Chapter Text
“Marry me.”
Midoriya Izuku blinked. Slowly.
He was sitting on the floor with his math notebook open, halfway through peeling a Pikachu sticker off the cover because it was crooked and bothering him. There were snack crumbs on the carpet and his socks didn’t match. Sunlight spilled in through the living room window and caught in the curls at the top of his head.
He looked up.
“…Huh?”
Katsuki stood dead center in front of him like a little storm cloud coming to rain on his content parade. His fists were clenched tight, nails biting into his palms. His cheeks were lit up bright red — not embarrassed red. Angry red. Katsuki didn’t do embarrassed. Not officially.
“I said marry me,” he repeated, like Izuku was the dumb one for needing to hear it again.
Izuku just blinked at him some more, the sticker dangling off the notebook now. “Kacchan. You’re six.”
Katsuki crossed his arms. “So?”
“I’m eleven.”
“And?” Katsuki snapped, staring him down like this was somehow Izuku’s fault.
There was a long pause. Izuku tilted his head.
“Nhh…Is this because I gave you the last jelly cup?”
Katsuki’s entire face scrunched up like Izuku had just stepped on something sacred. “No, dumbass! That’s not—ugh! You don’t get it!”
He stomped his foot, which would’ve been more dramatic if his socks didn’t squeak on the hardwood. Then he dropped down onto the floor right next to Izuku, legs straight out, face all twisted like he was chewing on a lemon.
“I decided already,” he mumbled, arms folded so tight his shoulders nearly touched. “You’re gonna be a hero. I’m gonna be a hero. Heroes can marry each other. That’s a rule now.”
Izuku stared at him.
He wasn’t smiling exactly — not yet. But the corners of his mouth twitched. And his chest felt a little weird. Not in a bad way. Just in a warm way. Like being handed a cup of tea you didn’t ask for, but now you didn’t want to let go of.
He looked at Katsuki. Really looked. Not just the scowl or the messy blond hair or the fact that he’d nearly picked a fight with a second grader earlier over who got to be “All Might” during recess. But the way his knees were pulled in, how his voice got quiet at the end, like maybe this had taken more out of him than he meant to show.
Katsuki didn’t meet his eyes.
“You’ll wait,” he said, like it was that simple. “I’m gonna get older. And you’ll wait.”
Izuku swallowed.
And then, just because something in his chest told him it mattered:
“Okay,” he said.
Katsuki’s head whipped toward him like a shot.
“…Wait—what?”
Izuku shrugged, soft but sure. “If you still want to when we’re older, and if we’re both heroes, and if you stop calling me ‘nerd’ and ‘Deku’ and start using my name.”
Katsuki made a face like he’d just been sentenced to death. He looked away.
“…Izuku,” he muttered.
Izuku blinked again, for a completely different reason this time.
“What?”
“I said it. Your dumb name. Don’t make me do it again.”
Izuku broke into the kind of smile that couldn’t be helped even if he tried.
They didn’t say much else after that.
Just sat there, two kids in socks, on a living room floor with the smell of dinner starting to drift in from the kitchen. Katsuki didn’t explode. Izuku didn’t tease. The silence between them didn’t feel heavy or awkward. It just… was.
And that, somehow, made it feel important.
The Pikachu sticker was still on the notebook — faded now, corners curling, smudged with graphite fingerprints and maybe a bit of curry.
Izuku didn’t try to fix it anymore. It had become part of the notebook’s personality, like the little scribbled hero logos in the margins or the fold in the back cover from where Katsuki sat on it once, pretending he hadn’t.
It had been months since that day in the living room. Since the “marry me.” Since the quiet, weird little moment that neither of them ever really brought up again.
Not out loud, anyway.
Now it was autumn. The leaves in the yard had started turning gold and crunchy, and the air smelled sharp and dry, like chalk dust and wind. Izuku’s voice had started changing a little — not a lot, but enough that Katsuki noticed. He wasn’t taller by much, but he was stronger. And busier, too — always with his notebooks, or training, or chasing after older boys with big quirks and bigger dreams.
Katsuki didn’t say it, but sometimes it made his chest ache.
They were in Izuku’s room this time. The floor was littered with sketch pages and open textbooks, and the desk lamp buzzed softly with a warm yellow light. Katsuki sat cross-legged on the rug, one cheek squished against the carpet. He’d been pretending to nap, but really he was just listening.
Izuku was muttering to himself while scribbling in a notebook — half sentences, power stats, quirk analysis terms Katsuki didn’t even pretend to care about.
“Hey,” Katsuki said, suddenly.
Izuku stopped mid-sentence. “Huh?”
Katsuki rolled onto his back, arms folded behind his head. “You’re not gonna be one of those jerks, right?”
Izuku blinked. “What jerks?”
“The ones who get famous and then turn boring.”
He smiled a little. “I don’t think I’m anywhere near famous.”
Katsuki shrugged, not looking at him. “Still. You better not forget stuff.”
Izuku’s smile softened. He reached over and ruffled Katsuki’s hair. He swatted it off. (I’m not a kid dont treat me like one!) “I won’t.”
“Like that sticker,” Katsuki added, still not looking at him.
Izuku glanced at the notebook by his bed. The sticker was a little ghost of what it had been — yellow faded to pale gold, black eyes rubbed soft gray.
“Yeah,” Izuku said quietly. “Still sticks.”
Katsuki rolled his eyes. Ugh, nerd, but he didn’t push it.
Outside the window, the wind rustled through the leaves. Someone in the neighborhood was raking. Somewhere, a dog barked once and then again.
They stayed like that — quiet, close, not really needing words. Izuku went back to his notes. Katsuki let his eyes drift half-shut.
It was different now — not new, just growing. A little older. A little quieter. Still them.
And underneath everything, Katsuki could still hear it:
You said okay.
His cheeks flushed again.