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It’s 1:14am, at the beginning of their Autumn term in second year, when Izuku knocks on Katsuki’s door.
He knows immediately that it’s Izuku from the way he knocks. An uncertain tok-tok on the door, and then silence until Katsuki responds. Unique to Denki’s incessant banging, to Mina’s brief call before she kicks his door open, or to how Eijirou barges in without so much as a warning at all. So characteristically Deku, fumbling and polite, that, as Katsuki calls for him to enter, he couldn’t help but know it was him.
The door creaks open and, as Katsuki is met with all of Izuku’s awkward glory, stashed into a hearteningly familiar silhouette, he stifles a repressed sigh and sits up in his bed.
The hallway light spills into Katsuki’s room, plunging his best friend into shadow that the blonde has to work a little to figure out. He’s dressed in the same sleep shirt and shorts he wore all the way back in first year, though he’s filled the clothes all the way out now, Katsuki can’t help but notice. Hair slightly mussed, as though he’d been sleeping just a little while before he knocked for Katsuki. The scar on his cheek wrinkles a little with his precocious smile. To say he looks good would be an understatement, but Katsuki has long since exhausted his vocabulary trying to describe Izuku.
He’s also holding something behind his back—Katsuki leans sideways to try and see what it is, Izuku pivots to keep it hidden.
“Hey,” Izuku whispers and leans against the doorframe. His shirt shrugs up a little against it, letting the barest sliver of his scarred torso slip. He’s still smiling, the bastard.
“You’re letting the cold air in. What d’you want?” Katsuki grunts, and somewhat regrets. Izuku doesn’t look particularly phased by his words, and he’s not sure whether to feel good or bad about that.
In lieu of response, Izuku breathes a nervous laugh, takes the hint and shuts the door behind him, perches on the desk beside Katsuki’s bed. He keeps his back turned away from Katsuki, still hiding the mystery object hidden away with an arm.
He hates the song and dance, a little. Wishes that Izuku would knock more often. Would be a little spontaneous, a little risky with him—even if he did push Katsuki’s boundaries a little, Katsuki would never make him regret it.
Katsuki’s heart is beating slightly faster, and he’s not sure if it’s from anticipation, reservation or annoyance. They’re close, now. Physically close; close to what they had in their first year, during the war. Close to what Katsuki wanted then, but no matter how he had tried, had never been able to successfully breach.
That was the fate of their relationship, perhaps—for them to chase after one another, there had to be a distance for them to close in the first place. Far apart enough that Izuku still had to knock on doors that Katsuki had long since opened wide for him.
Neither of them were ever the type to let people in easily.
But Katsuki takes anything he gets. He can see Izuku pick at a nail, can see how his hair and eyes become nearly black in the nighttime from where he’s sat. His forehead scar, usually hidden away, peeks out at Katsuki from beneath Izuku’s fringe. He wants to touch it. He fists at his bedsheets instead, letting the moonlight shining in from his window dance over his knuckles.
“So?” he asks again, more carefully this time.
Izuku remains quiet for a while. His eyes scan the bedroom, reminding Katsuki about the intimacy of it all. Izuku has been inside of his room before, but not like—not like this. The lights are off, it’s all-quiet, aside from the occasional, faraway rumble of train-tracks or footsteps, well after their curfew. The air is thick. Unhelpfully, Katsuki finds himself unable to speak—as though prodding Izuku more than twice will give something away, shatter the moment, will expose him far more than he’s comfortable with.
He’s not sure where exactly that fear comes from. It was Izuku who knocked in the first place, after all.
Izuku saves him from that embarrassment. “We haven’t seen each other in a while, right?”
The phrasing is so innocent that Katsuki’s mind goes blank. So obliviously Izuku. So blind to what seeing means to Katsuki—to the fact that how he sees Izuku is so different from how Izuku sees him. That, for Katsuki, seeing each other leads to a whole other schema.
“If by ‘a while’ you mean last week, then sure,” he deflects, leaning against his headboard.
“A week is a long time!”
“For a clingy bastard like you, maybe.”
“Maybe,” Izuku repeats lightly, not quite looking at him. He absently runs his tongue over his bottom lip, it’s all too much for Katsuki, he looks away.
The conversation seems to get slightly more off every time Katsuki opens up his mouth. His unspoken thoughts bubble and fizzle away in the back of his throat—soft, fleshy things like you wanted to see me? you were paying attention to how long it’s been? Silly, childish, petulant things that dry up in his airway and force him to swallow them down, hard.
It’s quiet for a little while longer—not quite uncomfortable. Only broken when Izuku gently touches something against Katsuki’s forehead. He looks up, only to find that he can’t see further than the two pieces of paper which cover his eyes.
The material is laminate, silky against his hair. He reaches up only for Izuku to quickly snatch his wrist up.
“What’re you playing at? I’ll kick your ass,” Katsuki mutters, heart thudding, skin buzzing.
Izuku’s grip is warm and firm. “Nothing, nothing! Just—I don’t know…”
“What?”
Izuku shakes Katsuki’s wrist gently, likely floundering with his hands, like how he usually did when they were unoccupied. Katsuki couldn’t for the life of him figure out what was going on—couldn’t figure out much of anything, besides the cool bedroom air on his hot face and neck, how his tank-top was beginning to stick to his back, how callous Izuku’s palms felt, the faint rustle of the trees outside, blood in his ears.
“Okay, look. The—Do you—” a brief inhale, exhale, nervous chuckle. He can’t figure out what expression Izuku is making. “There’s, uh—there’s an autumn film festival on the other side of the Fuji river.”
“Okay?” Katsuki asks.
“So,” Izuku clears his throat. “I… got tickets?”
Katsuki’s mind goes blank for all of three agitating seconds, before he grabs onto Izuku’s wrist and digs his nails into his forearm.
“Is this seriously what all of your pussyfooting was about?” he hisses.
At Izuku’s resulting yelp, he digs his fingernails in slightly harder. Partially because it was such a mundane request for Izuku to make such a huge deal out of. Partially because he felt like an idiot for expecting more.
Partially because he felt like an even bigger idiot for the way his heart thudded, as though it was a big thing. As though it was the more that he’d been hoping for.
“I guess that’s a no?” Izuku squeaks.
Most of all though, Katsuki knows it was because he’s happy. Happy to be visited, happier to be asked, to know that Izuku needed to build up the courage to ask him. A little sad, too.
Katsuki is happy, which is why he stabs his fingers into Izuku’s forearm hard enough for a bruise to likely be left as proof by the morning. With his other hand, he reaches to graze his fingertips over the papers still covering his eyes.
Physical tickets. He really was in love with an utter dork.
“Idiot,” Katsuki snorts fondly, shakes his head. “When’s the festival?”
When Izuku gave him the invitation, Katsuki assumed it’d be a couple of days later. Enough time for him to prepare his heart, or if he was lucky enough, something resembling a plan. Something calm and quiet, or maybe exciting—he didn’t really care. It was the solitude, the alone-ness that sent pale sparks dancing across his palms as he’d tentatively accepted Izuku’s offer and braved Izuku’s heart-wrenching excitement.
What he didn’t expect was Izuku to tell him, in his excitement, that the festival was that night, and that he should get dressed straight away.
The lively bustle of the autumn festival makes it seem almost like the afternoon, despite it being the middle of their night. Scattered lanterns dot the pathways, throwing out multicoloured shades across the scattered leaves and scattered people. Marketers call out to passers-by from their stalls, holding out their samples and conversation for them to take. More than once, Izuku takes up a stall on their offer, grabbing a free sample and in the chilly air, sometimes buying a few snacks too, and stuffing them into his aged yellow rucksack. He passes a sample to Katsuki every time.
Katsuki thinks of how cold Izuku’s fingers feel every time they brush against his own, how Izuku’s face looks warm and adult against the autumn lantern glow—far more mature than Katsuki feels. He looks around at the festival, small but self-contented, thinks of the rubble and destruction in this area of the city just a few months before. There are no traces of disruption leftover; all packed, shoveled and lifted neatly away. It jars him, a little.
He says nothing, not really having anything to say, and focuses on falling into step with Izuku’s unhurried dawdle.
A seller—older man, perhaps in his mid-forties—beckons to Izuku. “Hero Deku! Dynamite! Hey! I recognise you two!”
After a brief conversation, ‘a lot of thank you for your service’s and even more ‘it was nothing, really’s, the man pushes four apple-cider whiskeys, sealed away in charming glass bottles into Katsuki’s hands. For a split second, the duo exchange a look.
The man laughs, winking. “It’s on the house! Don’t worry about paying me back—think of this as the community’s thank you.”
In the corner of his eye, he sees Izuku open his mouth to protest. The bottles feel ice-cold in his hands, cold like Izuku’s scarred fingers and weathered arms against the harsh thrum of the autumn wind. Like Izuku’s scarred cheek, most definitely, if Katsuki ever found the courage to run his fingers against it. Like Katsuki’s own scars, his weak arm and heart, all throbbing uncomfortably in the chilly air.
“We’ll take them. Just this once, though,” he says, kicking Izuku in the shin, nodding at the shopkeep.
Izuku closes his mouth with an audible snap, turning to look at Katsuki. His eyes are narrowed curiously. At the Katsuki’s pointed stare, he runs his hands through his hair, pursing his lips, then bows slightly to the vendor gratefully. As they walk away, he doesn’t ask any questions, instead pointing Katsuki towards another stall.
Maybe, for a brief moment, Izuku understood, Katsuki thinks. They’d been playing adult games for so long—reaping adult consequences, carrying adult burdens. Katsuki wanted them to start winning adult prizes, and perhaps Izuku wanted that too.
Izuku finds them a nice spot to watch the festival’s movie screening, because of course he does. The movie is an All Might biopic, focused on his bronze age, one they’ve both watched a million times, because of course it is. Katsuki doesn’t complain, instead cracking open a cider bottle with his teeth and taking a large gulp as soon as he sits down on the damp grass. They’re positioned far away from the main crowd of attendees, but close enough that they still have a good view of the screen.
Izuku sits down next to him with a jovial hum, unzipping his rucksack and setting their food out in front of them.
“I’m pretty sure we’re meant to eat something before drinking, Kacchan,” he says. “Food prevents alcohol from entering into your bloodstream too quickly, which reduces the chances of you throwing up or getting hungover the next—”
Katsuki elbows him. “What the fuck are you, some sort of alcohol expert? Have you ever even been drunk before, nerd?”
Izuku pinks slightly, and Katsuki stares. “Well—no, but—! Well. I mean—have you?”
Katsuki shakes his head dismissively, not quite embarrassed, then takes another swig. “God, this tastes like shit.”
Izuku tilts his head to the side, wide-eyed and puppy-like. He beckons for a bottle, which Katsuki cracks open with his teeth and hands over. Katsuki watches, rapt, as Izuku presses the bottle to his lips. Once, twice, thrice, his best friend’s adam’s apple bobs, and the faintest stubble dotted across his jaw shifts as he swallows. His hair is damp with the humid air and steam from the festival stalls, curling into a perfect ring as it sticks slightly to his nape and forehead.
His lips come off the bottle rim with a quiet pop. After a moment, he grimaces, holding the bottle away to inspect it. “It tastes like… Like really terrible apple juice and nail polish.”
Katsuki snickers, and the tell-tale hush that comes over the crowd announces that the movie has begun.
They’re halfway through the movie and Katsuki isn’t paying attention at all.
He’s finished off his two bottles of apple-cider rum and has eaten about a third of the food Izuku bought. Mostly everything has faded into a pleasant background hum—he doesn’t even really feel cold anymore. Occasionally, the world tips to the side, but a comforting hand—Izuku’s hand, he presumes—pushes him upright again.
It’s a lot of effort to look left, but Katsuki manages it. He wants to look at Izuku. Katsuki can’t hear what exactly his friend is mumbling to himself as he nurses his bottle and a stick of takoyaki, eyes fixated on the big screen before them, but it doesn’t matter. Watching his lips, bitten pink by the frosty air, move quickly, subtly, is worth it. Sometimes they part to take a bite. His lashes, spiky from the condensation in the air, are beautiful to look at. He wants to reach out and tug at his scarf, pull him close. Kiss him, or at least lean on him and share their body heat. Katsuki couldn’t feel the cold anymore—he doesn’t particularly want Izuku to, either.
“Why did you knock on my door?” he murmurs. Izuku turns to look at him.
“Wuh—huh, Kacchan?”
Katsuki doesn’t repeat himself, just keeps looking at his friend, taking him in.
“Well,” Izuku tugs at his scarf, laughing wearily. “I thought it was a good opportunity for us to go out, I guess! We both really loved this film as kids, and it’s the start of the term, y’know—I just wanted it to start off on the right foot, with us. Not that we’re not already on good terms, though! I mean. I don’t know, I just wanted to see you, I guess, and—well, I mean see you in a more private way than in a class, or in the common room. Does that make sense?”
Izuku takes a breather, ears and neck flushed pink. Katsuki’s fingers itch with the urge to reach out and touch.
“It’s been different after the war,” manages to slip from his lips while he muses. Izuku hunches over a little, not seeming at all shocked by Katsuki’s rare vulnerability. There’s a faint crash from the large screen in front of them.
“Yeah,” he says. “Really different, Kacchan. I feel so grown up, all of a sudden.”
“Because of the fighting?”
“Because the fighting stopped, more like,” Izuku says, and Katsuki can’t disagree.
Things changed after the war—changed in ways invisible to the eyes of civilians, but lurid and blinding in the eyes of people like Katsuki. In the eyes of Izuku, especially. They’ve changed. They’re public figures now. Symbols who still have to hand in their English homework every Tuesday and receive detentions for breaking curfew. Classes feel more like an unreal blur, a mocking simulation, compared to the all-encompassing violence during the war. They’ve become larger than life, but are still new enough to it to balk at a bottle of apple-cider whiskey.
“Hn. We’re busy now,” he mumbles, thinking about how unfair it is, and Izuku nods. His windbreaker rustles as he moves. Katsuki isn’t sure if they’re on the same page. “If we’re this busy in our second year, hero work after graduation will be a proper pain in the ass.”
Izuku hesitates. Just for a split second, but long enough for Katsuki’s well-trained eye to notice.
“Deku,” he says slowly. Warningly, almost.
“That’s the thing,” Izuku shifts to properly face Katsuki, head-on. His voice becomes leaden and tight, which signals to Katsuki to sit up.
“If this is about what I said at the hospital, I swear to god—”
Izuku cuts him off. “No, wait. Or, well—yeah.” He pauses, eyes darting anxiously towards the screen for a split second. Katsuki can’t help but notice how his eyes are slightly bloodshot. The wind whistles through his hair, exposing his forehead scar to the soft glow of the lanterns all around them.
“There was something else I invited you out to tell you. Something important.”
Katsuki nods slowly, stomach sinking.
“Don’t freak out, okay?” Izuku steadies himself with a hand. Takes a big breath in, exhales loudly.
“The embers,” Katsuki’s stomach drops well before he hears the end of the sentence. “I—I think that the embers…”
The news knocks the wind clean out of him. Katsuki’s not sure whether it’s because it’s so soon, or whether it would’ve shocked him no matter when he was told. His childhood friend nerd Deku had become synonymous with all-caps HERO DEKU in his mind, far too quickly for him to cope with the association reverting back. It was inevitable—knowledge they’d both been aware of since the end of the war. He hadn’t pictured the moment ever coming to pass—not like this, anyways, sitting in the cold and the wind, watching a film of their greatest idol that they’d seen a thousand times over.
The embers would eventually run out.
The only thing he could punch out in response was a feeble:
“They’re gone.”
Izuku nods. There’s a faint cheer from the audience sat away from them, something grandiose happening on screen. “Yeah.”
“For how long?”
“A couple days, give or take.”
“...What will you do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does All Might know?”
“About the embers, or about what I’m going to do?”
“Izuku.”
“Sorry, sorry. No—no, only you so far.”
Izuku’s scar on his cheek is shadowed with wrinkles as he smiles absently in the dim light, and Katsuki has no idea what to say.
Izuku beats him to the punch. “Don’t apologise, Kacchan.”
It makes Katsuki laugh—cruelly, but laugh nonetheless. He’s too out of it to care for the particulars. Why are you the one who’s comforting me, when it should be the other way around? “Who the fuck said I was going to apologise?”
“You had a look in your eye.”
They both fall quiet again—Izuku takes a deep gulp from his bottle. He wasn’t particularly wrong—always the master at seeing through Katsuki’s bravado. He was sorry. Sorry for all the trouble he’d put Izuku through growing up; sorry for how that trouble moulded Izuku into a selfless bastard who was willing to give everything he had at the drop of a hat for the sake of others; sorry for how Izuku had given everything, and at the end of it all was left with virtually nothing.
Nothing but a bottle of apple-cider rum, a stick of takoyaki, and a tipsy best friend, who wasn’t talented enough to come up with a single comforting sentence.
“You staying in 1-A?”
“If I’m allowed, I guess.”
Another few minutes pass, Katsuki losing himself more and more to the silence. His ears ring a little, the air seems to spin.
“Kacchan?” Izuku says slowly. “We’ll still be friends even if I don’t become a pro-hero, right?”
The question sends a current of shock through Katsuki, one so strong that he whips his head to the side and stares at Izuku incredulously. What? “What?”
“Cus, you know, I don’t have—so we can’t—we can’t really compete…” Katsuki gapes at him. “With… each other… heh—”
“I’ll punch you in your ugly fucking mug right fucking now. Shut up. Shut the fuck up.” Katsuki says, only hearing himself vaguely. His head is throbbing, everything getting really warm all of a sudden. Distantly, he can feel his fists clench. “You son of a bitch. Who the fuck do you think you are? Who do you think I am, huh?”
“Kacchan—”
“Do you know how fucking mean that is to say to someone, huh? I thought that I knew about being cruel, but oh-hoh! Always the overachiever, aren’t you, Izuku? You just have to hit it out of the ballpark every goddamn time, am I right?”
“Kacchan, hold on—”
Staggering slightly, Katsuki gets to his feet. Izuku follows. People are turning around to stare now, a few amongst them recognising who they were. He realises, exceedingly quickly, that he doesn’t really give a shit.
“I thought,” he slurs a little, “I thought that we were at the point where you knew, Deku. I thought that you knew that it wasn’t about the quirk. It wasn’t. It was always you. I can’t—I can’t fucking believe—”
“Wait, Kacchan, I understand now! I’m sorry!” Izuku tries to plead, reaching for Katsuki’s hand.
He slaps it away, then immediately falls silent, feeling the blood pounding in his head and a faint nausea building in his gut.
Katsuki’s heart falters as he realises: things have changed for him and the others in 1-A, sure, but they’ve changed twofold for Izuku. He’s been forced back twice—not into his student role in UA, but further, all the way into his middle-school situation. Quirkless, but All Might’s protégé. The greatest hero by title, but no longer by profession.
“Izuku,” he mutters selfishly, feeling all of his anger leave his body. He sinks back down to the floor, and stares pointedly at the grass. He was too unused to being seriously mad at Izuku, it had been far too long since he had that ability. “Do you seriously think I haven’t changed?”
Izuku drops to his knees in front of him, reaching to grab both of his forearms. This time, Katsuki lets him. ”No, no, of course not, Kacchan. I’m sorry, I really, really am. I was just feeling insecure, I promise. I know you’ve—”
“Izuku,” Katsuki says seriously, looking up to stare his friend straight in the eyes. His body feels heavy. “Do you seriously think you haven’t changed in the past two years?”
At the question, it was Izuku’s turn to hesitate. “I don’t think I understand what you mean, Kacchan.”
“Look at you,” Katsuki gestures at Izuku, who looks down at himself, confused. “You’re bigger. You’re stronger, faster, more agile—even without One for All. You’re smarter—shit, I mean, you’ve learned a lot.”
Izuku nods, slowly, as though he doesn’t really see the point Katsuki is getting at. A single tear builds in the corner of his left eye, glinting dangerously in the festival glow.
“You’ve seen the world. The best of it. The worst—fuck, I’m too gone for this,” Katsuki sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You’ve matured, Deku. You’re… you’ve become someone who can compete. You can compete, even without a quirk.”
As much as he tries to put it into words, the exact reasoning escapes him. Katsuki knows what he means—that hero is a title that has passed from occupation into a literal state of being for Izuku, that he’s no longer the insecure wallflower he used to be—that he’s grown into a truly exceptional person. He means that he loves Izuku, dearly, because, for all of his developments, the core part of what made him him has held true. He means that competition between them shouldn’t be about ranking or arrests, not about how much they fulfill what society demands of them; it’s all about proximity. Katsuki means he wants to be close, selfish as it may be for him to want.
He tries again, regardless, though Katsuki has never had the talent for it.
“Izuku, you know how you say I’m amazing all the time?”
Izuku nods again.
“Well, Izuku, you’re still you, regardless of what happens.”
And maybe Katsuki takes the plunge because he’s still a bit drunk. Or maybe it’s because he’s sick of waiting for an opportunity to fall into his lap. Perhaps it's the huge change they’re about to go through, have gone through—a warning that, if he doesn’t act fast, Izuku could all too easily be lost to him.
Perhaps it’s the fact that he’s sorry for blowing up at his best friend, when he’s easily said way worse. Maybe it’s the fact that Katsuki is beginning to feel the cold nip at him again, and knows Izuku is feeling it too. Or perhaps it’s just that he’s been wanting to touch Izuku all night.
His palms seem to become imbued with absolute feeling instead of scalding heat.
He takes his hand, warms it a little with his quirk. Places it first against Izuku’s damp forehead, smoothing back his hair, then bringing it down—pressing into the divot next to his eye, then to his cheek, massaging the scar that Katsuki’s eyes always gravitate towards. Towards the corner of his lip, lingering for just a moment, before settling at his ever-so-slightly stubbled jaw.
He doesn’t complete his sentence. He looks straight into Izuku’s eyes instead, willing with all his heart that he understands. That he reads the love in Katsuki’s eyes for what it is—an acceptance, of change, of regression. He hopes with all of his heart that, somehow, his feelings become tangible; his way of saying I know what you’ve been, I know that history is part of you, I love you especially because of it.
Whether he does understand or not, Izuku doesn’t say. His eyes fill silently with tears instead.
“I’m really an idiot, aren’t I, Kacchan?” he whispers wetly.
“A huge one,” Katsuki replies, then leans forward to press his head into Izuku’s chest. A few teardrops soak through into Katsuki’s hair. “Humongous moron.”
“I don’t know what happens next, Kacchan.”
“Me neither.”
“I kind of hate the fact that I don’t.”
“I know.”
“I really wanted to go pro. Really badly. So badly it hurt.”
“I know, Deku.”
“What do I even do now? For the rest of school, I mean.”
Katsuki doesn’t know how to respond, and therefore doesn’t. A hand comes down to cradle Katsuki’s head for a moment, then moves to push Katsuki back to sitting. They’re knee-to-knee now, Katsuki’s joggers are damp from the grass. Izuku tugs on a lock of Katsuki’s hair placatingly, gazing at him in a way that he can’t say he’s seen before, but can’t say is completely new, either. It’s sort of haunting.
“You’ll still stick around?” Izuku murmurs.
“Where else could I be? Idiot,” Katsuki deflects.
Izuku’s cheeks flush pink. “You’re too good to me, Kacchan. That’s… it’s—uh, why I—”
Katsuki knocks his fist into Izuku’s chest, gently, then leads forward to place his forehead against it. He turns his head to the side, listening for Izuku’s heartbeat. It’s strong and healthy, rapid. Katsuki knows why, is too shy to mention it.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Yeah. You don’t have to say it.”
So Izuku doesn’t. He guides their lips together instead, and it’s soft. So incredibly soft that, for a second, Katsuki questions whether it’s real or just his imagination. This could all be a dream, and Katsuki could wake up the next day, sober and unkissed, warm from his bed instead of cold and shivering from the autumn breeze. As Izuku wraps an arm around the small of his back and tugs him closer, deepening their kiss, he finds himself caring less for the details. He’s dragged dreams into reality more than once; one more time is nothing to him.
A scattered round of applause goes up faintly in the background—slowly he cracks an eye. Strangely enough, the film’s not over.