why he didn’t smile, it was one of the younger servers at the diner—a boy barely older than Izuku himself. His name was Haruto, and he had a knack for making conversation even when no one seemed interested.

“Hey, new guy,” Haruto said one evening as they both worked in the back. The clatter of dishes filled the air, but Haruto’s voice cut through it easily. “You’ve been here, what, two weeks now? Haven’t seen you crack a smile once.”

Izuku didn’t look up from the plate he was scrubbing. His hands moved mechanically, the hot water scalding his skin, but he didn’t care. “I don’t smile,” he said flatly.

Haruto leaned against the counter, frowning. “Everyone smiles. Even grumpy old man Tanaka in the kitchen laughs when someone burns their hand on the stove. You’re telling me you never smile? Not even when you were a kid?”

Izuku paused, his grip tightening on the plate. Memories flashed through his mind—Bakugou’s sneering face, his mother’s harsh words. The laughter of classmates as he hit the ground.

“No,” he said finally, his voice hollow.

Haruto’s frown deepened. “Man, that’s depressing.” He tried to laugh, but it came out awkward, forced. “What happened to you?”

Izuku didn’t answer. He rinsed the plate and reached for the next one, ignoring the weight of Haruto’s gaze.

“You know,” Haruto said after a long silence, “you don’t have to be so closed off. We’re not all out to get you.”

Izuku’s hands stilled. For a brief moment, something flickered in his eyes, but it was gone before Haruto could place it.

“Just leave me alone,” Izuku said quietly, returning to his work.

---

As the weeks turned into months, Haruto wasn’t the only one who noticed Izuku’s strange demeanor.

“Kid’s like a ghost,” the head cook, Tanaka, muttered one day to the owner.

“Ghosts don’t scrub dishes as well as he does,” the owner replied dryly. “As long as he works, I don’t care if he talks or not.”

But Haruto couldn’t let it go.

One evening, after the diner had closed, Haruto found Izuku sitting alone at one of the corner tables, sketching in his notebook.

“What are you always drawing in there?” Haruto asked, plopping down across from him.

Izuku didn’t look up. “Nothing important.”

Haruto leaned forward, trying to get a glimpse of the page. “Is that... hero gear? Like for pros?”

Izuku’s grip on the pencil tightened. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters!” Haruto said, grinning. “You could sell that stuff, you know? Some of these designs look legit.”

Izuku’s gaze finally lifted, his green eyes dull and lifeless. “No one would buy hero gear from someone like me.”

The words hung heavy in the air, silencing Haruto’s usual chatter. For the first time, he didn’t know what to say.

---

Over time, the other employees learned to leave Izuku alone. Conversations that once started with curiosity quickly fizzled out in the face of his quiet indifference.

“He’s like a robot,” one of the servers whispered one day. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him react to anything.”

“He’s probably been through some stuff,” Haruto said, defending him half-heartedly. But even he had started to give up on trying to pull Izuku out of his shell.

---

One rainy evening, Haruto tried one last time.

“Hey,” he said, catching Izuku as they were both clocking out. “Do you ever think about, like... the future?”

Izuku paused, his hand hovering over the timecard machine. “No.”

“Come on,” Haruto pressed. “There’s gotta be something you want. A dream, a goal—something.”

Izuku turned to look at him, his expression unreadable. “Dreams are for people who have something to live for.”

Haruto’s breath caught. He opened his mouth to respond, but Izuku was already walking away, disappearing into the rain.

---

These conversations didn’t change Izuku. If anything, they solidified the walls he had built around himself. Each question, each attempt to connect, felt like a reminder of everything he had lost—or maybe never had in the first place.

---

By the time two years had passed, Izuku had become a shell of his former self. The bright, hopeful boy who had once dreamed of becoming a hero was gone, replaced by someone who simply existed.

His life was a series of monotonous days: work, sleep, repeat. He never spoke unless it was absolutely necessary, his voice growing hoarse from lack of use. The spark in his green eyes had faded, leaving them dull and lifeless.

The only thing that tied him to his past was his notebook. Though it was battered and torn, he continued to sketch hero gear and strategies in his free time. It was an old habit he couldn’t seem to break, even if he didn’t know why he bothered anymore.

---

Izuku Midoriya lived like a ghost. He moved through life in silence, a shadow among the living.

The days were monotonous, blending together in a haze of work and sleep. He woke up to the sound of his alarm, dressed in the same faded clothes, and left his small, barren apartment. He rarely ate, only consuming enough to keep his body moving. Food tasted like ash on his tongue—just another necessity, nothing more.

At work, he followed orders without question, his face blank and his voice clipped. “Yes,” “No,” and “I’ll take care of it” were the only words anyone ever heard from him. He never made mistakes, never caused trouble, and never complained.

---

Every morning, he stood in front of his bathroom mirror, staring at the reflection that no longer felt like his own. His face was pale and gaunt, his eyes sunken and dull.

He used to smile at his reflection, trying to hype himself up before a tough day at school. “You can do it, Izuku!” he’d whisper, his voice trembling but hopeful. Now, he didn’t even flinch when he caught sight of himself.

There was no point.

---

Sometimes, after work, Izuku would sit on the floor of his apartment, staring at the ceiling for hours. His mind was eerily quiet, devoid of the frantic thoughts that used to consume him. He didn’t replay old memories or dream about the future. He just... existed.

---

Izuku avoided people whenever he could, but sometimes, interactions were unavoidable.

Once, on the train home, a young woman accidentally bumped into him.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, flustered.

Izuku looked at her blankly. “It’s fine,” he said, his tone devoid of emotion.

She blinked, her smile faltering. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer. The question wasn’t worth responding to. Instead, he turned away, staring out the window as the train rumbled on.

---

The staff at the diner grew used to Izuku’s silence, but it still unsettled them at times.

“He’s like a machine,” Tanaka muttered one evening as Izuku worked in the kitchen.

“Yeah, but he’s reliable,” the owner replied. “Doesn’t slack off, doesn’t argue. I wish everyone worked like him.”

“But it’s not normal,” Haruto chimed in, frowning. “It’s like... he’s not really here, you know?”

The owner shrugged. “Not our problem, as long as he does his job.”

---

Izuku rarely dreamed. When he did, they were muted and fragmented—shadows of memories he barely recognized. Sometimes he saw Bakugou, his face twisted in anger, or his mother, her voice sharp and cutting.

But most nights, there was nothing.

---

The villain attack came like a storm, shattering the monotony of Izuku’s existence.

When the first explosion shook the street, Izuku’s immediate reaction was to step back, blending into the crowd of fleeing civilians. His heart didn’t race, and his hands didn’t tremble. Fear was a distant memory, something he no longer had the capacity to feel.

But then he saw the child.

For a moment, something flickered in his chest—not fear, not determination, but a faint echo of the boy he used to be. Without thinking, he moved.

He worked quickly, efficiently, his mind focused on the task at hand. The beam was heavy, and his muscles screamed in protest, but he didn’t stop until the child was free.

“Go,” he said, his voice flat but firm.

The mother’s tearful gratitude barely registered as he walked away, his mind already returning to the empty quiet that had become his default state.

---

The footage of his actions spread quickly, shared on social media and picked up by local news outlets. Izuku didn’t notice. He didn’t own a phone or watch TV, and he avoided the internet as much as possible.

But the world noticed him.

And so did Bakugou Katsuki.

---

Katsuki stared at the screen, his chest tightening as he watched the quirkless man save the child.

“That can’t be...” he murmured, leaning closer.

The man in the video looked older, his features sharper, but there was no mistaking him. It was Midoriya Izuku.

Katsuki’s mind raced. He hadn’t thought about Izuku in years—not because he didn’t care, but because it hurt too much. He had never forgiven himself for the things he’d said and done to the boy who used to idolize him.

Without hesitation, Katsuki grabbed his jacket and headed for the agency.

“I’m taking the rest of the day off,” he called out as he left.

“Where are you going?” one of his colleagues asked.

“To fix a mistake,” Katsuki muttered.

---

When Bakugou finally found Izuku, he felt the breath leave his lungs as if he’d been punched.

It wasn’t just the years that had changed him. The boy who had once stumbled after him with bright, hopeful eyes, always too eager to please, was gone. In his place stood a man with a rigid posture and eyes like stagnant water—still, lifeless, and utterly unreachable.

“Deku,” Bakugou said, his voice cracking despite himself.

Izuku turned to face him, slow and deliberate, his green eyes cold and devoid of recognition. “Don’t call me that.”

The words were calm, controlled, but they struck Bakugou like a blade between the ribs. He searched Izuku’s face, desperate for any trace of the boy he used to know, but there was nothing. No spark. No anger. Not even sadness.

“Deku,” he tried again, his voice softer this time. “It’s me. It’s Kacchan.”

Izuku’s gaze didn’t waver, but something about it felt dismissive, as if Bakugou’s presence didn’t matter at all.

“I know who you are,” Izuku said simply.

The indifference in his tone hurt more than any insult.

---

Bakugou wasn’t the type to give up easily, and he wasn’t about to start now. He tracked Izuku to the diner where he worked, taking up a booth in the corner every evening. The place was small and dimly lit, with the smell of grease hanging in the air.

At first, Izuku ignored him completely, moving through the diner with the same robotic efficiency that Bakugou had seen when he freed the child from the rubble. There was no hesitation in his steps, no wasted movement. His expression never changed, not even when Bakugou deliberately tried to catch his eye.

“Oi,” Bakugou called out on the third day, his voice gruff but uncertain. “I know you see me sitting here.”

Izuku didn’t stop wiping the counter. His hand moved in slow, even circles, his eyes fixed on the surface as though it held the secrets of the universe.

“Deku—”

“I told you not to call me that,” Izuku interrupted, his tone flat and unbothered.

Bakugou’s hands clenched into fists under the table, his nails digging into his palms. He wanted to yell, to grab Izuku by the shoulders and shake him until some semblance of emotion returned to his face. But he knew that wouldn’t work—not with this Izuku.

“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “Midoriya. Happy now?”

Izuku didn’t respond, his silence cutting deeper than any insult ever could.

---

Every day, Bakugou returned to the diner, determined to make Izuku acknowledge him. He tried everything—casual conversations, direct questions, even badgering the other employees for information about him.

Izuku, for his part, remained unshaken.

“Why are you doing this?” Izuku asked one day, his voice devoid of curiosity.

The question caught Bakugou off guard. For a moment, he couldn’t find the words, his throat tightening under the weight of Izuku’s hollow stare.

“Because I owe you,” Bakugou said finally, his voice thick with guilt. “Because I was a shitty friend—a shitty person. And I want to make it right.”

Izuku tilted his head slightly, as if considering the statement, but his face remained impassive. “You can’t fix what’s already broken.”

The words hit Bakugou like a physical blow, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

“Bullshit,” he said, his voice trembling with suppressed anger. “You think you’re beyond saving? That no one gives a damn about you? That’s not true, Deku—I mean, Midoriya.”

Izuku’s gaze dropped to the floor, not in shame but in disinterest. “It doesn’t matter what you think.”

---

Bakugou didn’t know how much more he could take. Every interaction with Izuku felt like slamming his fists against an unyielding wall, the cracks he hoped to see never appearing.

He stayed late one night, waiting until the diner closed and Izuku was alone. The staff had left, and the place was quiet except for the soft hum of the fluorescent lights. Izuku stood at the counter, methodically counting the day’s earnings.

“Do you even care that I’m here?” Bakugou asked, his voice low but laced with frustration.

Izuku didn’t look up. “I care as much as I care about anyone else.”

“And how much is that?”

Izuku paused, his hand hovering over the cash register. When he finally looked at Bakugou, his expression was utterly blank. “Not at all.”

Bakugou’s jaw tightened, his fists trembling at his sides. He had faced villains who threatened to destroy entire cities, but nothing had ever felt as impossible as this.

“You don’t mean that,” he said, his voice cracking. “You can’t mean that.”

“I do.”

The finality in Izuku’s tone made something inside Bakugou snap.

“I won’t give up on you!” Bakugou shouted, his voice echoing through the empty diner. “I don’t care how many times you push me away or act like you don’t feel anything—I know you’re still in there, Deku! And I’m not going anywhere until you let me in.”

Izuku stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away, leaving Bakugou alone in the dim light.

---

After that night in the diner, Bakugou didn’t stop coming. If anything, he became more determined, showing up earlier and staying later, his presence as unrelenting as the guilt gnawing at his chest.

For weeks, their encounters followed the same pattern. Bakugou would talk, his words a mixture of apologies and half-hearted attempts at casual conversation, while Izuku would respond with silence or curt, emotionless answers. It was like talking to a statue—cold, unmoving, and unresponsive.

But Bakugou wasn’t about to back down.

---

One rainy evening, Bakugou found Izuku walking home from work. The rain was relentless, soaking through Bakugou’s hero uniform as he jogged to catch up. Izuku, of course, wasn’t carrying an umbrella. He didn’t seem to care that his hair was plastered to his forehead, that his clothes clung to his thin frame, or that his shoes squelched with every step.

“Oi, you’re gonna catch a cold walking around like that,” Bakugou said, falling into step beside him.

Izuku didn’t even glance at him. “It doesn’t matter.”

Bakugou clenched his fists, his patience wearing thin. “How can you keep saying that? How can you act like nothing matters? You’re alive, damn it!”

For the first time, Izuku stopped. He turned to face Bakugou, and for a fleeting moment, something flickered in his eyes—an emotion Bakugou couldn’t quite place.

“Alive?” Izuku repeated, his voice quiet but sharp. “Is that what you call this?”

Bakugou opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. The way Izuku looked at him—not with anger or sadness, but with a hollow, resigned kind of exhaustion—made his stomach twist.

“This isn’t living, Kacchan,” Izuku continued, his tone flat but cutting. “It’s just... existing.”

---

Bakugou started showing up not just at the diner, but at Izuku’s apartment. He brought food, leaving it outside the door when Izuku refused to let him in. He fixed the leaky faucet in the bathroom and replaced the broken lock on the window without being asked.

Izuku never acknowledged these efforts. The food went untouched, and the repairs were met with silence. But Bakugou noticed that Izuku stopped wearing his threadbare coat to work, opting instead for the sturdy one Bakugou had left behind one particularly cold night.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

---

One night, after another failed attempt at conversation, Bakugou snapped.

“Damn it, Deku! You can’t keep living like this!” he shouted, slamming his hand on the diner counter.

The few remaining customers turned to stare, but Bakugou didn’t care. His chest heaved with frustration, his crimson eyes blazing with emotion.

Izuku, however, remained calm. He looked at Bakugou as if he were a particularly persistent fly buzzing around his head—annoying, but ultimately harmless.

“And what do you suggest I do?” Izuku asked, his voice cold and detached.

“Anything!” Bakugou shot back. “Feel something, for fuck’s sake! Get angry at me—hate me if you have to, but stop acting like nothing matters!”

For a moment, Bakugou thought he saw something in Izuku’s eyes—a flicker of anger, or maybe pain. But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, buried beneath the same emotionless mask.

“You don’t get it,” Izuku said quietly, his tone almost pitying. “You think this is about you, Kacchan? It’s not. It’s about me. And I can’t—” He stopped, his voice faltering for the first time.

“You can’t what?” Bakugou pressed, his voice softer now.

Izuku shook his head, his gaze dropping to the floor. “It doesn’t matter.”

---

Bakugou didn’t sleep that night. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling of his apartment, replaying Izuku’s words over and over in his mind.

The next day, he returned to the diner with a new resolve. He wasn’t just going to talk at Izuku—he was going to make him listen.

“Midoriya,” Bakugou said firmly, cornering Izuku during his break. “We need to talk.”

Izuku sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Make time,” Bakugou snapped.

Izuku opened his mouth to argue, but the look in Bakugou’s eyes stopped him. For once, there was no anger, no frustration—just raw, unfiltered pain.

“Please,” Bakugou added, his voice barely above a whisper.

Izuku hesitated. He didn’t know why, but something about the way Bakugou said that word made him pause. Against his better judgment, he nodded.

---

---

Bakugou led Izuku outside the diner to a small alley where the muffled city noises provided a semblance of privacy. The air was damp, the ground slick from earlier rain, and the faint hum of neon signs cast a dim glow over their faces. Bakugou shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, his posture tense but restrained.

Izuku stood a few steps away, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. He leaned against the cold brick wall, his expression unreadable.

“Well?” Izuku asked, his voice as flat as ever. “You said we needed to talk.”

Bakugou hesitated. The weight of everything he wanted to say pressed down on him, threatening to crush him. But he forced himself to speak.

“Why don’t you smile anymore?” he blurted out, his voice rough and uncertain.

Izuku blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You heard me,” Bakugou said, his tone hardening. “You used to smile all the damn time. Even when I was a complete asshole to you. You smiled like nothing could touch you, like you believed in something better. What the hell happened to that?”

Izuku’s lips twitched—just the faintest hint of movement, though it wasn’t a smile. If anything, it looked more like a grimace.

“That kid doesn’t exist anymore,” he said quietly.

“That’s bullshit,” Bakugou snapped, taking a step closer. “You’re still you. You’re still—”

“I’m not,” Izuku interrupted, his voice cutting through the air like a knife. His eyes, though dull, burned with something that might have been anger. “The person you remember—the person who thought the world was worth something—he died a long time ago, Kacchan. And nothing you do can bring him back.”

Bakugou flinched as if Izuku had struck him. He opened his mouth to argue, but the words caught in his throat.

“Do you even know what it’s like?” Izuku continued, his tone low but sharp. “To wake up every day and feel nothing? To look in the mirror and not recognize the person staring back at you? To wonder why you’re still here when it doesn’t even matter?”

Bakugou’s chest tightened, his heart aching at the rawness in Izuku’s voice. “I don’t know what that’s like,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I know what it’s like to hate yourself. To carry around so much guilt that it feels like you’re drowning. And I know—”

He stopped, swallowing hard.

“I know I’m part of the reason you feel this way,” he said finally. “And I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Deku.”

Izuku looked away, his jaw tightening. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does!” Bakugou shouted, his voice cracking. “You matter, damn it! You matter to me!”

For a moment, the words hung in the air, heavy and oppressive. Izuku didn’t respond, but his shoulders stiffened, and Bakugou thought he saw the faintest flicker of emotion in his eyes—pain, maybe, or something close to it.

“You don’t have to believe me,” Bakugou said, his voice softer now. “But I’m not giving up on you. I’ll keep showing up, every damn day, until you see that for yourself.”

Izuku let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “You’re wasting your time.”

“Maybe I am,” Bakugou said, his tone firm. “But you’re worth it.”

---

That night, Izuku lay awake in his small, threadbare apartment. The rain had started again, the steady rhythm against the windowpane filling the silence.

Bakugou’s words echoed in his mind, relentless and unwelcome. You matter. You’re worth it.

He wanted to dismiss them, to shove them into the same dark corner where he buried every other thought that threatened to break through his carefully constructed walls. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the way Bakugou had looked at him—as if he was something precious, something worth fighting for.

Why does he care so much? Izuku wondered, his fingers curling into the thin blanket draped over him. Why can’t he just leave me alone?

The truth was, a part of him—small and buried so deep he could almost pretend it didn’t exist—didn’t want Bakugou to leave.

But that part of him was dangerous. It made him feel things he couldn’t afford to feel.

---

The next day, Bakugou was waiting outside the diner when Izuku arrived. He leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes sharp and determined.

“You again,” Izuku said, his tone exasperated but not entirely unkind.

“Damn right it’s me,” Bakugou said, pushing off the wall. “Thought you’d get rid of me that easily?”

Izuku sighed, brushing past him. “You’re annoying.”

“Good,” Bakugou shot back, falling into step beside him. “Maybe I’ll annoy you so much you’ll actually yell at me. Show me you still have some fight left.”

Izuku didn’t respond, but Bakugou thought he saw the corner of his mouth twitch—almost like he was holding back a smile.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

---

Days turned into weeks, and Bakugou’s persistence showed no signs of waning. True to his word, he showed up at the diner every day, either waiting outside before Izuku’s shift or lingering at the counter during the slower hours.

Izuku, for the most part, continued to brush him off. His responses were curt, his tone flat, and his expression unreadable. But Bakugou started to notice things—small, almost imperceptible shifts in Izuku’s behavior.

When Bakugou spoke, Izuku’s eyes would sometimes flicker toward him, even if only for a moment. When Bakugou laughed—rare, rough bursts of genuine amusement—Izuku’s lips would press together, as if suppressing the urge to react. And on the rare occasions when Bakugou brought up their shared past, Izuku would tense, his hands curling into fists beneath the counter.

These moments were fleeting, but they were enough to give Bakugou hope.

---

One particularly rainy afternoon, Bakugou waited for Izuku outside the diner with two steaming cups of coffee in hand. Izuku stepped out, his expression neutral as always, but he didn’t immediately walk away.

“What’s this?” Izuku asked, eyeing the cup Bakugou held out to him.

“It’s coffee, dumbass,” Bakugou said, rolling his eyes. “You looked half-dead this morning, so I figured you could use it.”

Izuku stared at the cup for a long moment before finally taking it. He didn’t thank Bakugou, but he didn’t throw it away, either.

They stood in silence for a while, the sound of rain filling the space between them. Bakugou glanced at Izuku out of the corner of his eye, noting the way the steam from the coffee curled up into the cold air, the way Izuku’s hands cradled the cup like it was the only source of warmth in the world.

“Why are you doing this?” Izuku asked suddenly, his voice quiet but steady.

Bakugou turned to him, his brows furrowing. “What do you mean?”

“This,” Izuku said, gesturing vaguely with the coffee cup. “Showing up every day. Talking to me. Acting like you care.”

“Because I do care,” Bakugou said simply.

Izuku let out a short, humorless laugh. “You didn’t care back then.”

Bakugou flinched, but he didn’t look away. “You’re right. I didn’t. And I hate myself for that every damn day.”

Izuku shook his head, his gaze dropping to the ground. “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.”

“It matters to me,” Bakugou said firmly. “You matter to me.”

Izuku didn’t respond, but he didn’t walk away, either. And for Bakugou, that was enough.

---

Cracks Begin to Show

Over time, Izuku’s walls began to crack, though he was far from letting them crumble entirely.

One evening, Bakugou found him sitting alone on a park bench, staring blankly at the sky. It was late, the streets deserted, and the soft glow of streetlights cast long shadows across the ground.

“Deku,” Bakugou called out as he approached.

Izuku didn’t look at him. “What do you want, Kacchan?”

“To talk,” Bakugou said, sitting down beside him.

Izuku sighed but didn’t tell him to leave.

For a while, they sat in silence, the chill of the night air wrapping around them. Then, out of nowhere, Izuku spoke.

“Do you ever wonder if things would’ve been better if you’d never met someone?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Bakugou froze. The question hit him like a punch to the gut.

“No,” he said finally, his voice rough. “Because even if I screwed up back then—no, especially because I screwed up—I’m not gonna pretend you don’t matter. I can’t.”

Izuku turned to him then, his green eyes searching Bakugou’s face. For a moment, Bakugou thought he saw a glimmer of something—hope, maybe, or desperation.

But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the same hollow emptiness.

“You’re wasting your time, Kacchan,” Izuku said, his tone flat once more. “I’m not worth it.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” Bakugou shot back, his voice trembling with emotion. “I do. And I’m telling you, you’re worth every second.”

---

That night, Izuku lay awake, Bakugou’s words echoing in his mind. He stared at the ceiling of his apartment, his chest tight with a feeling he couldn’t name.

For years, he’d lived his life like a shadow, detached and numb. It was easier that way—safer. But Bakugou’s persistence was starting to stir something in him, something he’d buried so deep he’d almost forgotten it existed.

He hated it.

He hated the way Bakugou’s words made him feel, the way they threatened to unravel everything he’d worked so hard to suppress.

Why won’t he just give up? Izuku thought bitterly, his fingers curling into fists. Why won’t he leave me alone?

But even as he thought it, a small, treacherous part of him didn’t want Bakugou to stop.

---

Bakugou’s determination didn’t waver, but it wasn’t without its toll. He began to question himself late at night when exhaustion and self-doubt crept in. Was he really helping? Or was he just tearing open old wounds that Izuku had spent years trying to close?

But every time he thought about giving up, he remembered Izuku’s face. The hollow eyes, the monotone voice—it wasn’t just the absence of a smile that haunted Bakugou. It was the absence of Izuku.

He couldn’t let that be the end of the story.

---

One evening, Bakugou waited for Izuku outside the diner as usual. The streets were unusually quiet, and the faint glow of streetlights cast long, uneven shadows across the pavement. When Izuku finally stepped out, Bakugou noticed something different.

“Deku,” Bakugou called out, falling into step beside him.

Izuku didn’t respond, but his pace quickened, his head tilted downward as if to avoid eye contact.

“Hey,” Bakugou said, reaching out to grab Izuku’s arm. “What’s wrong?”

Izuku jerked his arm away, glaring at Bakugou with an intensity that caught him off guard.

“Why do you keep doing this?” Izuku snapped, his voice low but trembling.

“Doing what?” Bakugou shot back, his frustration bubbling to the surface.

“This!” Izuku gestured between them, his movements sharp and erratic. “Showing up, talking to me, pretending like you care! What do you even want from me, Kacchan?”

“I want you to stop acting like you don’t matter!” Bakugou shouted, his voice raw with emotion. “I want you to see yourself the way I see you!”

Izuku froze, his chest heaving as he stared at Bakugou. For a moment, the mask of indifference slipped, and Bakugou saw it—the pain, the anger, the unbearable weight Izuku carried.

But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by that same cold detachment.

“You don’t get it,” Izuku said quietly, his voice barely audible. “I don’t want to be seen. Not by you. Not by anyone.”

Bakugou felt his heart shatter.

---

The days that followed were a blur for Izuku. His life was a cycle of monotony—work, sleep, repeat. Each day bled into the next, the passing of time marked only by the faint lines on his face and the growing hollowness in his chest.

He avoided mirrors, not because he hated what he saw, but because he didn’t see anything at all. His reflection was a stranger—a ghost of the boy he once was.

Food was a necessity, not a pleasure. Sleep was an escape, not a rest. And emotions? They were a burden he couldn’t afford to carry.

---

But Bakugou’s persistence was starting to chip away at the walls Izuku had built.

One day, as Bakugou sat at the counter of the diner, he noticed Izuku falter. It was a small thing—a slight hesitation as he poured Bakugou’s coffee, his hand trembling ever so slightly.

“You okay?” Bakugou asked, his voice soft but steady.

Izuku didn’t respond, but he didn’t pull away, either. Instead, he placed the cup in front of Bakugou and stood there, his gaze fixed on the counter.

“Deku,” Bakugou said, leaning forward. “Talk to me. Please.”

For a moment, Izuku’s lips parted, as if he wanted to say something. But then he shook his head, his expression hardening once more.

“Enjoy your coffee,” he said, turning away.

But Bakugou didn’t miss the way his shoulders sagged as he walked back to the kitchen.

---

That night, Bakugou made a decision. If words weren’t enough to reach Izuku, he’d have to try something else.

The next day, he showed up at the diner with a notebook in hand. When Izuku approached to take his order, Bakugou slid the notebook across the counter.

“What’s this?” Izuku asked, eyeing it warily.

“Something I’ve been working on,” Bakugou said, his tone casual. “Go on. Open it.”

Izuku hesitated before flipping open the cover. Inside were pages filled with sketches—of heroes, battles, and, to Izuku’s surprise, himself.

“These are—” Izuku started, his voice faltering.

“Yeah,” Bakugou interrupted. “I used to doodle in my hero notebooks when I was a kid. Thought it’d help me remember what I’m fighting for.”

Izuku stared at the sketches, his fingers tracing the lines of a drawing that looked eerily like him from their middle school days.

“You kept these?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course I did,” Bakugou said, his tone soft. “You were always the reason

---

“You were always the reason I wanted to be better,” Bakugou admitted, his voice trembling slightly. “Back then, I was too proud, too stupid to admit it. But you… you were always a reminder of what it meant to have a real hero’s heart, even when the world gave you nothing in return.”

Izuku’s hand stilled on the notebook. For a moment, Bakugou thought he wouldn’t respond. Then, slowly, Izuku closed the notebook and set it back on the counter.

“Why are you telling me this now?” Izuku asked, his tone neutral but his eyes searching Bakugou’s face. “It’s been years, Kacchan. Years of silence. What changed?”

Bakugou leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the counter. “Because I can’t live with the person I was anymore. I can’t live knowing I was part of what broke you. I’ve spent years trying to be a better hero, a better person, but none of it means anything if I can’t make things right with you.”

Izuku looked away, his jaw tightening. “You can’t fix what’s already broken.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Bakugou said, his voice firm. “You’re not broken, Deku. You’ve just been carrying too much for too long. Let me help you. Please.”

---

Izuku walked home that night, the streets empty and quiet save for the occasional rumble of a distant train. Bakugou’s words replayed in his mind, each one cutting deeper than the last.

You’re not broken.

You matter to me.

Izuku clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He didn’t know how to feel—didn’t know if he could feel. For years, he’d buried every emotion, every ounce of pain and anger and hope, because it was easier to exist that way. Emotions were messy. They hurt. And he’d already endured enough hurt to last a lifetime.

But now, Bakugou was forcing him to confront those feelings, dragging them out of the dark corners where he’d hidden them. It was terrifying.

It was infuriating.

And yet, a small, fragile part of him wondered if maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to carry it all alone.

---

The next time Bakugou came to the diner, Izuku didn’t meet his gaze. He went through the motions of taking Bakugou’s order, his hands steady, his voice even. But something was different.

Bakugou noticed it immediately.

“You’re shutting me out again,” he said, his tone more resigned than angry. “What happened?”

Izuku placed Bakugou’s coffee in front of him and leaned against the counter, his arms crossed. “Why do you care so much, Kacchan? Really? Why does it matter to you if I’m… fine or not?”

“Because you were the one thing I never deserved but always needed,” Bakugou said without hesitation.

The words hit Izuku like a punch to the gut. He stared at Bakugou, his breath hitching, his walls threatening to crack.

“You don’t understand,” Izuku said, his voice shaking. “You don’t understand what it’s like to be nothing. To wake up every day and feel like you’re just… taking up space. Like you shouldn’t even be here.”

Bakugou stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “Don’t you dare say that,” he growled. “Don’t you ever say that.”

Izuku flinched but didn’t look away.

“You think you’re nothing, huh?” Bakugou continued, his voice rising. “You think the world would be better off without you? Then tell me why I can’t stop thinking about you, Deku! Tell me why the only reason I didn’t give up on myself is because I wanted to be someone who could look you in the eye and not feel like a damn failure!”

The diner was silent. Izuku’s hands trembled, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to process the raw, unfiltered emotion in Bakugou’s voice.

“I can’t fix the past,” Bakugou said, his voice quieter now. “But I can promise you this: I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not.”

---

For the first time in years, Izuku allowed himself to feel something—just a flicker, a spark of something warm and unfamiliar.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough.

And for the first time, he didn’t tell Bakugou to leave.

---

Izuku's body healed faster than his heart. Bandages and bruises faded, but the hollowness inside remained like an open wound. Each day was a battle between wanting to move forward and the fear of letting himself feel again.

Bakugou became a constant presence during his recovery, showing up uninvited but never unwelcome. He didn’t hover or push; instead, he found small ways to support Izuku—bringing meals, organizing his sparse apartment, or just sitting silently in the room.

At first, Izuku barely acknowledged him. His responses were clipped, his movements mechanical. But Bakugou never faltered.

One night, Bakugou walked in to find Izuku sitting by the window, staring blankly at the city lights. His hands were trembling, though he clutched them tightly to his chest as if trying to suppress the movement.

“You okay?” Bakugou asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Izuku didn’t look at him. “I keep hearing it,” he murmured. “The screams. The explosion.”

Bakugou’s jaw tightened. “That wasn’t your fault, Deku.”

Izuku’s laugh was bitter. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t turn it off. It’s like I’m stuck there.”

Bakugou moved closer, his footsteps deliberate. He crouched in front of Izuku, forcing the other man to meet his gaze. “Then let me help you get out,” he said quietly.

Izuku hesitated, his breath hitching. For the first time, there was something in his eyes—fear, vulnerability, maybe even hope.

“I don’t know how,” he admitted, his voice cracking.

Bakugou placed a hand over Izuku’s trembling ones. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

---

A few days later, Bakugou convinced Izuku to take a walk with him. The crisp evening air felt different, almost freeing, as they wandered aimlessly through quiet streets.

“Why do you care so much?” Izuku asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

Bakugou stopped, turning to face him. “Because I owe you. For everything.”

Izuku frowned, his gaze wary. “You don’t owe me anything, Kacchan.”

“Yes, I do,” Bakugou insisted. “I owe you an apology for the way I treated you back then. For being too blind to see what you were going through.” He took a deep breath, his hands clenching at his sides. “But more than that, I care because… you’re important to me.”

Izuku blinked, stunned into silence.

Bakugou’s voice softened. “You always were, Deku. Even when I didn’t show it, even when I acted like you weren’t.”

The words hung between them, heavy and raw. For a moment, Izuku looked like he might argue, but then his shoulders slumped, and he nodded.

“Okay,” he whispered.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough for now.

---

Healing wasn’t linear. There were days when Izuku made progress, laughing softly at one of Bakugou’s sarcastic remarks or letting his guard down for a fleeting moment. But there were also days when the darkness threatened to consume him again.

On one particularly bad day, Bakugou found Izuku sitting in the dark, the notebook of sketches open in his lap.

“I can’t do this,” Izuku said, his voice shaking.

Bakugou froze, his heart pounding. “What do you mean?”

Izuku’s grip tightened on the notebook. “This. Us. You trying to fix me. It’s too much. I don’t know how to be the person you want me to be.”

“I don’t want you to be anyone but yourself,” Bakugou said firmly, stepping closer. “And I’m not trying to fix you, Deku. I just want you to know you don’t have to carry this alone.”

Izuku’s laugh was bitter. “But I’ve always been alone. That’s all I know.”

“Not anymore,” Bakugou said, kneeling in front of him. “I’m not going anywhere, Deku. No matter how hard you try to push me away, I’m staying right here.”

The words broke something in Izuku. His shoulders shook as he buried his face in his hands, his sobs muffled but raw.

Bakugou didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around Izuku, holding him tightly as the dam finally burst.

“It’s okay,” Bakugou whispered. “I’ve got you.”

For the first time, Izuku let himself believe it.

---

Despite their progress, the past wasn’t so easily forgotten. One night, Bakugou’s relentless efforts to help Izuku brought everything to a boiling point.

“Why are you still here?” Izuku snapped, his voice rising. “Why do you keep pretending like you care?”

“Because I do care!” Bakugou shouted back, his frustration finally breaking through. “Why can’t you see that?”

“Because it doesn’t make sense!” Izuku yelled, his voice cracking. “After everything, after all the years you hated me, why now? Why me?”

“Because you’re worth it, damn it!” Bakugou roared.

Izuku froze, his breath hitching.

Bakugou’s voice softened, his anger replaced by desperation. “You’ve always been worth it, Deku. I just didn’t see it back then. But I see it now, and I’m not giving up on you.”

The room fell silent, the weight of Bakugou’s words settling over them.

Izuku’s walls finally crumbled, and for the first time, he let himself feel—anger, pain, hope, and the faintest spark of something he hadn’t dared to believe in for years: love.

---

For a while, the silence after Bakugou's outburst was deafening. Izuku stood frozen, staring at him as though the words had pierced straight through his chest.

“I’ve always been worth it?” Izuku finally repeated, his voice quiet but trembling. “Then why did everyone else make me feel like I wasn’t?”

Bakugou’s face twisted in pain. “Because the world’s full of idiots who don’t know how to see what’s right in front of them.” He stepped closer, his gaze steady. “But not me. Not anymore. I see you now, Deku. And I don’t give a damn about what anyone else thinks.”

Izuku’s throat tightened, and for a long moment, he couldn’t respond. He’d spent years believing that his worth was tied to his quirklessness, that he was inherently lesser because of it. And here was Bakugou, the person who once embodied every cruel word and action he’d endured, telling him he was wrong.

He wanted to believe him. But the scars ran deep.

“Why?” Izuku asked, his voice breaking. “Why do you care so much? Why do you keep trying?”

“Because I can’t lose you again,” Bakugou admitted, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. “I’ve already lost so much time, Deku. I can’t lose you too.”

Izuku’s knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, his hands clutching his hair. The sobs came before he could stop them, years of pain and isolation pouring out in a flood.

Bakugou knelt beside him, his arms wrapping around Izuku’s trembling frame. He didn’t say anything—didn’t try to fix or justify or explain. He just held him, letting the storm rage until it finally began to subside.

---

The following days felt like walking on thin ice. Izuku wasn’t sure how to navigate the new, fragile connection between him and Bakugou. For so long, he’d avoided letting anyone in, convinced that doing so would only lead to more pain.

But Bakugou’s persistence was unwavering. He didn’t push too hard, didn’t demand more than Izuku was willing to give. Instead, he stayed close, offering quiet support and reassurance.

One evening, as they sat together in Izuku’s small apartment, Bakugou broke the silence.

“You ever think about what comes next?” he asked, his tone casual but laced with sincerity.

Izuku frowned, staring at the cup of tea in his hands. “What do you mean?”

Bakugou shrugged. “You’ve spent so long just… surviving. Don’t you want more than that?”

Izuku’s chest tightened. “I don’t know how,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to figure it out alone,” Bakugou said, his gaze steady. “We’ll take it one step at a time. Together.”

For the first time, Izuku allowed himself to entertain the possibility of a future—one that wasn’t defined by pain or loneliness.

---

Just as Izuku began to take tentative steps toward healing, an unexpected challenge threatened to undo everything. A news article surfaced, dredging up the past and painting a brutal picture of the years Izuku had spent quirkless and ostracized.

The headlines were cruel, the comments even worse. Izuku felt the weight of the world crashing down on him all over again.

“Deku,” Bakugou said firmly, finding him sitting in the dark once more. “Don’t listen to them. They don’t know you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Izuku muttered, his voice hollow. “They’re not wrong.”

“Yes, they are,” Bakugou snapped, kneeling in front of him. “You’re not what they say you are. You’re more than that.”

Izuku’s eyes filled with tears, and he shook his head. “I don’t know how to be more, Kacchan. I don’t know if I can.”

“You don’t have to do it all at once,” Bakugou said softly. “Just take one step. Start with me.”

Izuku stared at him, the vulnerability in his gaze cutting deeper than any words. And then, slowly, he nodded.

---

Healing wasn’t a straight line. There were setbacks and moments of doubt, but each time, Bakugou was there to pull Izuku back from the brink. They learned to trust each other, to lean on one another in ways neither of them had thought possible.

And for the first time in years, Izuku began to feel again.

It started small—a flicker of warmth when Bakugou laughed, a faint smile when he caught himself reminiscing about better days. Slowly, that warmth grew, melting the ice that had encased his heart for so long.

One evening, as they sat together watching the sunset, Izuku turned to Bakugou. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

Bakugou raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

“For not giving up on me,” Izuku said, his voice steady but filled with emotion. “For staying.”

Bakugou’s expression softened, and he reached out, taking Izuku’s hand in his. “Always, Deku.”

---

Izuku couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this… warm. It wasn’t just the sunset casting golden light over the city, or the comfortable silence he shared with Bakugou. It was the quiet realization that, for the first time in years, he wasn’t alone.

And for the first time, he didn’t want to be.

“Hey, Kacchan?” Izuku’s voice broke the silence, hesitant but resolute.

Bakugou turned, his crimson eyes reflecting the fading sunlight. “Yeah?”

Izuku hesitated, his fingers fidgeting in his lap. His heart was pounding, but he forced himself to look up, meeting Bakugou’s gaze. “Why did you come back? Why did you… stay?”

Bakugou frowned, his brows furrowing in thought. “Because I couldn’t stand the thought of you going through all that alone anymore.” He shifted closer, his voice softening. “Because you deserve better than what this world gave you, and I wanted to be part of making it right.”

Izuku’s breath hitched, his chest tightening. “You’ve done so much already,” he murmured. “But I… I don’t know if I can give you what you deserve.”

Bakugou huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Deku, you idiot. I don’t need you to give me anything. Just let me stay by your side.”

The words were simple, but they hit Izuku like a tidal wave. For so long, he’d kept everyone at arm’s length, too afraid to let anyone in. But now, he wanted to take that leap.

“Kacchan…” he started, his voice trembling. “I think I—”

Before he could finish, Bakugou leaned in, his hand cupping Izuku’s cheek. His movements were careful, almost hesitant, as though afraid of scaring him off.

Izuku didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut as Bakugou closed the gap between them.

Their lips met in a kiss that was gentle, almost fragile, but it carried the weight of years of pain, regret, and unspoken feelings.

Izuku’s hands found their way to Bakugou’s shirt, clutching it tightly as though anchoring himself to the moment. And for the first time, he felt something other than emptiness—something real, something hopeful.

When they finally pulled apart, Bakugou rested his forehead against Izuku’s, a small, relieved smile tugging at his lips.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

Izuku nodded, his own lips curving into a tentative smile. “Yeah. I think… I think I’m okay.”

---

After that, things didn’t magically fix themselves. There were still hard days, moments of doubt, and the lingering shadows of their pasts. But now, they faced them together.

Bakugou’s affection was a constant—small gestures like holding Izuku’s hand, teasing him to get a smile, or just sitting quietly beside him on the tough days. And slowly, Izuku began to reciprocate.

One evening, as they sat together watching a movie, Izuku turned to Bakugou. “Kacchan?”

“Yeah?” Bakugou looked over, his expression soft.

Izuku hesitated, then reached out, lacing their fingers together. “Thank you. For everything.”

Bakugou smirked, squeezing his hand. “Took you long enough to say it, nerd.”

Izuku rolled his eyes but didn’t let go. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” Bakugou shot back, his grin widening.

Izuku’s face turned red, but he didn’t deny it. Instead, he leaned his head against Bakugou’s shoulder, a contented sigh escaping his lips.

For the first time, the future didn’t feel so scary.

---

Navigating a relationship was uncharted territory for both of them. For Izuku, it was learning how to trust, how to let himself feel without the fear of being hurt. For Bakugou, it was figuring out how to express his feelings without overwhelming the man he cared so deeply for.

At first, their relationship was slow, tentative, and awkward in its own way. Izuku wasn’t used to affection, and Bakugou wasn’t the best at showing it. But they were determined to make it work.

---

Izuku stirred awake one morning to the soft rays of sunlight filtering through his curtains. He blinked, momentarily confused by the weight draped across his waist.

“Kacchan?” he murmured, his voice hoarse from sleep.

Bakugou didn’t respond immediately, his face buried in the crook of Izuku’s neck. “Five more minutes,” he grumbled, tightening his hold.

Izuku’s heart fluttered, and for a moment, he simply lay there, soaking in the warmth of Bakugou’s embrace. It was a simple, quiet moment, but it felt monumental.

“You’re clingy in the morning,” Izuku teased, his lips curving into a faint smile.

“Shut up,” Bakugou muttered, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward.

Izuku chuckled softly, pressing his forehead against Bakugou’s. It was in these quiet moments that he realized how far they’d come—how far he’d come.

---

Dating a Pro Hero wasn’t without its challenges. Their relationship was private, but in the age of social media, nothing stayed secret for long. A blurry photo of Bakugou and Izuku holding hands surfaced online, sparking a frenzy of speculation.

“Do you think this is going to be a problem?” Izuku asked, anxiety creeping into his voice.

Bakugou snorted, crossing his arms. “Let them talk. I don’t care what anyone thinks.”

Izuku hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure, Deku,” Bakugou said, his tone firm but reassuring. He reached out, brushing his thumb against Izuku’s cheek. “We’re not hiding. Not anymore.”

---

It wasn’t always smooth sailing. There were still arguments, mostly stemming from their insecurities. One night, after a particularly heated disagreement, Izuku locked himself in his room, the familiar urge to retreat and isolate himself creeping in.

“Deku,” Bakugou called through the door, his voice softer than usual. “I’m not leaving, so you might as well open up.”

There was a long pause before the door creaked open, revealing Izuku with tear-streaked cheeks. “I don’t know why you put up with me,” he whispered.

“Because I love you, idiot,” Bakugou said bluntly, stepping inside.

Izuku’s eyes widened, his breath hitching. “You… you love me?”

Bakugou rolled his eyes, though his cheeks turned pink. “Yeah, I do. Thought that was obvious.”

Izuku’s lips trembled, and before he could overthink it, he threw himself into Bakugou’s arms. “I love you too,” he mumbled against his chest.

Bakugou smirked, his hand coming up to ruffle Izuku’s hair. “Good. Now stop shutting me out, nerd.”

Izuku laughed through his tears, clinging tightly to the man who had become his safe haven.

---

Over time, Izuku learned to embrace the happiness he thought he’d never deserve. He still had hard days, but he wasn’t alone anymore. Bakugou was there for every step of his journey, just as Izuku was there for him.

Their relationship wasn’t perfect, but it was real, built on trust, patience, and love.

One night, as they stood on the rooftop of Bakugou’s agency, Izuku looked out at the city below. “Do you ever think about the future?” he asked quietly.

Bakugou glanced at him, his crimson eyes softening. “Yeah. And for the first time, I don’t hate what I see.”

Izuku smiled, leaning into Bakugou’s side. “Me neither.”

As the stars shimmered above them, Izuku allowed himself to believe in a future worth fighting for—a future he’d build with the man who had helped him find his way back to the light.

Together, they were unstoppable.

---

Izuku leaned on the railing of their shared apartment balcony, the evening breeze ruffling his hair. The city lights stretched endlessly before him, vibrant and alive. He never thought he’d feel at peace looking at this view—his past held too many ghosts, too many memories. But now, with Bakugou standing beside him, those ghosts seemed quieter.

Bakugou stepped closer, his arm brushing Izuku’s. “What’s got you spacing out, nerd?” he asked, his tone softer than his words.

Izuku turned, smiling faintly. “Just thinking about how far we’ve come.”

Bakugou scoffed, though there was no heat behind it. “Damn straight we’ve come far. Took you long enough to realize you’re not half as hopeless as you think.”

Izuku laughed quietly, shaking his head. “You really don’t hold back, huh?”

“Nope,” Bakugou said, smirking. “But I mean it, Deku. You’ve always been stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

Izuku’s chest swelled with warmth, his hand reaching out to grasp Bakugou’s. “I wouldn’t have gotten here without you, Kacchan. Thank you for staying… for breaking through my walls.”

Bakugou’s smirk softened into a rare, genuine smile. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll keep proving it, every day.”

They stood there, hand in hand, the city buzzing below them and the stars shining above. Izuku tilted his head up, catching Bakugou’s gaze.

“I love you,” Izuku said, the words steady and sure.

Bakugou leaned in, his forehead resting against Izuku’s. “I love you too, Deku.”

Their lips met in a kiss that was neither rushed nor hesitant—it was a promise, unspoken but understood.

Together, they’d faced the darkest parts of themselves. Together, they’d found the strength to heal.

And together, they’d build a future worth living for.

---

The End.