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“Doesn’t matter if you’re the most beautiful green, if their favorite color is blue.”
He’d read that line somewhere. Couldn’t remember where, not like it mattered—but it stuck. Or maybe haunted was a better word. Because it drifted back to him whenever he saw Izuku.
Hah.
Funny how creative karma could be.
Katsuki tipped the glass back and downed it in one go, slamming it onto the counter and asking for another. He’d lost count hours ago. Not that he was a drinker—hell no. He hated drinking. Hated the fog, the blur, the way alcohol loosened the jaw and made people spill what they’d fought to keep buried. But tonight he hated being sober even more.
The bar wasn’t even loud by hero-party standards. Just laughter, warm lights, someone singing off-key near the jukebox. Izuku had invited everyone for “a small celebration.” Not everyone could come, but enough did.
Celebration.
Yeah, right. Celebration for the two idiots finally confessing.
Katsuki nearly scoffed aloud at the thought, but it came out as a rough exhale. He’d thought he’d handled it, that he’d buried that part of himself deep enough. But seeing them together—her hand in his, their smiles overlapping—it made something in his chest twist till it burned. He didn’t even hate her; he couldn’t. Uraraka was kind. Too kind. It wasn’t her fault she loved the same fool he did.
Still, he wished he could look away. But the human brain was cruel like that—it always stared where it hurt.
He reached for another drink.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” Jirou’s voice came from beside him.
He glanced at her, eyes heavy. “Why the hell do you care?” he snapped, already signaling the bartender for another round.
Jirou didn’t answer right away. She just leaned back, elbows on the bar, watching the crowd. The glow of string lights caught on her earjacks like faint lightning.
“…They look happy,” she murmured finally.
Katsuki grunted. “Tch. Good for them.”
He expected her to stop there. But Jirou, in her way, didn’t dance around words.
“Why didn’t you tell him?”
He turned his head slightly. “Who?”
She gave him a look. “Midoriya.”
“What the hell about him?” His voice sharpened, but it sounded more tired than angry.
“How you feel,” she said.
For a moment, the air in his chest froze. It wasn’t like the question came out of nowhere—Jirou was sharp, and Katsuki had never been subtle—but hearing it out loud made it real, undeniable. Like the words themselves had weight, pressing against his ribs. He stared at the bar top, tracing the condensation ring his glass had left, like he could drown the question in that small circle.
He stayed quiet.
Jirou sighed softly, almost apologetic. “I’m happy for them, you know. Really. They’re… good together.” Her tone was sincere, not teasing. “But seeing you like this… I just wondered why you didn’t say anything before it was too late.”
He let out a dry laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “What the hell would that change?”
Her silence was answer enough.
Katsuki lifted his glass again. The liquor burned all the way down, but it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as his chest did.
“…Were you afraid?” she asked quietly.
Katsuki’s grip tightened on the glass. For a moment, he imagined smashing it across her forehead, just to make the world feel as raw as it did inside him. The thought passed quick as it came, leaving behind only shame and exhaustion and guilt.
Another drink. Another silence.
Jirou hummed, maybe to herself, and turned away. The music from the bar filled the gap between them. Across the room, laughter erupted. Uraraka was tugging Izuku closer by the hand, both of them blushing like idiots. A soft golden light wrapped them in something almost too perfect. The kind of light that never touched Katsuki.
He stared at his reflection in the glass—distorted, red-eyed, lost. The faintest tremor shook his hand before he forced it still.
Maybe everyone had known. Maybe it had always been written all over him, and he’d just been pretending it wasn’t. Which meant Izuku knew too—and that was the part that gutted him.
He’d known.
He’d known, and still smiled at someone else’s way.
Katsuki felt like an idiot. He downed another drink, the bitter taste still couldn’t numb it—the ache of watching him from across the room. Izuku hadn’t even glanced his way, too busy laughing, glowing, being loved.
Fucking god, he wanted to cry so bad.
It wasn’t like Katsuki could blame Izuku, anyway. You can’t force love. You can’t win it through sheer will or explosions. No matter how strong you are, you can’t make someone look at you the way you look at them.
Still, it ached.
It really fucking ached.
He looked up—just once more. Izuku’s laughter carried through the air—soft, bright, stupidly pure. Katsuki’s throat burned—not from the alcohol, but from everything he’d never said.
He hated how beautiful that idiot could look without even trying. The way his smile reached his eyes, the way his freckles caught the light, the way his voice wrapped around Ochako’s name like it had always belonged there. He was glowing—that stupid, precious, reckless, fucking nerd—and Katsuki couldn’t even bring himself to be angry at him for it.
Because how could he? Izuku deserved to be happy. Deserved to smile like that, to laugh without restraint, to be loved by someone gentle, someone who didn’t turn every touch into a burn.
Katsuki knew, right then, that smile wouldn’t exist if he were the one standing beside him. He’d just scorch it, ruin it, like he ruined everything else he touched. He was built for breaking, not holding.
So he sat there, watching the scene blur through the glass in his hand, and felt something in him quietly tear. The air around him seemed colder somehow, like even the noise of the bar couldn’t reach him anymore.
Maybe this was it. His final act of love—unclenching his hand, and letting Izuku go.