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Izuku exhaled and sank into his chair. By the end of the day, the tie around his neck had started to feel like a noose, and he wanted nothing more than to jump out the stuffy classroom window instead of trudging down endless flights of stairs.
It was already evening outside — the clock above the door showed half past six. He had finally finished checking the tests.
A vibration shattered the silence.
Izuku reached for his bag and pulled out the phone from his pocket — he hadn’t touched it since morning. He was so tired that, unwilling to focus his vision, he simply swiped blindly across the screen and answered the call, his eyes closed.
“Hello…” he drawled lazily.
“Where the fuck are you?!” a familiar voice snapped from the other end.
Izuku sobered up instantly: the haze before his eyes cleared, he straightened, sat up like he was under interrogation, and adjusted his tie.
“Kacchan? Wh-where are you?”
“At the fucking movie theater, Deku. The movie starts in fifteen minutes, I bought the tickets an hour ago. What the hell are you still doing there?”
Izuku’s body jolted — and then, as if under a spell, began to move on its own. He jumped up from his desk and grabbed a stack of papers.
“I’ll be there in ten — no, five minutes, sorry, Kacchan! Got held up at work!” he snatched his bag, cast an anxious glance around the classroom, and the keys clattered in his hand.
“You try being late, nerd, and I swear I’m never going anywhere with you again,” Bakugo growled.
God. God, god, god. Oh, Lord.
He thought he’d dreamed it.
They’d gone out to a bar yesterday. Everyone who could make it came — more than half the class showed up, and even Todoroki carved out a couple of hours.
Izuku never really liked alcohol, but it had been so long since they’d all gathered together that he’d downed a cup of sake. Then another. And another. Sero, without pausing, kept refilling everyone’s cups whenever they were empty.
Except Bakugo’s, of course. He’d driven there, and he wasn’t going to leave his car in the middle of the city for the sake of a mug of beer — or any other sort of poison.
When everyone began heading home, Midoriya could barely stand. Someone overly kind asked Katsuki to give Izuku a ride before he collapsed somewhere, and it seemed he’d agreed.
Because the next thing Izuku remembered were those unbelievably, almost absurdly soft car seats he adored. And then, a short exchange.
“Kaccha-a-an… go on a date with me…” he’d mumbled, tongue barely moving.
“What?” an angry, incredulous glare flickered in the rearview mirror.
“Tomorrow! The movies…”
“Why the hell would I go anywhere with you?”
“Mt.Lady starred in the film…” he hiccuped, “a special show… and they’ll have merch… and we’ll eat popcorn, and then…”
And then — nothing. Maybe he’d passed out. Maybe he’d finished his thought. He just sincerely hoped he hadn’t said anything even more embarrassing.
It was about a minute’s run to the theater — and thankfully, he was really running. Otherwise it’d be hard to explain why he was blushing from head to toe.
He pushed open the glass door, and the tiled floor gleamed before his eyes. Neon signs, glossy posters, the smell of popcorn, and the murmur of the crowd around the ticket counter filled the spacious lobby. On a small leather couch he spotted a familiar relaxed figure: Bakugo was staring at his phone, two portions of popcorn and a bag beside him, pale hair sticking out from under a cap pulled low over his eyes, and a skull emblazoned on his black hoodie, as usual.
“Kacchan!” Izuku waved and ran over.
“Where the fuck have you been, Deku?!” Bakugo snapped.
Midoriya raised his wrist and glanced at his watch.
“Actually, I got here in four minutes, not five, so we still have—” he looked to the side.
Where the limited special-screening merch stand usually stood… there was nothing. A “Sold Out” sign sat on the table, and a bored-looking boy beside it.
“Damn…” he muttered, lowering his head.
“Here.”
Izuku looked up… and froze. In Bakugo’s casually outstretched hand hung a small, colorful bag.
“K-Kacchan, is that—”
“Like I don’t fucking know how much you love that crap. You’d whine the whole time,” he muttered, turning away as if fascinated by the ceiling lights. “Take it and let’s go.”
Izuku froze, clutching the precious merch bag. His heart thudded so hard it took his breath away. He wanted to say something — thank him, cry — but Bakugo had already turned and was walking toward the theater without looking back. Midoriya rushed after him.
Two hours in the dark passed in the blink of an eye. It wasn’t that the plot was brilliant, but the feeling that Katsuki’s shoulder was so close — warm, real, not a dream — kept him distracted. Izuku kept sneaking glances at Bakugo’s profile, lit by the flickering screen, then diving into the action scenes, mentally analyzing the heroes’ moves.
And over and over, the thought crossed his mind: maybe he hadn’t said “date”? Maybe Bakugo hadn’t understood? Or hadn’t heard?
When the lights came on, the dam burst. Still dazed from the film, Izuku started rambling nonstop as they walked out into the lobby with the crowd.
“Kacchan, did you see how she used her quirk in the third scene? It’s almost exactly like your precision move, just with a bigger impact area! And that plot twist in the middle, I never expected the main villain—”
Bakugo listened silently, hands in his pockets, face turned away from people with a look of disgust. No snarky remarks, no “shut up, nerd.” He just… walked beside him.
Outside, as the setting sun painted the sky crimson and the crowd thinned, Izuku’s torrent of words began to fade.
He sighed.
“Well…” he began.
“I’m hungry,” Katsuki pointed toward the riverside. “They make decent okonomiyaki over there.”
They walked onto the paved path, bathed in the warm glow of streetlights and the red hue of sunset. It was a warm autumn evening, but by the river it grew chilly — every light breeze sent goosebumps across his skin.
Izuku leaned on the wrought railing and looked down: the water was calm, dark, reflecting the last rays of the sun. He inhaled deeply, the fresh river air filling his lungs.
“Did you like the movie, Kacchan?”
Bakugo leaned back against the railing, staring somewhere deep into the park. Maybe he didn’t want to look at Izuku — or maybe he just didn’t want to show his back to potential enemies. Who knew.
“It was fine,” he muttered. “Hell, are we—” he started, but was cut off by a beep.
He raised his hand and frowned, tapping the screen.
“A watch?” Izuku leaned over his shoulder curiously.
“Best Jeanist shoved it on me,” Bakugo clicked his tongue. “Measures pulse every hour. You can even call on it and set a fucking alarm.”
Izuku’s mouth fell open in amazement.
“Can I, too?”
“What do you mean, can you? Go buy your own.”
“No, no — can I see your pulse too?”
“What the hell for?” Katsuki shot him a suspicious look.
Silence stretched between them. Izuku looked up at the sky — the sunset had almost dissolved into night, the clouds turning gray and translucent like mist. He glanced around: there was no one in sight.
“Kacchan, why did you come today?” Izuku asked, looking upward.
“Why the hell wouldn’t I?”
“I did call it a date, didn’t I? Though a couple hours ago I thought I’d dreamed it all,” Izuku let out a nervous laugh.
“And?” Bakugo folded his arms tightly across his chest.
Izuku pushed off the railing, turned to face him, and stepped closer. He braced his palms on the metal on either side of Katsuki’s hips — leaving barely any distance between them. From the outside, it probably looked like one of those painfully awkward scenes from a dumb teenage romance drama.
He frowned.
“Kacchan, don’t mess with me.”
Katsuki clicked his tongue in annoyance, rolled his eyes, but his gaze didn’t wander — it stayed locked on the serious emerald eyes before him. He leaned forward just a little bit closer, and their noses nearly brushed. Izuku’s breath caught, skin damp with sweat.
“You’re the most persistent, obsessive, fucking nerd in the world,” Bakugo exhaled lowly but quietly — there was no anger in his voice, just a kind of weary irritation. “I took you to the damn movies — back row, if you didn’t notice — bought you that merch because you can’t plan for shit, and now I’m freezing my ass off with you here. You think I don’t understand words, or what, huh, Deku?”
Izuku froze. His eyes widened in shock; his heart pounded so hard it hurt.
“K-Kacchan…”
“Shut up,” Katsuki cut him off sharply. “I came because you asked. Because we work and barely see each other. Because it was a date. Got it, Deku? A date. Happy now?”
Izuku froze, as if the ground beneath him had turned thin and glassy like ice. He didn’t even manage to breathe.
Katsuki leaned closer.
And before the stunned Izuku could process all the new information, their lips met. No cold air, no flickering streetlights — only the heat of stubborn, fiery Katsuki, the one he’d been so afraid of losing.
Izuku kissed back without thinking. It wasn’t an impulse — he knew he wanted this, had known for far too long. A sweet, almost painful truth sparked inside: this was real.
When Katsuki pulled back, Izuku didn’t break eye contact. His throat tightened, but the words still slipped out:
“Do you want to come over… since you’re cold? We could have dinner…”
Strong, hot hands rested on his back, and the touch sent an electric jolt through him. The ache in his tired, overworked muscles seemed to melt away in that warmth. He pressed closer, inhaling the familiar sweet scent.
Katsuki chuckled softly, still holding him, and murmured against his neck — right above the shirt collar:
“What do you think I want?”
He smirked, didn’t wait for an answer, then pushed off the cold railing, and walked ahead, clearly certain Izuku would follow.
Deku lingered only for a moment, leaning on the cold metal, feeling the night air cool his flushed skin. The day that had begun in chaos and rush wasn’t over yet.
And for the first time, he was glad of it.