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Katsuki never cared much for anything beyond heroes or how to become one when he was growing up.
That is, until he met Izuku—a freckled, flimsy boy who somehow managed to bring out both the best and worst in him.
The best, because he made him push forward, be better.
The worst, because he made him feel too much, too strongly.
Katsuki knew Izuku hid strength behind that feeble exterior. He knew because he saw through it, and it infuriated him—because for all that Katsuki saw, he couldn’t understand.
He saw through every tear, every tremor in his raised knuckles, every single freckle on his face.
And through the years, Katsuki kept seeing, watching, always from a safe distance. Always at arm’s length.
🌌
One night, Katsuki found himself stargazing—the vast, night sky pulling him in.
The sky was darker than usual, emptied by a passing storm that had swept all the clouds away.
One star shone brighter than the rest, standing tall above the smaller ones. A little to the right, a cluster of scattered lights formed a pattern that felt familiar. He couldn’t quite place it, but a quiet warmth washed over him at the sight.
Katsuki found that he liked the way the stars aligned above him, how they steadied him, made him feel grounded.
He didn’t understand why, not back then. He was still too young for that.
Though with time, he would.
🌌
Izuku had exactly nineteen freckles on his face—eight on his left cheek, seven on his right, and four that scattered around. But when the sun hit him just right, a few more surfaced along his cheekbones, and two small ones found their way onto his chin.
Katsuki knew, because he observed—just like he observed the night sky, whenever the clouds allowed.
In high school, he began noticing them even more. The soft patterns, the constellations that crawled down Izuku’s neck toward his back.
In the locker room, a whole new canvas unfolded before him, one Katsuki couldn’t tear his eyes from, even if he tried— hundreds of new stars traveling down Izuku’s still unscarred back, hiding between his muscles’ ridges.
The ones on his arms had already been covered by scars, unfortunately.
The day it happened, Katsuki mourned them quietly—they’d looked like the Ursa Minor, if you tilted your head just right.
🌌
The war ended, and with it, the clogged, dark skies.
The moon shone bright again, clear and perfect—brightening up her surroundings, allowing Katsuki to contemplate the patterns in the dark sky once more.
The end of the war washed away the clouds, and, unfortunately, it took away Katsuki’s favorite cluster of stars, too. Izuku’s right cheek was seven freckles down, now—scar tissue claiming its never-owned place.
Despite everything, Katsuki found himself attached to it, to the one freckle who proudly stood its ground. And he couldn’t help but stare.
He tried to hide the looks, the longing—but he realized he didn’t care as much, now, if Izuku caught him staring.
🌌
Andromeda was said to be a beautiful princess, so stunning that the hero Perseus couldn’t resist straying from his path to save her from the clutches of a fearsome villain. A chuckle escaped Katsuki’s lips when he first learned of the ancient myth.
The constellation bearing her name glimmered brightly—though only on the coldest, darkest winter nights.
Just as it did on Izuku’s skin on the rare nights he showered late, and Katsuki could catch a fleeting glimpse of him in the dorm bathrooms.
On his right shoulder, Izuku had a cluster of freckles that reminded Katsuki of Andromeda. And the times he managed to see it, he wished that he could trace the stars’ path on Izuku’s skin with his own fingers, or connect them together with a pen.
Sometimes, on those nights, he caught a glimmer of something in Izuku’s eyes. Something resembling hope—the same one he recognized in his own.
Maybe Izuku had been watching him all these years, just as closely as him.
Maybe arm’s length was too far for him, too.
🌌
Katsuki never cared much for anything beyond heroes or how to become one when he was growing up.
Now, at 29 years old, all he cares about is counting stars on his husband’s muscled back.
He still loves the night sky—the alluring depth of it, its bright patterns and the history it carries. Light-years away from him, unreachable.
But now, Katsuki’s learnt that his favorite time to stargaze is in the quiet mornings, when the sunlight filters through the window at just the right angle, casting golden rays over the soft ridges of Izuku’s skin.
Now, at 29 years old, Katsuki’s favorite stars are the ones closest to him, the ones he can touch.
And now, because he can, he takes his time tracing them.
He follows the patterns with careful fingers, connecting the biggest freckles with the smallest, as gently as possible. He’s memorized so many constellations throughout his life, but now, he finds that his favorites are the ones he’s made up, the ones he’s spent years discovering under warm sheets.
There’s one right under Izuku’s ribs—five perfect dots, resting beside a scar Katsuki wishes he didn’t remember so well. He won’t ever say it out loud, but he’s given it a name. One he’ll never share.
Izuku stirs under his touch, a quiet hum escaping his lips as he shifts. He blinks awake, turning to face him.
“Morning, love.”
It’s ridiculous that Katsuki’s heart still falters when he calls him that. But he secretly loves that it does.
“Morning,” Katsuki murmurs.
Izuku is facing him now, and Katsuki can’t decide which canvas he loves more, the front or the back. There are so many freckles everywhere, he sometimes feels overwhelmed.
Staring at Izuku is like looking up at the night sky—vast, infinite, all-encompassing. And when he smiles, like he’s doing now, it feels like witnessing an actual solar eclipse. Too bright. Too stunning. Everything else fades in comparison.
Katsuki’s hand is still resting on Izuku’s arm, and Izuku takes it, brings it to his lips and kisses it—it’s familiar, muscle memory. It’s home, to them.
He shifts closer, pressing in as much as possible, and Katsuki adjusts without thinking, accommodating his weight like he always does. Izuku buries his face in the space between Katsuki’s neck and the pillow, a lazy, contented hum slipping from his lips before leaving a soft kiss against his skin. Katsuki allows himself to close his eyes.
Even in the dark, he sees them. Izuku’s stars, mapping out a path, a trace to follow, the one he’s been chasing all his life.
And on mornings like this, Katsuki finds that he really doesn’t care much for anything beyond Izuku’s weight on him, or the two new freckles that have made their way onto Izuku’s left cheekbone this summer.
But then again, when has he ever?