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Chapter Text

The roar of the crowd was a physical force, a wave of adoration that crashed against the stage. Katsuki Bakugo stood at its center, Fifth Place, and smiled. It was a sharp, brilliant thing, all teeth and calculated charm, engineered to make the cameras flash faster. He raised a hand, and a cascade of controlled sparks erupted from his palm—the signature of Pro Hero Dynamight. The light painted the insides of his eyes white.

“Another year, another step forward!” his voice boomed through the speakers, smooth and confident. The lie tasted like ash. “The view from here is great, but Number One is still a little too comfortable! I’m coming for that spot!”

The crowd screamed its approval. They saw the ambition, the power, the unshakable confidence. They didn't see the calculations running behind his eyes, the way his jaw ached from holding the smile. They didn't see the cage.

Later, the cage was silent.

His apartment was a monument to success, a penthouse perched at the city's summit. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the glittering, silent metropolis. This was the tower. Not of stone and ivy, but of glass, steel, and his own relentless will. He had earned this. The money, the status, the power—it was all there, meticulously arranged in minimalist furniture and spotless surfaces. It was perfect.

And it was utterly, profoundly empty.

He tossed the crystal-shaped award onto the kitchen island. It skidded and clinked against another one from last year. The only light came from the city below, casting long, lonely shadows across the polished concrete floor. He shrugged off his tailored jacket, and let it fall over the back of a sofa, a splash of chaotic orange in the monochrome stillness.

Fifth.

He was better than that. He had to be better than that. He’d worked, bled, and broken himself to be better than that.

His phone buzzed, lighting up with a hero news alert. A picture of Deku. Number Four. The article gushed about his guest lecture at UA, his "inspiring humility," his "compassionate resolution" of a warehouse fire that involved zero structural damage. The nerd was everywhere, a verdant, sprawling force of nature, touching lives, building connections, growing.

Katsuki’s own victory felt sterile. A villain captured, property damage contained within acceptable limits, a soundbite delivered. A transaction.

He stalked to the window, his reflection a ghost superimposed over the city. He remembered the feeling of his Quirk, Explosion, roaring to life in his palms during today's fight—the heat, the concussive force, the sheer, unadulterated power. It was the only thing that ever felt real. But the moment the fight ended, the silence rushed back in, louder than any blast.

He pressed his forehead against the cool glass. Down there, millions of people lived their lives. Up here, he was a statue on a pedestal, admired from a distance. A king in a castle of his own design, wondering why the throne felt so damn cold.

A memory, unbidden, flickered behind his eyes: a simpler, angrier time. A boy with green hair and wide, determined eyes, forever chasing his shadow. "I'm going to be a hero too, Kacchan!"

He’d seen that boy today, on the podium. Number Four. Pro Hero Deku. His smile wasn't sharp. It was warm, genuine, and it reached his eyes. It was the smile of a man who went home to something other than silence.

Katsuki’s hand curled into a fist against the glass. A tiny, harmless pop sparked against his palm, a flicker of light that died instantly in the vast, dark room.

The tower was secure. The chains were fastened. And he was, as he had designed it to be, completely and terribly alone.

Chapter Text

The UA teacher's lounge was a controlled chaos of graded papers, half-empty mugs, and the low hum of post-class exhaustion. Izuku Midoriya sat at his desk, a red pen poised over a first-year's battle analysis essay. On the large screen mounted on the wall, the Hero Ranking press conference played on mute.

His eyes kept flicking up from the paper to the screen.

All Might, in his skeletal, retired form, had always said the smile was a hero's greatest tool. Izuku had taken that to heart. His own public smiles were genuine, fueled by a deep, unwavering love for heroism and the people he served.

But he had also become an expert in reading the smiles of others.

On screen, Best Jeanist offered a serene, closed-lipped curve. Edgeshot, a slight, almost imperceptible tilt of the head that served the same purpose. And there was Kacchan.

Dynamight's smile was a brilliant, aggressive flash. It was all teeth and blazing confidence, designed to dominate the frame and dare anyone to look away. The public saw unwavering ambition. Izuku, who had spent a lifetime mapping the nuances of Katsuki Bakugo's expressions, saw the minute tension in his jaw, the way the light in his crimson eyes was a reflection of camera flashes, not an emanation from within.

It was a perfect piece of performance art. And it made something ache deep in Izuku's chest.

"He's really polished his act, hasn't he?"

Izuku started, looking up to see Shoto Todoroki standing by his desk, holding two steaming mugs. He offered one to Izuku.

"Oh, thanks, Todoroki-kun." Izuku accepted the tea. "And... it's not an act. Not really. He means every word about being the best."

"But?" Todoroki prompted, taking a sip from his own mug. He had always been unsettlingly perceptive.

Izuku's gaze drifted back to the screen. The cameras were now on him, Number Four, and he watched his own slightly flustered, earnest face as he gave his speech. The contrast was jarring. He looked away, back to the student's essay on his desk.

"But he's... efficient," Izuku said finally, choosing the word with care. "In the field, his movements are flawless. His control is better than anyone's. But it's like he's... streamlined himself. There's no friction, because there's no contact."

He thought of the last joint mission, a building collapse. Dynamight had blown a precise funnel through the wreckage to create an air pocket for survivors. It was a masterclass in power and control. But once the civilians were safe, he'd stood apart from the other heroes, his back to the camaraderie, staring at the smoldering ruins as if they were the only thing in the world that made sense.

"He goes home alone," Izuku murmured, more to himself than to Todoroki.

Todoroki was quiet for a moment. 

"Not everyone wants a crowd, Midoriya."

"It's not a crowd," Izuku said, his voice firming with a conviction that surprised even him. His green eyes were steady, fixed on Bakugo's frozen image on the screen. "It's not about having sidekicks or fans. It's about... having an anchor. Something to tether you when the storm inside gets too loud."

He remembered the boy who had once stood atop a crumbling log, declaring his own lonely victory. He remembered the feeling of his own body moving before his mind could catch up, reaching out a hand that was always, always batted away.

Some habits died hard. Some concerns never faded.

The conference ended on screen, cutting to a commercial. Izuku finally looked down at the essay he was grading. The student had written about Dynamight's combat style, praising its raw power.

Izuku picked up his red pen and circled a paragraph. In the margin, he wrote:

'Analysis is good, but remember: a hero's Quirk is an extension of their heart. Dynamight's explosions are not just destruction; they are a language. The question is, who is he speaking to?'

He put the pen down. The image of Kacchan, standing isolated in a crowd of thousands, wouldn't leave him. The worry, a old, familiar vine, tightened around his own heart.

He wasn't just going to watch from a distance this time.

Chapter Text

Precision was a language Katsuki Bakugo spoke fluently. It was the grammar of a perfectly angled blast, the syntax of concussive force channeled through a narrow corridor, the punctuation of a controlled detonation that shattered a villain's support beam without touching the civilian shield they held.

Today's mission was a symphony of precision. The villain, "Geode," could crystallize the air into sharp, obstructive structures. A nuisance, not a world-ender. Bakugo's job was to breach the crystalline dome Geode had erected around a city block and extract him, minimizing collateral damage.

It was going perfectly. He'd identified the structural weak point—a hairline fracture near the base, invisible to anyone without his analytical eye and years of combat experience. One AP Shot, right there, and the whole structure would destabilize into harmless dust.

He raised his hand, finger poised. He calculated the trajectory, the yield, the—

"DYNAMIGHT! A word for your fans? Is it true you're using excessive force in there?"

The voice was shrill, amplified by a megaphone, slicing through his concentration. A reporter, held back by the police line, had shoved a camera through the gap.

His focus shattered. For a split second, his eyes flicked from the fracture to the reporter. His shot, loosed a microsecond too late and a degree off its mark, hit a load-bearing crystal pillar instead.

The result was not a controlled collapse. It was an explosion.

The dome didn't turn to dust; it erupted into a million diamond-sharp shards, raining down on the street. His own quirk, reflecting off the crystalline surfaces, magnified the blast. The concussive wave blew out the windows of the surrounding buildings and sent the reporter and her camera crew stumbling back.

Silence, for one heartbeat. Then, the screams started.

No one was seriously injured. A few cuts from flying glass, a lot of panic. Geode was captured, cowering in the now-open plaza. The mission was, by technical definition, a success.

But the camera had caught it all. The startled flinch, the misplaced shot, the rain of debris. It was a ten-second clip destined for viral infamy.

His publicist, a unflappable woman named Aiko who had dealt with his "personality" for years, looked like she wanted to strangle him with her own headset.

"They're calling it 'Dynamight's Destructive Temper,' Katsuki," she said, her voice tight as she paced his living room. "The narrative is that you lost control because you were provoked. That the 'old Bakugo' is resurfacing."

"The 'old Bakugo' would have blown that reporter through a wall," he growled, staring out the window. He hadn't changed out of his costume; the smell of nitroglycerin and shattered crystal clung to him. "I contained the blast. The villain is in custody. The injuries were superficial. It was a calculated risk."

"The public doesn't see calculations! They see a hero who snaps when a camera gets too close." She stopped pacing. "We need a response. A statement. An appearance on Hero Talk Tonight to smooth this over."

"I'm not going on some shitty talk show to apologize for doing my job," he snarled, turning to face her. "They want a soundbite? They can have this: I got the job done. End of story."

"It's not the end of the story!" Aiko snapped, finally losing her cool. "It's the beginning of a very bad one! Your approval ratings with female demographics are already your weakest point. This 'lone wolf who doesn't play well with others' schtick only works if you're universally beloved, which you are not. You're respected. Feared. And right now, you're looking unstable."

The word hung in the air between them, sharp as one of Geode's shards.

Unstable.

He looked away, his shoulders tense. He was the picture of control. He was precision incarnate. But the world kept throwing variables at him—reporters, expectations, the endless, gnawing silence—and he was so, so tired of calibrating his every move.

"Get out," he said, his voice low.

"Katsuki—"

"I said get out." It wasn't a shout. It was quiet, final. The voice he used when he was moments from detonating.

Aiko left, the door clicking shut with a sound that echoed in the vast, empty space.

Alone, Katsuki finally sagged. He scrolled through the news on his phone. The clip played on a loop. He saw his own face, not angry, but... startled. Thrown off his game. Weak.

He saw the comments. "He never changed." "Too volatile." "Needs a babysitter."

And then he saw another headline, right below it: DEKU'S TEACHING METHODOLOGY INSPIRES A NEW GENERATION AT UA. There was a picture of the nerd, surrounded by smiling students, looking for all the world like he belonged exactly where he was.

A fresh wave of acid bitterness rose in his throat. Of course. Of course Deku was over there building a legacy while Katsuki was here, in his sterile tower, watching his own crumble in a ten-second video clip.

He threw his phone. It hit the far wall with a sickening crack and fell to the floor, the screen going black.

The silence that rushed in to fill the space was louder than any explosion. It was a vacuum, and he was at the center of it, fraying at the edges, the perfect structure of his life showing its first, real, catastrophic crack.

Chapter Text

The silence after Aiko's departure was a living thing, thick and suffocating. Katsuki paced the length of his living room, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of his boots on the concrete the only sound. The phantom echoes of the reporter's voice and the shattering crystal played on a loop in his mind. Unstable.

He was wound tighter than a spring, every muscle coiled with a restless, furious energy. He needed to hit something. He needed to blast something to smithereens. He needed the roar of his own Quirk to drown out the noise in his head.

But he was trapped. In his tower. In his own skin.

He stalked into his kitchen, yanking open the fridge only to stare into its sterile, brightly lit interior. He wasn't hungry. He just needed to do something. He slammed the door shut, the force rattling the bottles inside.

That's when the doorbell rang.

He froze. Aiko wouldn't dare come back. His sidekicks knew better. Delivery bots didn't ring twice.

It rang again. Insistent.

A low growl rumbled in his chest. If that was some fucking reporter who'd managed to get his address...

He stomped to the intercom, his finger jamming the button to activate the video feed. The image that flickered onto the screen stole the air from his lungs.

Izuku Midoriya stood in the hallway downstairs, looking up at the camera with a determined, slightly nervous set to his jaw. He wasn't in his hero costume. He wore a simple green hoodie and jeans, and he was holding a small, familiar white box from the bakery two blocks over—the one that sold the overly sweet, cream-filled pastries Katsuki would never admit to liking.

The sheer, brazen normality of it was an assault.

Katsuki wrenched his own front door open and leaned into the intercom speaker. 

"What the hell are you doing here, nerd?" he snarled, his voice raspy from disuse.

On the screen, Midoriya didn't even flinch. He just shifted his weight, hefting the box slightly. 

"I, uh. I was in the neighborhood."

"Bullshit. You live across the goddamn city."

"I had some intel," Midoriya tried again, his voice steadying. "About Geode. His quirk has a resonant frequency. I thought we could... spar. Test it out. And I brought... these." 

He held up the pastry box like a shield.

Katsuki saw red. Spar? Pastries? Was this pity? Was Deku here to check on the unstable, crumbling mess he'd seen on the news?

"I don't need your fucking intel and I don't want your shitty pastries!" he roared into the intercom. "Get lost!"

He expected the dejected slump of shoulders. The hesitant retreat. The old Midoriya would have mumbled an apology and scurried away.

This Midoriya did none of those things. He squared his shoulders, his gaze hardening as he looked directly into the camera lens, and for a terrifying second, he looked every inch the Pro Hero who had stood against gods and won.

"Kacchan," he said, his voice clear and firm, carrying no room for argument. "Open the door."

It wasn't a request. It was a statement.

The command, delivered in that quiet, unshakable tone, short-circuited something in Katsuki's brain. The fury, the pride, the desperate need to be left alone—it all met the immovable object that was Izuku Midoriya's resolve and shattered.

For a long, suspended moment, there was only the staticky silence of the intercom and the frantic beat of his own heart against his ribs.

His finger, which had been poised to disconnect the call and plunge the hallway back into darkness, hovered.

Then, with a sound that was half-growl, half-surrender, he slammed his thumb against the buzzer to unlock the main entrance downstairs.

He didn't say another word. He just stood there, in the open doorway of his apartment, listening to the soft, determined footsteps ascending the stairs, coming closer and closer, until Izuku Midoriya rounded the corner and stood before him, a quiet storm in a green hoodie, holding the key to a lock Katsuki had spent years forging.

Chapter Text

For a long moment, they just stared at each other across the threshold. Izuku in the hallway, a beacon of unwelcome concern. Katsuki in the doorway, a statue of defensive fury.

The pastry box was still held between them, a ridiculous peace offering.

"Well?" Katsuki finally bit out, his voice a low crackle. "You gonna stand there all night or you coming in?"

It was less an invitation and more a challenge. A dare to cross into his territory.

Midoriya's eyes flickered past him, taking in the stark, minimalist expanse of the apartment—the cityscape view, the lonely sofa, the absolute lack of personal touch. Something unreadable passed over his face, something that looked too much like pity, and Katsuki's hackles raised.

"Nice place," Midoriya said, stepping inside. His voice was carefully neutral.

"It's a place to sleep," Katsuki retorted, slamming the door shut. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the silence. "Don't get used to it. What's this bullshit about intel?"

Midoriya set the pastry box down on the kitchen island. He moved with a familiarity that was unsettling, as if he'd always belonged in this space. 

"Geode. His crystals. They vibrate at a specific frequency. A concentrated, high-pitched sonic attack could have shattered his defenses without the... collateral damage."

Katsuki stared at him. He'd already run a dozen similar simulations in his head since getting home. Of course the nerd had too. 

"I know that," he lied, crossing his arms. "Didn't have a fucking soprano on hand, did I?"

"No," Midoriya agreed, his gaze steady. "But you have me."

The air went out of the room.

"What?" Katsuki said, the word dangerously quiet.

"Spar with me," Midoriya said, his green eyes alight with that old, familiar analytical fire. The hero, the teacher, the strategist—all focused solely on him. "Let's test the theory. Your AP Shot versus a controlled Delaware Smash Air Force. We can fine-tune the resonance. Your agency's gym is downstairs, right?"

It was a brilliant move. He wasn't offering pity or a shoulder to cry on. He was offering a problem to solve. A fight. A language Katsuki understood better than his own native tongue.

The part of him that was still a feral, competitive kid latched onto the idea with greedy claws. To test his limits against Deku's, to feel that exhilarating, terrifying clash of power after so long...

The other part, the tired, isolated man, saw it for what it was: a lifeline disguised as a challenge.

He weighed his options. He could throw Deku out, go back to pacing in the silence, slowly being eaten alive by his own thoughts. Or he could follow him downstairs and fill the void with the only thing that ever made sense—the roar of explosions and the crackle of raw power.

It was no choice at all.

A slow, sharp grin spread across Katsuki's face. It was the first real expression he'd worn all day. 

"You're on, nerd. But don't come crying to me when I blast your theory to pieces."

The private gym in the basement of his agency was state-of-the-art, soundproofed, and reinforced to withstand their particular brand of chaos.

For the first hour, it was pure, unadulterated combat. There was no finesse, no theory. It was a violent release of all the frustration, anger, and coiled energy that had been building in Katsuki for weeks. He launched himself at Midoriya, explosions propelling him in a furious, relentless assault.

And Midoriya met him. Blow for blow. He was a whirlwind of green lightning, dodging, weaving, his own empowered kicks and punches a solid counterpoint to Katsuki's blasts. The air grew thick with the smell of ozone and sweat.

"Is this your plan?!" Katsuki yelled, swiping a blast that Midoriya ducked under. "To wear me out?!"

"No!" Midoriya shot back, landing a glancing blow on Katsuki's shoulder that sent him skidding back. "My plan is to make you focus! Now, the resonance! On my mark!"

They fell into the old, familiar dance. The one they'd perfected during the war, during their final exam at UA. A push and pull of immense power, a conversation without words.

"Now, Kacchan!"

Katsuki fired a pinpoint AP Shot. At the same instant, Midoriya flicked his fingers, sending a concentrated bullet of air that sang as it cut through the space. The two attacks converged on a reinforced training dummy designed to mimic Geode's crystalline structure.

Instead of a violent explosion, there was a sharp, clean chime. The dummy didn't shatter; it disintegrated from the inside out, collapsing into a fine, harmless powder.

They both stood there, chests heaving, staring at the pile of dust.

It had worked. Perfectly.

The fight drained out of Katsuki, leaving behind not exhaustion, but a strange, buzzing clarity. He looked from the dust to Midoriya, who was watching him with a small, triumphant smile, his face flushed with effort.

He'd... gotten what he came for. The intel was sound. The theory was proven.

So why was he still here? Why was Katsuki's first instinct not to tell him to get lost, but to demand a rematch?

"Hn," Katsuki grunted, turning away to hide the bewildered look on his face. "Took you long enough to figure it out."

Midoriya's smile didn't fade. If anything, it softened. 

"We figured it out together."

The words hung in the gym, more disarming than any attack. Together.

Katsuki didn't have a retort. For the first time in a long time, the silence that followed wasn't empty. It was full of the echo of their combined power, and the terrifying, exhilarating understanding that he was no longer alone in the fight.

Chapter Text

The silence felt different.

Two days after the spar, Katsuki stood in his kitchen, and the quiet wasn't a vacuum; it was an absence. The phantom echoes of explosions and Midoriya's sharp, analytical calls—"Now, Kacchan!"—seemed to linger in the air, a ghost of the chaos that had, for a few hours, made the place feel alive.

He scowled, scrubbing a hand through his hair. It was a stupid, sentimental thought. The kind of shit Deku would think.

He went through his usual routine with a vengeance, as if he could brute-force the memory out of existence. He trained alone in his gym, the blasts feeling hollow without a green-clad rival to dodge them. He reviewed mission reports, his notes aggressive and sharp. He ordered takeout and ate it standing at the island, the clink of a single set of chopsticks the only sound.

It was worse than before. Because now he knew what he was missing.

On the third day, his doorbell rang again at almost the exact same time.

His heart did a stupid, traitorous lurch in his chest. He stomped to the intercom, a scowl already fixed in place.

It was him. Of course it was him. This time, he was holding a bag from the decent ramen place a few blocks over.

Katsuki didn't even bother with the intercom. He just slammed the buzzer.

When he wrenched the door open, Midoriya was already at the top of the stairs, a little less hesitant than before.

"Don't you have a home?" Katsuki snapped.

"I was in the neighborhood," Midoriya said, the same infuriating, placid tone. He hefted the ramen bag. "They gave me an extra order of chashu. You know I can't finish it all."

Another flimsy excuse. Another Trojan Horse.

Katsuki wanted to slam the door in his face. He wanted to scream at him to leave and never come back. He wanted...

He grunted, stepping aside. 

"It's gonna get cold."

Midoriya's smile was small, but it reached his eyes. He stepped inside, and the apartment, once again, felt less like a museum and more like a place someone could live.

They ate at the island. It was awkward, punctuated by the sounds of slurping and the rustle of paper bags. Midoriya talked about a problematic student in his Hero Ethics class. Katsuki made a gruff comment about ethics being a waste of time when you could just punch the villain. Midoriya laughed, a real, startled laugh, and the sound was so foreign in the space that Katsuki almost choked on his noodle.

He didn't talk about the PR scandal. Midoriya didn't ask.

When he was done, Midoriya gathered the trash with a quiet efficiency. 

"My turn to pick the movie next time," he said, as if it were a foregone conclusion.

"Who said there's gonna be a next time?" Katsuki shot back, but the venom was gone, replaced by a bewildered exhaustion.

Midoriya just looked at him, that same unshakable certainty in his gaze. 

"See you later, Kacchan."

And he left.

The silence rushed back in, but it was different. It was waiting. It was expectant.

A week passed. The routine held. Katsuki found himself... anticipating. He'd finish his paperwork and his eyes would flick to the clock. When the doorbell rang, he was already moving toward it.

Sometimes it was food. Sometimes it was a "tactical question" about a villain he could have easily looked up. Once, it was just Midoriya, empty-handed, saying:

"It's stuffy in here. Let's go for a walk."

And the bastard thing was, Katsuki went.

He was being managed. He knew it. Midoriya was systematically dismantling his isolation, one flimsy excuse at a time. And the most terrifying part was that Katsuki was letting him. He was an active participant in the demolition of his own tower.

One night, after Midoriya had left, Katsuki stood by the window, looking out at the city. His reflection was still there, but it no longer looked like a ghost. It looked like a man.

He thought of the silence before Deku had started showing up. The cold, absolute quiet. He thought of the silence now, after he left—a silence that was still quiet, but somehow... warmer. Like the echo of a presence.

He was getting used to it. He was starting to rely on it.

The realization should have been terrifying. It should have sent him into a panic, reinforcing his walls, pushing everyone away.

Instead, a strange, unfamiliar feeling settled in his chest. It wasn't peace. It wasn't happiness. It was something quieter, more fundamental.

It was the feeling of an anchor, finally catching on solid ground.

Chapter Text

The knock came later than usual. The sky outside Katsuki's windows was already a deep indigo, the city lights glittering like a scattered handful of jewels. He'd just returned from a long, grueling patrol—a hostage situation resolved with minimal force but maximum tension. The kind of mission that left his nerves frayed and his mind buzzing, unable to settle.

He'd been standing in the middle of his living room, still in his full hero gear, unsure what to do with the restless energy coursing through him. The silence of the apartment felt abrasive against his raw nerves.

The knock was a lifeline.

He didn't bother with the intercom. He just yanked the door open.

Midoriya stood there, looking rumpled and tired himself. He had a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and was holding two large paper bags filled with containers from the upscale soba place near UA. The smell of dashi and fried tempura wafted into the apartment.

"Grading," Midoriya said by way of greeting, his voice laced with exhaustion. He hefted the bags. "Took forever. I haven't eaten. They said you just got back from the Takada building incident. Figured you hadn't either."

No excuse about being in the neighborhood. No pretense about intel. It was a statement of fact: You are tired and hungry. I am tired and hungry. Let's not be that way alone.

Katsuki just grunted and stepped aside.

They moved around each other in the kitchen with a strange, new familiarity. Katsuki grabbed plates and chopsticks. Midoriya unpacked the containers, lining them up on the island: steaming soba, crispy tempura, agedashi tofu. It was a comfortable, wordless dance. The clatter of dishes and the rustle of paper filled the space where awkward small talk would have been weeks ago.

They ate at the island, side-by-side, still in their clothes from the day. Katsuki could feel the grime of the city on his skin, but for the first time since getting home, he didn't feel the urgent need to scrub it away.

"The Takada situation," Midoriya said around a mouthful of noodles. "I saw the prelim report. Clean work."

Katsuki shrugged, chasing a piece of tofu with his chopsticks. 

"Wasn't complicated. Just had to be faster than the guy with the trigger finger."

"Your new maneuver... the one where you used the concussive force off the ceiling to change direction without line-of-sight... that was brilliant."

The praise was specific. Technical. It wasn't empty flattery; it was an observation from one master of their craft to another. It settled in Katsuki's chest, warm and solid.

"Hn. Had to adapt," he muttered, but he didn't scowl. He took another bite.

They lapsed back into silence, but it was the easy kind. The kind that existed between two people who didn't need to fill every second with noise. Katsuki found himself actually tasting the food, noticing the perfect chew of the soba, the light crisp of the tempura batter. He'd been eating fuel for so long, he'd forgotten what it was like to have a meal.

He glanced at Midoriya from the corner of his eye. The nerd was focused on his food, a faint smear of sauce at the corner of his mouth. He looked... solid. Real. An anchor in the chaotic whirlwind of the day.

And in that moment, with the city lights stretching out behind them and the simple, shared comfort of a meal between them, Katsuki had a terrifying realization.

He had let him in.

It wasn't a gradual process anymore. It was a fait accompli. Somewhere between the first shitty pastry and this quiet, exhausted dinner, the door he had slammed shut so long ago had been left permanently ajar. He had eaten, talked, and simply existed with another person in this space, and he hadn't once felt the need to put his walls back up.

The silence wasn't just warmer. It was shared.

Midoriya finished his food and leaned back with a soft sigh. 

"That was good." He looked at Katsuki, his green eyes clear and tired. "Thanks, Kacchan."

For what? Katsuki wanted to snap. For letting you feed me? For not throwing you out?

But he knew what for. For the silence. For the company. For not having to face the aftermath of the day alone.

He looked away, down at his empty plate. 

"Whatever," he mumbled, the word lacking any real bite. "Don't make a thing out of it."

But it was a thing. It was the biggest thing that had happened to him in years. And as he started gathering the empty containers, the clatter of the plates no longer sounded like an intrusion, but like the sound of a home, slowly, inevitably, being built.

Chapter Text

The call came in at 04:17. A coordinated attack on the Kiyashi Ward National Bank by a villain team calling themselves the "Jammers," specializing in electronic countermeasures and area denial. Standard protocol would have dispatched a team with tech-neutralizing quirks.

But Deku and Dynamight were the closest available top-ten heroes.

They arrived within ninety seconds of each other, touching down on opposite sides of the bank's plaza. The scene was chaos. The Jammers had erected a shimmering, sonic disruption field that was making it impossible for communication or tech-based quirks to function within the perimeter. Police cruisers were disabled, their lights flickering erratically. A hero from a lower-ranked agency was on his knees, clutching his head, his audio-based quirk having turned against him.

For a heartbeat, they locked eyes across the chaotic plaza. No words were exchanged. None were needed.

Their plan formed in the space of a single breath.

Dynamight didn't wait. He launched himself forward, not at the bank's main entrance, but at the field generator on the left—a hulking piece of machinery guarded by a villain with reinforced skin. The sonic waves battered against him, a physical pressure trying to shove him back. He gritted his teeth, blasting forward, a human missile aimed with lethal precision.

The guard villain braced for impact, a confident smirk on his face.

He never saw the green lightning that shot past Dynamight.

As the explosive hero feinted high, drawing the guard's attention, Deku blurred low, a single, empowered leg sweep taking the villain's feet out from under him. The guard crashed to the ground, stunned, just as Dynamight's gauntlet-connected fist slammed into the field generator. The metal shrieked, buckled, and died in a shower of sparks.

The shimmering field on their side of the plaza flickered and vanished.

"Left side clear!" Dynamight barked, his voice cutting through the sudden silence.

"On it!" Deku was already moving, a green trajectory curving through the air toward the second generator on the right. This one was protected by a villain who could create hard-light shields.

Deku landed, already analyzing. 

"The shield has a .8-second recharge after a major impact!" he called out, not looking back, knowing he would be heard.

He didn't need to say more.

A series of rapid, concussive AP Shots slammed into the shield, not trying to break it, but forcing it to constantly reset. Pop-pop-pop! The shield villain staggered back under the relentless, pinpoint assault, his defense flickering wildly.

It was the opening Deku needed. He didn't use a smash. He didn't need to. He simply darted through the faltering shield, his movements fluid and impossibly fast, and delivered a precise, gloved chop to the villain's neck. The man crumpled.

Deku ripped the wires from the second generator. The entire sonic field collapsed.

The remaining Jammers, now exposed and outmatched, surrendered within minutes.

It was over. The whole operation had taken less than five.

As the police moved in to secure the villains, a news helicopter that had arrived mid-fight finally managed to get its cameras stable. The footage they broadcast was breathtaking.

It wasn't just two heroes working in the same space. It was a seamless, brutal ballet. Dynamight's raw, explosive power creating openings. Deku's unparalleled speed and analysis exploiting them. They moved like two halves of a single, devastating organism, anticipating each other's moves, covering each other's blind spots, communicating in a language of blasts and motion that no one else could decipher.

Standing amidst the settling dust, Katsuki turned to Izuku. His chest was heaving, but it was from exhilaration, not exhaustion. Adrenaline sang in his veins, cleaner and brighter than it had in years.

Izuku was looking back at him, a similar, brilliant light in his eyes. A slow, triumphant grin spread across his face, mirrored, to his own shock, by one on Katsuki's.

They didn't speak. They just stood there, in the wreckage they had orchestrated together, breathing in sync.

The headlines the next morning were inevitable.

DEKU & DYNAMIGHT: THE HERO COMMISSION'S NEW SECRET WEAPON?

UNSTOPPABLE: FOOTAGE SHOWS PERFECT SYNERGY BETWEEN HEROES #4 & #5

POWER DUO: ARE WE WITNESSING THE BIRTH OF A NEW LEGEND?

Katsuki saw the articles over his morning coffee. He saw the video clip playing on a loop on the news. He saw the way they moved together, a perfect, explosive harmony.

For the first time, the media buzz didn't feel like criticism or empty praise. It felt like a statement of fact.

He took a sip of his coffee, the warmth spreading through him. A small, quiet part of him, the part that was no longer drowning, acknowledged the truth.

It felt good to be part of a duo.

Chapter Text

The buzz was incessant.

It followed him from the news feeds to the agency, from the congratulatory emails to the whispers in the corridors. Power Duo. Unstoppable. Synergy. The words were a new kind of noise, and Katsuki didn't know how to process them.

He sat in his silent apartment, the city sprawled below him like a circuit board. The tower. It had been his fortress, his proof that he needed no one. Now, it felt different. The silence wasn't a victory anymore; it was the space between echoes. The echoes of Izuku's laughter, the clatter of shared meals, the charged quiet after a successful spar.

He looked at his hands. These were the hands that had once clawed their way to the top alone, scorching everything they touched. They were the hands that had built this tower, link by link, chain by chain. The isolation had been a choice, a necessary purge of weakness. It was the price of being the best.

But now...

Now, those same hands remembered the solid impact of a shared victory. They remembered passing a carton of milk across the counter without a word. They itched for the next joint mission, not for the solo glory, but for the dizzying, high-stakes dance with a partner who could keep up.

The chains he had forged himself were beginning to feel less like armor and more like a cage.

A fresh news alert popped up on his tablet. A gossip site, this time. A slightly blurred photo of him and Deku from the bank incident, standing close amidst the rubble. The headline was speculative, insidious.

CLOSER THAN COLLEAGUES? The Body Language of Heroes Deku and Dynamight.

His first instinct was a familiar, volcanic rage. To find the photographer, to blast the server hosting the site into digital dust. How dare they? How dare they take that moment—that pure, adrenaline-fueled understanding—and twist it into their salacious narrative?

But the rage was quickly followed by a cold, sharp spike of... panic.

Because what if they weren't entirely wrong?

What if the connection everyone was seeing wasn't just about combat? What if the world was noticing the same terrifying shift he felt happening inside his own chest? The same shift that made the silence of his apartment feel deafening and made the prospect of Izuku's next visit feel like a lifeline?

He was losing control. Not of his Quirk, but of the narrative of his own life. The story he had told himself for years—that he was a solitary force, a self-made king—was crumbling, and he was terrified of what would be left in the ruins.

He was Katsuki Bakugo. He was Dynamight. He was supposed to be untouchable, an island of his own making.

But Izuku... Izuku was a fucking continent. Vast, welcoming, and impossible to ignore. He didn't try to conquer the island; he just kept showing up on the shore with food and stupid, sincere smiles until the island forgot what it was like to be alone.

He was a vine, wrapping around the tower. Not to pull it down, but to hold it steady against the storm.

And the most terrifying part was that Katsuki wanted to let him.

He stood up abruptly, pacing the length of the window. The chains of his own design felt heavier than ever. The tower, once a symbol of his success, now felt like a gilded prison.

He was at a precipice. He could feel it. He could reinforce the walls. He could push Izuku away, sever this... this thing before it could truly take root and destabilize the foundation of everything he was.

Or.

He could take a step into the terrifying, open air.

He stopped pacing, his own wide-eyed reflection staring back at him from the dark glass. The panic was still there, a cold knot in his stomach. But underneath it, something else was stirring. Something that felt dangerously like hope.

The chains were his. He had made them. And that meant he was the only one who could choose to break them.

Chapter Text

The request came via text, a simple, innocuous message that felt like a seismic probe into his newly uncertain world.

Deku: Hey Kacchan. My 3rd-year practical class is struggling with combined assault tactics. Would you be willing to come by UA and run a drill with me? They could learn a lot from seeing us in action.

Katsuki stared at the screen. A week ago, his reply would have been a swift and definitive 'Fuck no.' He didn't do teaching. He didn't do pep talks. He especially didn't do "demonstrations" where he was put on display like a museum exhibit.

But the memory of his own reflection in the tower window, of the weight of the chains, was fresh. The panic had subsided, leaving behind a strange, resonant hum of possibility. Reinforce the walls, or step into the open air.

This was open air. It was a crowd. It was the exact opposite of his controlled, isolated existence.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He typed out 'Hell no,' and deleted it. He typed 'Find some other sucker,' and deleted it.

He took a sharp, irritated breath. This was it. This was the choice.

Dynamight: When.

Standing on the familiar, hallowed grounds of Gym Gamma, surrounded by the wide-eyed, whispering faces of UA's best and brightest, Katsuki felt a profound sense of vertigo. He was in his full hero gear, a costume designed for battle, not for pedagogy. It felt like a violation of his own rules.

Next to him, Deku was in his element. He smiled warmly at the students, his posture relaxed. 

"Everyone, as I mentioned, we have a very special guest today. Please give your full attention to Pro Hero Dynamight."

A wave of excited murmurs rippled through the class. Katsuki crossed his arms, fixing them with his best glare. The murmurs died instantly.

"Alright," Katsuki barked, dispensing with any pleasantries. "Your teacher says you're shit at working together. So today, you're gonna learn. Watch. And don't fucking blink."

He didn't look at Izuku. He didn't need to.

The drill was simple. They would play the part of villains protecting a target in the center of the gym. The students, in teams of four, had to get past them. It was brutally, hilariously unfair.

The first team charged. Katsuki met them with a series of controlled, non-damaging blasts that forced them to scatter, breaking their formation instantly. As they stumbled, disoriented, Deku was a green blur, using Blackwhip to gently but firmly ensnare them and deposit them back at the starting line.

"Too slow! You moved as individuals, not a unit!" Katsuki roared.

The next team tried a pincer movement. Deku analyzed their approach aloud for the benefit of the other students. 

"They're trying to split our attention. A good idea in theory, but watch what happens with a communication breakdown."

As he said it, Katsuki, who had been feinting left, suddenly shot right, intercepting the flanking pair before they could get into position. A single, concussive blast at their feet sent them tumbling.

"Your plan was obvious!" Katsuki yelled. "You telegraphed it from a mile away!"

Team after team tried and failed. But with each failure, Deku would stop the action, pointing out not just their mistakes, but their counter-strategy.

"Did you see how Kacchan used the environment? The dust from that blast obscured his next move."

"Notice how we never have to call out our actions to each other. We read the flow of the fight."

The students, initially intimidated, were soon watching with rapt, analytical attention. They weren't just seeing two powerful heroes; they were witnessing a dialogue written in motion.

During a break, a bold student with an energy-absorption quirk approached Katsuki. 

"Sir? Your pinpoint accuracy with the AP Shot... how do you calculate the yield so you don't... you know, kill someone?"

It was a good question. A technical question. The kind he understood.

"Tch. You don't calculate it in the moment," he grunted, uncrossing his arms. "You drill it until it's in your bones. You know your own power so well that holding back is harder than cutting loose. Control isn't a thought. It's a habit."

The student's eyes widened, then lit up with understanding. 

"Oh! So it's like muscle memory!"

"Whatever," Katsuki muttered, but he didn't walk away.

He caught Izuku watching him from across the gym. There was no teasing, no smugness in his expression. Just a quiet, profound pride that made something in Katsuki's chest tighten uncomfortably.

As the class ended, bowing and chorusing "Thank you, Sensei!" to both of them, Katsuki stood apart, catching his breath. The noise, the chaos, the eager faces—it should have been overwhelming. It should have sent him fleeing for the silence of his tower.

But it didn't.

He looked at the students, their faces alight with inspiration. He looked at Izuku, surrounded by them, patiently answering questions. He wasn't just a statue on a pedestal here. He was a part of something. A link in a chain that stretched both backwards to his own teachers and forwards to these kids.

The chains of his isolation felt lighter here. The tower felt very, very far away.

On their way out, Izuku fell into step beside him. 

"They really listened to you," he said softly.

"Hn. They're not complete deadweights," Katsuki conceded, staring straight ahead.

A small, comfortable silence settled between them as they walked out of the gym and into the setting sun. He had chosen the open air. And for the first time, it didn't feel terrifying.

It felt like freedom.