Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The halls of U.A. smelled the same as always : chalk dust, sweat, and that faint lemon cleaner that never quite masked the chaos of teenagers. He’d told himself he was just stopping by on the way home, maybe to check on a few training requests All Might had sent him, but even he didn’t buy that. He knew exactly why he was there, and didn’t know why he bothered making any sort of excuse anymore. 

His boots echoed down the corridor, heavy and loud against the tile. A couple of students spotted him through the open door of Class 1-A and immediately started whispering. He caught snippets: “Is that Dynamight?” - “He’s here again?” - “Bet he’s here for Mr. Midoriya.” 

“Tch,” Katsuki grunted, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Brats don’t have anything better to do than run their damn mouths.” 

He stepped into the room just as Izuku dismissed his last group of students. The chalkboard still had messy notes about hero ethics scrawled across it, half in neat handwriting and half in that energetic scrawl Izuku had never managed to tame. 

“0remember, your midterm proposals are due Monday!” Izuku said, smiling at the class, green curls bouncing slightly as he turned. Then he noticed Katsuki, and his whole expression softened, like the day itself exhaled. “Oh, hey, Kacchan.” 

The students’ collective attention snapped toward him like magnets. Katsuki felt twenty pairs of eyes crawling over him, most of them suppressing grins. 

“What?” he barked, glaring at the nearest desk. “Ain’t you all got homes?” 

“Mr. Midoriya’s boyfriend’s here again,” one of them muttered, low but not low enough. 

Katsuki’s eye twitched. He could feel Izuku trying not to laugh. “Shut it, you extras,” he said, rolling his eyes toward the door. “I’m just here to-” 

“See Mr. Midoriya,” another kid supplied sweetly. 

Katsuki tilted his head, gave them the kind of smile that wasn’t a smile at all, and growled, “Keep talkin’ and I’ll assign you laps myself.” 

The room emptied faster than he’d expected, giggles echoing down the hallway. When the last door shut, silence settled, the kind that felt safe. 

Izuku leaned against the teacher’s desk, arms crossed, trying to look stern and failing miserably. “You know, threatening my students doesn’t exactly make me look good.” 

Katsuki shrugged. “They started it.” 

“You glared at them first.” 

“Yeah, well, they were starin’ at me.” 

“They were starin’ because you stormed into their classroom in full hero gear, Kacchan.” Izuku’s voice was teasing, the corners of his mouth curved into something soft and knowing. 

Katsuki sighed, slumping into one of the student desks. The thing creaked under his weight. “You done psychoanalyzin’ evrything or what?” 

Izuku’s laugh came quiet, warm. “Not even close.” 

Katsuki shot him a look, the one that meant watch it. Izuku just tilted his head, eyes bright with mischief. 

“Why are you here, anyway?” he asked. 

“Can’t I stop by to check on the nerd who refuses to take his damn lunch breaks?” Katsuki muttered, fiddling with a burn mark on his glove. It wasn’t unusual for Katsuki to drop by in the middle of the day or after class so they could walk home together. He was just supposed to be working a double shift. He got to leave early, slow day.  

“Aw, so you were worried,” Izuku said, leaning closer. 

“Don’t start.” 

“Too late,” Izuku said lightly, and Katsuki could hear the grin in his voice. “You always act like I’m fragile or something.” 

“You are fragile,” Katsuki said. “You get caught up in your notes and forget to eat like some damn lab rat.” 

Izuku laughed outright now, that small, breathy laugh that made something twist painfully in Katsuki’s chest. “Well, that’s rude.” 

“Better than pathetic,” Katsuki countered. 

Izuku didn’t even flinch,  just walked over until he was close enough for Katsuki to smell the faint hint of chalk and coffee on him. One hand on the back of the chair Katsuki was sitting in, the other on the desk in front of him. Caging him in. “You think you’re the only one who can get under someone’s skin?” 

Katsuki opened his mouth to fire back, but Izuku tilted his head, green eyes sharp and amused, and said, softly, dangerously- 

“Stop.” 

Just that. One word, all honey and challenge. 

Katsuki froze. 

He didn’t look away, but his throat worked, his heart stuttering in a rhythm he’d long since stopped pretending to control. The corner of Izuku’s mouth lifted, and Katsuki knew he’d lost... again. 

“…Fine,” he muttered, voice low. “You win, nerd.” 

“I always do,” Izuku said, and the smug little smile he gave should’ve pissed Katsuki off, except it didn’t. Not when it was him. 

Izuku leaned away again, and Katsuki felt his sudden lack of closeness like a dagger. He turned back to gather his papers, pretending not to notice the way Katsuki’s gaze lingered. 

And damn if Katsuki didn’t already feel lighter just sitting there. 

They left through the main gates side by side, the late sun bleeding orange over the U.A. rooftops. Deku talked with his hands as always, about grading, new first-years, the lunchroom coffee machine breaking again. Katsuki half listened, half watched the way his curls caught the light. 

A car honked too close to the curb. Katsuki’s arm shot out automatically, fingers hooking the strap of Deku’s bag and yanking him a step inward. 

“Hey-” 

“You’re walkin’ too damn close to the road,” Katsuki said, tone casual but grip firm. 

Izuku blinked at him, amused. “Kacchan, we’ve been walking home this way for years. I’m fine.” 

“And almost died that many times,” Katsuki muttered. He didn’t let go until they hit the next block. 

Deku bumped his shoulder against him. “You’re ridiculous sometimes.” 

“I’m keeping you alive.” 

“Barely,” Izuku said with a grin, and that was enough to make Katsuki’s mouth twitch before he caught himself. 

They passed a park full of kids kicking around a soccer ball. One badly aimed shot sailed off course, straight toward Deku’s head. Katsuki snatched it out of the air without even looking, muscles moving on instinct. The ball made a dull thwack against his palm. 

The kids froze. 

Katsuki turned slowly, the glare forming on its own. “You little-” 

“Kacchan.” Izuku’s hand found his sleeve, tugging lightly. 

He stopped mid-sentence. 

“Leave them alone,” Izuku said, voice soft but certain. 

The tension bled out of him instantly. He tossed the ball back with a single-handed flick that sent it spinning perfectly into the air. The kids caught it, stared for half a second, then yelled a quick “Thanks!” and scattered like pigeons. 

Izuku looked up at him, smiling that knowing smile that always made Katsuki feel like he’d been caught doing something embarrassing and noble at the same time. 

“What?” Katsuki grumbled. 

“Nothing,” Izuku said. “Just… you.” 

“Me what?” 

“You act like you don’t care, but you’re the nicest person I know.” 

“Yeah, well, you just don’t know anyone else worth a damn then,” Katsuki shot back. 

Izuku laughed, easy and bright. “You sound jealous.” 

“Of myself?” 

“Maybe. You do love yourself almost as much as you love me.” 

Katsuki huffed, cheeks burning. “You wish.” 

“I know.” 

They kept walking. Izuku brushed his fingers against Katsuki’s once, deliberately, and didn’t move away. Katsuki didn’t, either. 

“Stop smilin’ like that,” he said finally. 

“Like what?” 

“Like you got me trained.” 

Izuku tilted his head, eyes sparkling. “You’re not trained, Kacchan.” 

“Damn right I’m not.” 

“You’re domesticated.” 

Katsuki groaned. “You’re lucky I can’t hit civilians.” 

Izuku just laughed again, the sound wrapping around him like sunlight. 

And as the sky turned gold and violet, Katsuki figured that maybe being domesticated wasn’t so bad. 

----- 

By the time they reached their building, the sun had dipped low enough that the streetlights blinked on in lazy pairs. Katsuki unlocked the door first, muttering under his breath when the hinge squeaked. 

“I told you last week we should oil that,” Izuku said, slipping out of his shoes and hanging his jacket with surgical precision. 

“You said you’d do it.” 

Izuku hummed. “Oh, right. I forgot.” 

“‘Course you did,” Katsuki said, kicking off his boots and heading straight for the kitchen. “What the hell’d you eat today?” 

“Coffee,” Izuku replied. 

“That’s not food, idiot!” 

“It had milk in it,” Izuku said blankly, dropping into one of the kitchen chairs and watching him with infuriating calm. 

Katsuki slammed the fridge door open. “God, I hate you. You’re a pain in the ass.” It was mock anger. Derived from worry and years of trying to get the man to take care of himself. But really no one, not even Izuku, could ever care for Izuku the way Katsuki did. 

“Kacchannnn, don’t be dramatic.” 

“Yeah? You’re gonna call me dramatic when you faint halfway through grading papers?” 

Izuku smiled faintly, chin resting on his hand. “I don’t faint. I just… rest my eyes.” 

Katsuki turned, already scowling. “You pass out face-first on your notes like a corpse.” 

“Well, I am teaching teenagers,” Izuku said mildly. 

Katsuki opened his mouth, closed it again, and decided the only reasonable response was to start chopping vegetables aggressively. Izuku watched the whole performance like it was a private show. 

“You always cook when you’re mad at me,” he said softly. 

“I’m not mad,” Katsuki said, knife slicing through bell pepper with military precision. “I’m makin’ dinner so you don’t die of caffeine poisoning.” 

Izuku leaned back in the chair, stretching lazily. “Mm. You’re really sweet when you’re in denial.” 

Katsuki paused mid-chop, eyes narrowing. “You got a death wish tonight or somethin’?” 

Izuku’s grin was pure mischief. “Maybe. You’ll save me though.” 

“Don’t count on it.” 

“Oh, I am.” 

He said it so casually that it hit deeper than it should’ve. Katsuki turned back to the cutting board before he could do something stupid like smile. 

A few minutes later, the pan hissed to life. The smell of garlic and soy filled the small apartment, and Izuku drifted closer, leaning against the counter right beside him. 

“Need help?” 

“No.” 

“You sure? I can stir.” 

“Last time you ‘helped,’ you spilled half the damn sauce on the floor.” 

Izuku pouted, deliberately. “That was an accident.” 

Katsuki snorted. “You’re an accident.” 

Izuku poked his side. “You love me.” 

Katsuki didn’t even look up. “Yeah, yeah.” 

“Say it.” 

“Not fallin’ for that.” 

Izuku leaned closer, his voice dropping just enough to make Katsuki’s grip on the spatula falter. “Kacchan.” 

He said it the way he always did when he wanted something, soft, low, warm enough to melt the edges off Katsuki’s brain. Katsuki was a goner each time izuku used that voice. “Won’t you look at me?”  

Bakugo froze, turned his head, and for a second, the whole world narrowed to green eyes and the faint smile curving at the corner of his mouth. 

Izuku reached out, straightening the collar of his shirt like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Good boy.” 

Katsuki’s breath caught. 

“Stop that,” he muttered, voice hoarse. 

“Stop what?” 

“You know what.” 

Izuku smiled. “You’re blushing.” 

“Shut up.” 

“You’re cute when you’re mad.” 

Katsuki flipped the burner off with a little too much force. “Dinner’s ready.” 

Izuku laughed, light and easy, and Katsuki thought, not for the first time, that if this was what being whipped felt like, he could live with it. 

Dinner didn’t last long, it never did when Deku spent half the time talking instead of eating. By the time Katsuki had finished his plate, Izuku had barely made a dent in his. 

“You gonna eat that or just stare at it?” Katsuki asked, leaning back in his chair. 

“I’m pacing myself,” Izuku said, shoveling a bite of rice into his mouth. 

“You talk too much to pace anything.” 

“I’m sharing my day with you.” 

Katsuki smirked. “I was there for half of it, dumbass.” 

Izuku stuck his tongue out, and Katsuki had to look away before he started grinning like an idiot. “You annoy me.” 

“I learned from the best.” 

“Excuse, not just me, but both of us?” Izuku laughed at Katsuki’s response.  

They cleaned up together, Izuku humming some off-key tune while Katsuki washed dishes, occasionally flicking water at him just to watch him yelp. When the last plate was stacked, Izuku leaned against the counter, arms folded. 

“You know,” he said, “I never thought we’d end up like this.” 

“Like what?” 

“Domestic. Civilized. You even fold the dish towels now.” 

Katsuki dried his hands on one. “You do it wrong.” 

Izuku laughed, pushing off the counter to follow him into the living room. “Right, of course. You’re doing it for me.” 

“I do everything for you,” Katsuki muttered. 

Izuku froze halfway to the couch, smile flickering into something softer for a heartbeat, but Katsuki was already flopping down, remote in hand. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, flipping through channels. 

“Like what?” 

“Like I said somethin’ sweet.” 

“You did say something sweet.” 

“Yeah, well, don’t make it weird.” 

Izuku plopped down beside him, curling one leg under the other. “Too late.” 

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, some old hero documentary droning in the background. Katsuki felt Izuku shift closer, head eventually landing on his shoulder. 

“You fallin’ asleep already?” Katsuki murmured. 

“Maybe.” 

“It’s eight.” 

“I had a long day.” 

Katsuki rolled his eyes, but his hand found Izuku’s knee without thinking, just resting there, casual, protective. Izuku’s fingers traced lazy circles over his wrist in response. 

“Hey, Kacchan?” 

“Mm?” 

“Thanks for dinner.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

“And for not killing my students earlier.” 

Katsuki snorted. “Still time left in the year” 

Izuku chuckled, tilting his face up to meet his eyes. “You wouldn’t. You’re all bark.” 

“Wanna test that theory?” 

Izuku grinned, unbothered. “Maybe.” 

“Don’t start somethin’ you can’t finish.” 

“Oh, I can finish it,” Izuku said, and there was enough promise in his tone to make Katsuki’s pulse jump. 

Katsuki looked away first, jaw tight, a smirk pulling at his lips. “You’re a menace.” 

“I’m your menace.” 

“Unfortunately.” 

Izuku’s hand slid down, fingers brushing against his. “Fortunately.” 

Katsuki squeezed once, brief, instinctive. “Tch. Whatever you say, nerd.” 

The documentary continued, forgotten. Izuku’s head stayed on his shoulder, and Katsuki didn’t move him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

By the time the credits rolled, the apartment had gone quiet. The city buzz outside their window was a steady hum, soft enough that Katsuki could almost mistake it for peace. 

Izuku stretched beside him, the motion slow and catlike. “I’m gonna shower,” he murmured, already standing. 

“Don’t use up all the hot water again.” 

“I make no promises.” 

“Greedy bastard.” 

Izuku leaned over the back of the couch just long enough to press a quick kiss to his temple, a hit-and-run kind of affection that left Katsuki blinking after him. 

When the water started running, Katsuki cleaned up the coffee table, muttering under his breath the whole time. But when Izuku came out twenty minutes later, towel slung around his waist and curls damp, Katsuki forgot what he’d been irritated about in the first place. 

“You starin’ for a reason?” Izuku asked, smirking. 

Katsuki grunted, not at all hiding how he looked his partner up and down, hungry depite dinner. “You drippin’ all over the floor again.” 

“Mm. Sorry.” Izuku didn’t sound sorry at all. He padded closer, bare feet quiet on the tile, and stopped in front of him. “Your turn.” 

Katsuki sighed and got up, brushing past him on the way to the bathroom. “You better not have used my damn shampoo again.” 

“I like how it smells,” Izuku called after him. 

“That’s mine!” 

“You live with me, Kacchan. Everything here’s ours.” 

Katsuki growled something unintelligible and slammed the door. 

When he came out a while later, hair damp, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, Izuku was already in bed, sprawled on his stomach, scrolling through his phone. He looked up the second Katsuki walked in. 

“Hey,” Izuku said softly. 

“Hey,” Katsuki answered, voice quieter than he meant it to be. 

He crawled into bed beside him, the mattress dipping under his weight. Izuku immediately shifted closer, their shoulders brushing. 

“Y’know, you don’t have to come to UA every other day,” Izuku murmured, setting his phone aside. 

“I know.” 

“You just like the attention.” 

“From your students? Hell no.” 

“From me, then.” 

Katsuki huffed. “You already give me enough of that.” 

“Do I?” 

“Yeah. It’s annoying.” 

Izuku laughed, that small, sleepy sound that always hit somewhere behind Katsuki’s ribs. “You like it.” 

“Don’t.” 

“You love it.” 

Katsuki turned his head, eyes half-lidded. “Keep talkin’, nerd, and I’ll prove you wrong.” 

Izuku met his gaze, calm, steady, the corner of his mouth curling. “Go on, then.” 

For a second, everything in Katsuki coiled tight — the same old battle between pride and want. Then Izuku reached out, brushing his thumb along Katsuki’s jaw, and all that tension bled away. 

“You’re not losing,” Izuku said quietly, like he could read his thoughts. “You’re choosing.” 

Katsuki swallowed hard, eyes dropping. “You talk too much.” 

“Yeah,” Izuku said, voice warm. “But you listen.” 

Katsuki clicked his tongue, annoyed at how easily those words sank in. He tugged the blanket a little lower, rolling to hover half on top of Izuku, hand braced against the pillow beside his head. 

“Don’t think this means you’re in charge,” he muttered. 

Izuku smiled up at him, green eyes glinting in the low light. “Sure, Kacchan.” 

He said it in that same soft, knowing tone that always left Katsuki feeling both tamed and alive. 

“Smartass,” Katsuki whispered, and before Izuku could answer, he swooped down, capturing his mouth in a surprise kiss. Izuku sighed into it, which encouraged the hero. He steadied himself on his knees, one between Izuku’s legs, the other outside of them. His hands drifted over the softer man’s chest, his stomach, under his shirt, to his waistband. He stopped there and pulled away, eyes locking with Izuku’s as they breathed in each others’ air. For a minute, that’s all there was, an almost touch, and shared breath. Katsuki waited, he always did. Then Izuku gave him a small nod, and he recaptured his lips like a man starved. His fingers hooked into Izuku’s waistband again, and pulled.  

The night stretched. Two hearts moved together in a dimply lit apartment, all breath, and adrenaline, and affection. Accompanied only by the sound of their skin coming together, the sound of them becoming one, like they had hundreds of times before, and like they will continue to for the rest of their lives.  

Chapter Text

The lights outside the convention center hit like small explosions. Flashes bounced off the black of Izuku’s suit jacket, off the green in his eyes, off everything that made the crowd lean in. Neither part of the duo was very keen on these types of affairs (the ones where there microphones shoved in your face and questions yelled at you like you were some kind of art exhibit, the ones that paraded you around after for the image of ease) but the job commanded them sometimes. One of our two heroes was much better at handling it than the other. Katsuki stayed half a step behind him, broad enough to block most of the glare, close enough that if Izuku reached back he could grab a handful of fabric. 

Izuku didn’t need to. He knew Katsuki would follow. 

“Smile, Dynamight!” someone yelled. 
Katsuki’s lip twitched. That was the closest they were getting. 
Izuku’s voice drifted back, calm and teasing. “He is smiling.” 

It made the crowd laugh, made Katsuki’s stomach tighten the way it always did when Deku made him part of a joke he didn’t mind being in. 

Inside, the air was cooler, buzzing with microphones and perfume. Izuku moved like he’d memorized the floor plan, handshakes, nods, a small bow here and there. Katsuki shadowed him, saying little, scanning every corner. When someone called Izuku’s name too sharply, his head came up like a a magnet. 

“Relax,” Izuku murmured without looking. 

“I am relaxed.” 

“That’s your relaxed face?” 

“Tch.” 

Izuku’s fingers brushed his sleeve once, light and deliberate. Katsuki adjusted his stance a fraction closer to him, and the room seemed to notice. 

They made their rounds. Izuku spoke with reporters, other pros, sponsors; Katsuki mostly glared. Every few minutes Izuku’s hand found him: on his wrist, the back of his arm, a quiet cue. Each time, he moved exactly where Izuku wanted him. 

Then a reporter stepped forward, mic raised. “Midoriya,” she said brightly, “people are fascinated by your partnership. Do you ever feel that being involved with another hero- especially someone as… volatile as Dynamight- interferes with your work at U.A.?” 

The hum of conversation dipped. Katsuki felt the shift like a spark on dry tinder. 

He looked at her. Just looked. The kind of look that made villains backpedal. 

Izuku was already answering, steady as glass. “Only in the sense that he reminds me why I do it,” he said. “He keeps me honest.” 

The reporter smiled too wide. “So no concerns about his temper?” 

“None,” Izuku said. “He’s never turned it on anyone who didn’t deserve it.” 

That earned a ripple of laughter, but Katsuki’s jaw was locked. Izuku’s hand came up, resting against his forearm- firm pressure, one heartbeat, then gone. It was enough. After the next photo op, Izuku angled toward the hallway behind the main room. The second the door shut, the noise dropped away. 

“You okay?” Izuku asked quietly. 

“I’m fine.” 

“You were two seconds from biting her head off.” 

“She had it comin’.” 

Izuku tilted his head, studying him. “Maybe. But you don’t need to prove anything.” 

Katsuki huffed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I'm not” 

Izuku smiled, soft but sure. “You could, however, try not scowling at everyone.” 

“You smile enough for the both of us.” 

“Good,” Izuku said. “I guess that makes us look coordinated. You can just follow my lead.” It's not something that needed to be said, they both knew Katsuki would have been right behind him the whole night anyway.

Katsuki met his eyes, something sharp easing into something almost gentle. “You really think you can steer me?” 

Izuku stepped closer, close enough that the faint buzz of the lights hummed between them. “I don’t have to steer you, Kacchan. You already know where we’re going.” 

Katsuki’s laugh came low and rough. “You’re lucky you’re right.” 

“Always am.” 

They stood there for another minute, neither willing to move first. The muffled sound of the crowd returned when Izuku finally opened the door, the light spilling across them both. 

“Ready?” Izuku asked. 

Katsuki rolled his shoulders, the tension finally settling. “Lead the way, nerd.” 

Izuku smiled, small, satisfied, and the world outside filled back in around them. 

They stepped back into the noise, light spilling over polished floors and silver trays. Izuku slipped into another conversation as if nothing had happened in the hallway; Katsuki trailed him like gravity. 

Izuku was speaking with a cluster of local heroes now, his hands moving as he laughed, polite and bright. Katsuki stood half a step behind him, close enough that his chest brushed the back of Izuku’s shoulder every time he leaned forward to greet someone. He held a glass he wasn’t really drinking from, the amber liquid trembling just slightly in his hand. 

Every few seconds, someone’s eyes flicked toward him and then away again. Nobody wanted to test the perimeter he seemed to make around Izuku. 

Then a man he didn’t recognize approached, mid-thirties, all confidence and cologne. “Midoriya,” he said, too loud, too sure. “I just wanted to say, I’m a huge fan. Could I get a picture?” 

Izuku’s smile didn’t falter. “Of course.” 

Katsuki shifted a step aside to give them space, jaw tight. The flash went off. The man’s arm dropped easily across Izuku’s shoulders; Izuku didn’t flinch, still smiling for the camera. Katsuki’s grip on the glass whitened. 

When the fan finally thanked him and melted back into the crowd, Katsuki kept staring at the spot he’d gone, glare sharp enough to cut through walls. 

“Kacchan.” 

Izuku’s voice was soft, right under the noise. Fingers brushed the line of his jaw, gentle but deliberate, guiding his face until their eyes met. 

“Eyes on me,” Izuku said. 

Everything in Katsuki went still. The air, the lights, the buzz of music, it all dropped away. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed that touch until it happened. 

He set the untouched drink on a passing tray and closed the tiny distance between them. The kiss wasn’t loud or showy, just a quick firm press of mouth to mouth, steady, certain, the kind that stopped time for a heartbeat. His arms came up around Izuku’s waist, pulling him close enough that the world blurred at the edges. 

Izuku broke it first, breath catching, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You don’t like PDA,” he chuckled. “Where’s this coming from?” 

Katsuki’s voice was rough when it came. “You look damn good in that suit. Should’ve said so earlier.” 

Izuku’s laugh was quiet and a little shaky. “Thank you, Kacchan.” 

“Yeah,” Katsuki muttered, still close enough that his breath stirred Izuku’s hair. “Don’t let random idiots touch you again.” 

“Noted,” Izuku said, eyes bright. “Now, come on. We still have to survive dessert.” 

Katsuki rolled his eyes, but when Izuku stepped forward, he followed automatically, half a step behind, exactly where he’d been all night, exactly where he wanted to be.  

---- 

The ballroom had thinned to its final handful of guests. Izuku was still talking to a small group near the doors, voice low and pleasant, every smile measured. Katsuki stood just behind him, close enough that the fine hairs at the nape of Izuku’s neck brushed his chin whenever he leaned in to listen. He could feel the soft pull of exhaustion under his ribs. The night had been all noise and lights and pretending not to stare at him too much. 

Izuku’s laugh rose again, bright and tired. Katsuki’s jaw flexed. Enough. 

He stepped forward, close enough that the world narrowed to the heat between them, and let his chin drop onto Izuku’s shoulder. The move was lazy, familiar but deliberate. 

Izuku paused mid-sentence. “Kacchan.” 

“Mm.” The sound vibrated against his suit sleeve. 

“Still bored?” 

“Past bored.” 

The others around them chuckled softly and began saying their good-nights, taking the hint without realizing they’d been given one. When the last handshake ended, Izuku turned his head slightly, green eyes catching him from the corner. 

“Impatient?” he teased. 

“Hungry.” 

“For food?” 

He didn’t answer. Just watched him, the muscle in his jaw ticking. Th answer was : no, it's not food he's hungry for.

Izuku’s lips curved. “Not yet.” 

Katsuki’s pulse tripped. “Nerd.” 

Izuku’s brows lifted. “Dog.” 

He stiffened. “What’d you just-” 

“Quiet.” Izuku’s voice was soft enough that only he could hear it, yet commanding in it's steadiness. It stopped Katsuki dead in his tracks, mouth snapping shut. “We’re still in public.” 

That should’ve calmed him. It didn’t. The whisper of breath at his ear sent a line of heat down his spine. 

“Careful,” Katsuki muttered. “You’re askin’ for it.” 

Izuku’s smile was small and wicked. “I know.” 

For a heartbeat they stayed like that, close enough that their reflections blurred together in the glass doors. Then Izuku straightened, turning to the last few guests with the same polite calm as before. He said his good-byes easily, one hand reaching back without looking, brushing against Katsuki’s knuckles, a quiet command to follow. 

Katsuki did. Of course he did. 

Outside, the night air cut clean through the leftover heat in his chest. Izuku exhaled beside him, finally relaxing. 

“Better?” he asked. 

Katsuki’s laugh came rough and low. “You’re dangerous.” 

Izuku’s eyes glinted. “That’s why you like me.” 

“Yeah,” Katsuki said, voice dropping into something almost fond. “It is.” 

The car door shut on the last of the noise. The driver pulled away from the curb, and the city lights began to blur by in long white streaks. Inside, it was just the two of them, soft seat leather, the faint smell of cologne and ozone. 

Izuku loosened his tie, fingers deft, movements neat even when he was tired. “You survived another gala,” he said, eyes still on the window. 

“Barely.” 

He hummed. “You were good tonight.” 

Katsuki snorted. “You mean I didn’t blow up a reporter.” 

“That too.” Izuku’s lips tilted. “You did glare at everyone who came within a meter of me, though.” 

“Occupational hazard.” 

Izuku turned his head, studying him. “You always stand so close.” 

Katsuki looked straight ahead. “You talk to too many damn people.” 

The car hit a red light; the glow from the streetlamps slid over Izuku’s face, gold and red and something softer. He shifted slightly, turning toward him. “Kacchan."

“What.” 

“You can breathe, you know. The night’s over.” 

“I’m breathin’.” 

“Then why are your shoulders up by your ears?” 

Katsuki huffed out a laugh. “You’re real funny.” 

Izuku’s hand reached over, brushing his wrist, barely a touch, but precise enough to make him still. “You were good,” he said again, quieter now. 

Katsuki didn’t move. “Stop sayin’ that.” 

“Why?” 

“‘Cause you make it sound like I’m some kinda pet.” 

Izuku’s grin appeared, small and wicked. "I think you're the who likes the sound of that.” 

Katsuki turned to glare at him, but the look didn’t have any real heat. Izuku’s thumb was still resting against the inside of his wrist, steady. The car started moving again. 

“You keep pokin’ at me like that,” Katsuki said finally, voice low, “and one day I’m not gonna let you walk away so smug.” 

Izuku’s eyes glinted under the passing lights. “That’s the point.” 

They sat in silence after that, comfortable, charged. The city rolled by, and the air between them hummed with everything neither of them had to say. They'd done this dance amillion times, they both knew where it would end up.

Chapter Text

The street looked like a war zone. Pavement ripped apart in sharp seams, storefront glass glittering across the sidewalk like sugar in the dim streetlight. Smoke poured from a crater in the middle of the road, curling through the wreckage. 

Katsuki’s shoulder ached where he’d slammed into a wall earlier, but he didn’t feel it anymore. His pulse drowned everything out. The villain, some second-rate quake user, lay half-buried in dust and broken concrete, breathing ragged, eyes still wild. 

Katsuki grabbed a fistful of his shirt and hauled him upright. “You done yet?” 

The man spat, blood dark against the dust. “You heroes really think you’re gods, huh?” 

Katsuki’s grip tightened. “Watch your mouth.” 

The guy laughed, a cracked, ugly sound. “Oh, I get it now. You are what they say you are. You're his lapdog. The bomb with a leash. Must be real nice, having the golden boy hold your chain.” 

Katsuki’s vision narrowed. “Say that again.” 

“You heard me,” the man coughed. “Everyone has. You bark when he tells you to. Midoriya smiles and the world moves. You-” he sneered, teeth red from the blood, “you just explode on command.” 

Katsuki felt the heat rise up his arms, hissing under the plates of his gauntlets. That's fine, let the man talk. Nothing Katsuki hasn't heard before. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” 

“Oh, but I do.” The villain’s grin widened. “All that power, all that rage, still living in his shadow. Tell me, Dynamight, does it eat at you? Watching him get worshipped while you clean up his messes?” 

Katsuki’s breathing hitched, shallow and hard. He could take that. He had taken that for years. But then- 

The man’s voice dropped to a rasp. “Bet the loser never learned how to shut up, either. Always preaching, pretending he’s some kind of saint. Truth is, heroes like him get people killed. Too soft to make the hard calls. All heart, no bite. One day, he’ll freeze up, and someone’s gonna die for it.” 

Katsuki’s world went white. 

The explosion wasn’t planned. It never was. His hand slammed into the asphalt beside the man’s head, the blast scorching a crater into the ground. The sound cracked the air, rattled the windows. 

“Say. That. Again.” 

The villain flinched but kept grinning through blood. “Touched a nerve, huh? I’m right. He’s weak-” 

Katsuki didn’t even register the second blast until Kirishima’s voice cut through the ringing. 

“Bro-Katsuki! He’s done, man! You need to chill!” 

“Don’t tell me to-” Another detonation, smaller but hotter, flared off his gauntlet. Heat bit across his wrist. 

“Bakugo.” 

That voice. That name. The two rarely went together, unless the owner of the voice was truly upset or serious about something.

It wasn’t a shout. It didn’t have to be. 

It landed like an order in his bloodstream. 

Katsuki’s head snapped toward the sound. Izuku stood at the edge of the crater, dust clinging to his hair, the faint glow of streetlights catching on the green of his eyes that stared down at him. His stance was calm, hands low, shoulders steady. 

“What are you doing?” 

The words weren’t sharp, but they sliced through him anyway. 

Katsuki’s jaw worked. “He- this extra said some shit about you.” His voice cracked, anger bleeding into something that sounded too close to guilt. 

“I heard.” Izuku’s tone didn’t change. “It’s fine.” 

“The hell it is-” 

“Kacchan.” 

That single word hit harder than any blast. Katsuki froze, still panting, the edges of his vision shaking from adrenaline. Izuku tilted his head just slightly, a tiny movement that somehow carried an entire conversation’s worth of meaning. 

“Put him down,” Izuku said. “Come here.” 

Katsuki didn’t move at first. His hand was still locked in the villain’s shirt, knuckles white under the armor. The man’s breath wheezed in and out, shallow and terrified, but a proud gleam in his eye. Like he just realized he really had been right about the comparison he'd made. Whatever, that's not the comment that set katsuki off.

That glint in his eyes, however was not enough to deter him again, not when Izuku had said to stop. Slowly, Katsuki’s grip loosened. He let the body fall back against the asphalt with a dull thud. The hiss of his gauntlet as it powered down was louder than anything else in the street. 

He turned toward Izuku. The rage still burned, but it was directionless now, all heat and nowhere to go. The closer he walked, the more it drained away. 

When he stopped in front of him, Izuku reached up without hesitation. His palm found the side of Katsuki’s jaw, cool against overheated skin. A smear of soot came away on his thumb. 

“Good,” Izuku said quietly. “That’s enough.” 

Katsuki swallowed hard. “He doesn’t get to say that. About you.” 

“I know,” Izuku said. “But you don’t have to make him pay for it. He'll do that in prison.” 

Katsuki’s throat worked once before he nodded, sharp and silent. 

Izuku’s hand lingered just long enough to steady him, then fell away. “Come on. Let’s get this wrapped up.” 

Katsuki exhaled, the breath shaking on the way out. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Fine.” 

They walked out of the crater side by side, the smoke thinning around them. Behind them, Kirishima was already calling for a cleanup team. The villain groaned but didn’t move again. 

Izuku didn’t look back. Katsuki didn’t need to. His hands still shook, but the air felt easier to breathe. Not because the fight was over, because Izuku was there, voice steady, presence pulling him back from the edge as easily as drawing breath. 

The ride back to HQ was silent except for the hum of the van and the soft crackle of radio chatter. Kirishima sat up front, giving them space without making it obvious. The villain was cuffed and sedated in the back, guarded by a sidekick from the cleanup crew. 

Katsuki sat on the bench seat, arms braced on his knees, head down. His gloves were still smeared with ash. His shoulder throbbed, but he didn’t care. Every time he blinked, he saw that smirk, that voice still echoing- 
heroes like him get people killed. 

Across from him, Izuku was reading the initial field report on a tablet. The glow from the screen caught the lines under his eyes, the faint smear of soot across his cheek. He hadn’t spoken since they’d left the scene. 

Katsuki couldn’t stand it. 
“Say it,” he muttered. 

Izuku looked up. “Say what?” 

“Whatever lecture you’ve been building in your head. About restraint. Optics. Protocol.” 

Izuku blinked, the smallest crease forming between his brows. “You think that’s what I’m thinking about?” 

Katsuki’s jaw flexed. “You always are.” 

Izuku set the tablet down on his lap. “No,” he said quietly. “Not this time.” 

Katsuki looked up then, throat tight. “Then what?” 

Izuku’s gaze met his: calm, unflinching, the same steady weight that had stopped him mid-blast. “I’m thinking about how scared you must’ve been.” 

That hit harder than any reprimand could’ve. Katsuki scoffed, too sharp, too quick. “Scared? The hell are you-” 

“Kacchan.” 

One word. Not a warning, not an order, just his name, spoken with that maddening gentleness that disarmed him more than shouting ever could. 

Izuku leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes soft but serious. “You weren’t angry because he insulted me. You were angry because he said something that almost sounded true, and then he twisted it.” 

Katsuki’s breath caught. “What the hell does that mean?” 

“He said I was too soft,” Izuku said simply. “That I’d freeze, that someone would die because I couldn’t make a call. And you know I’ve worried about that before. You’ve seen me worry about it. You didn’t want to hear it out loud.” 

Katsuki stared at him, jaw tight, chest aching. “He doesn’t get to say it.” 

“I know,” Izuku said again. “But you don’t have to blow up the city to prove it isn’t true.” 

The van turned a corner; the motion made the light shift across their faces. Kirishima pretended not to glance back. For a long moment, neither spoke. 

Then Katsuki let out a breath that sounded more like a growl. “You shouldn’t’ve come in after me.” 

Izuku raised an eyebrow. “You’d rather I stayed back while you set the street on fire?” 

“Would’ve saved me the embarrassment.” 

Izuku smiled, small, tired, fond. “I think I’ll risk it.” 

That pulled a sound from Katsuki that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so raw. He leaned back against the van wall, eyes on the ceiling. 

“I hate when you’re calm after,” he muttered. “Makes me feel like an idiot.” 

“You’re not an idiot,” Izuku said. “You’re just-” He paused, considering. “...loud when you care.” 

Katsuki snorted. “That’s one way to put it.” 

Izuku leaned his head back against the seat, voice dropping low. “You don’t have to protect me from words, Kacchan. They're just words.” 

The rest of the drive passed in silence, but it was a better silence. Softer. Katsuki found himself breathing deeper. 

When they pulled into the garage, Kirishima hopped out first to handle the paperwork. Izuku lingered at the door, waiting for Katsuki to move. 

“You gonna write the report or should I?” Izuku asked lightly. 

Katsuki rolled his eyes, standing. “I’ll do it. You’ll just make it sound pretty.” 

“Accurate,” Izuku corrected. 

“Same thing,” Katsuki said. 

They walked side by side down the corridor, shoulders brushing once in the narrow space. The lights overhead buzzed faintly, the smell of disinfectant sharp in the air. 

Katsuki didn’t look at him, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “He was wrong, y’know.” 

Izuku glanced over. “About what?” 

“You. Weakness. All that crap.” 

Izuku’s smile softened. “I know.” 

Katsuki grunted, hand brushing briefly against his as they passed through the door. “Good.” 

Chapter Text

The next morning came too early. The apartment still smelled faintly of smoke from where he’d scrubbed his gauntlets in the sink at two a.m. He hadn’t really slept, just dozed in intervals, the memory of last night’s blast replaying in every half-dream. When the sun broke over the skyline, Katsuki was already moving. The kitchen counter disappeared under plates: rice, miso, eggs, grilled fish, the works. He wasn’t thinking about it, just doing. Motion kept the noise down. 

Izuku shuffled in around seven, hair sticking up worse than usual, wearing a shirt that had seen better days. He stopped in the doorway, blinking at the table. 

“…Did you invite my whole class?” 

“Breakfast,” Katsuki muttered. “Eat.” 

Izuku eyed him. “Kacchan, this could feed a small platoon.” 

“Then shut up and pick somethin’.” 

Izuku didn’t move right away. He crossed the room, quiet. Katsuki kept his eyes on the frying pan. The air was too still, the way it gets when there’s something unsaid taking up space between them. 

Finally, Izuku spoke. “You don’t have to make up for anything.” 

Katsuki’s jaw tightened. “Didn’t say I was.” 

“You’re cooking like you’re being graded.” 

“I just felt like it.” 

Izuku hummed, unconvinced but kind enough not to push. He reached past him for the kettle, their shoulders brushing. “Then I’m grateful you felt like it.” 

They ate in relative silence, Izuku slow, deliberate, Katsuki pretending not to watch for signs of bruising from the fight that never actually touched him. Every time Izuku’s sleeve shifted, Katsuki’s eyes followed, checking for burns, cuts, anything. 

Halfway through the meal, Izuku set his chopsticks down. “You were good yesterday.” He said it all the time. Reminding Katsuki he was good. Neither are sure when he started doing it. But something about hearing that word describe him coming from Izuku made him almost believe it. He needed that faith like a life-line, even if it came at random moments sometimes.

The sporadic nature of those compliments still shocked him though. Katsuki nearly choked on his rice. “What?” 

“You stopped.” 

He scowled. “You told me to.” 

Izuku smiled faintly. “And you listened.” 

Katsuki looked away. “Don’t make a thing out of it.” 

“I’m not. I just… appreciate it.” 

That silence came back, but softer this time. Izuku reached across the table, not touching him, just close enough that his hand rested near Katsuki’s, palm open, invitation without expectation. 

Katsuki stared at it for a long second before setting his own hand down beside it, not overlapping, just parallel. Close enough. 

“You know,” Izuku said quietly, “you don’t have to fight every insult that comes my way.” 

“Maybe I want to.” 

“I know.” A pause. “But sometimes, letting it go is a better solution.” 

Katsuki grunted, low and skeptical. “Yeah, well, that's too quiet for me. I’m not built for quiet.” 

Izuku’s lips quirked. “You are when you try.” 

Katsuki sighed, leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “You always gotta have the last word, huh?” 

“It’s how I keep up with you.” 

For the first time that morning, Katsuki smiled, small, crooked, real. “Idiot.” 

“Mmhm.” 

They finished breakfast without speaking. When Izuku got up to rinse his plate, Katsuki caught his wrist, brief but sure. 

“You know he was wrong,” Katsuki said again. It wasn’t a question. 

Izuku met his eyes. “I know.” 

Katsuki nodded once and let go. 

Izuku dried his hands, turned back toward him. “And you know you’re allowed to be angry without destroying yourself over it.” 

“Workin’ on it,” Katsuki muttered. 

“I know that too.” 

He smiled, tired, affectionate, the kind that always hit somewhere under Katsuki’s ribs, and went to get ready for work. 

Katsuki stayed where he was, staring at the half-empty table. The city outside was already waking, the faint hum of traffic seeping through the window. He exhaled, rubbed a hand over his face, and let the quiet settle. 

It wasn’t forgiveness that he gave himself, exactly. But it felt close. 

----- 

Patrol days after a fight always felt like penance. The air seemed sharper, thinner, like the world was holding its breath to see if he’d screw up again. Izuku didn’t treat it that way, though. He walked ahead of him, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, humming under his breath. The city around them was calm, morning traffic, the smell of steam buns, sunlight cutting off glass windows. 

“Stop walkin’ in front,” Katsuki said. 

“I’m not.” 

“You are.” 

Izuku half-turned, walking backwards now, grin bright enough to burn. “Then keep up.” 

“Don’t test me, nerd.” 

“You started it.” 

It wasn’t an argument. Not really. It was gravity, the same pull they’d always had, disguised as banter. They passed a vendor handing out hero-trading cards. A kid squealed when he recognized them, waving a Dynamight card and an old, bent Deku one. Izuku crouched down immediately, signing both. Katsuki hung back a few steps, pretending to check his comms, but his eyes never left Izuku. 

When Izuku stood again, brushing his hands on his knees, Katsuki caught himself staring too long. It wasn’t just the sunlight on him, it was the ease. The absolute ease. After everything, the man still smiled like he meant it. 

“You’re staring,” Izuku said softly when he came close again. 

“You’re makin’ it hard not to.” 

Izuku blinked, startled, that split-second hesitation that made Katsuki smirk before turning away. 

“C’mon,” Katsuki muttered, already walking ahead. “We’ve got two blocks left.” 

Izuku caught up, shoulder brushing his. “You okay?” 

“Fine.” 

“You didn’t even sleep.” 

“’Cause you steal the damn blanket.” 

Izuku laughed, that soft, stupid sound that always hit him under the ribs. “You can’t deflect everything with attitude, y’know.” 

Katsuki glanced at him, one brow raised. “You fall for it every time.” 

They reached the end of the sector just as a breeze swept through, tugging at the edges of their uniforms. Izuku stopped, watching a flock of birds scatter off a wire above them, his hair catching the light in messy green strands. Katsuki should’ve looked away. He didn’t. 

For a second, the noise of the street dimmed, just the sound of wind and Izuku breathing next to him. The scar on his cheek caught the sun. The corner of his mouth lifted when he noticed Katsuki wasn’t moving. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Katsuki said, and meant everything. 

Izuku tilted his head, teasing, gentle. “You sure?” 

Katsuki huffed, stepping past him. “You’re insufferable.” 

“And you like it,” Izuku said, following. 

“Unfortunately.” 

Izuku laughed again, chasing his stride, shoulder bumping his as they walked. 

Katsuki didn’t push him away. Didn’t need or want to. They moved in sync without trying. 

And when their comms crackled with the next call, a minor report, two blocks east, Katsuki glanced at him first. Izuku met his look, nodding once. 

A whole conversation in half a second. 

Then they were off again, two halves of the same heartbeat, the city spread out before them like something they could still save. 

----------- 

The next morning started like any other. Steam fogged the windows, the smell of miso and burnt toast drifting through the kitchen. Izuku sat at the counter already dressed for the day, papers spread out in front of him, red pen tapping in time with the radio. 

Katsuki poured coffee into two mugs and grunted. “You’re gonna miss the train if you keep grading during breakfast.” 

“I’m ahead of schedule,” Izuku said, smiling without looking up. 

“Yeah, that’s what you said yesterday.” 

Izuku hummed, unconcerned, and under the easy rhythm of their bickering, the city hummed too, sirens far away, the clatter of early traffic, the familiar heartbeat of a world that, for once, wasn’t on fire. 

Then the radio cut out. 

A pop of static, then silence. The air shifted. 

Katsuki frowned and turned toward it just as a new voice replaced the usual news announcer. Calm. Too calm. 

“Good morning, heroes. I wonder... when did saving people become a brand?” 

Izuku’s pen stilled. 

“When did the word hero stop meaning human? You all know me, even if you’ve never heard my name. You’ve seen what your idols left behind. The rubble. The collateral. The smiling faces hiding exhaustion. You call it peace.” 

Katsuki’s stomach tightened. The voice wasn’t masked, it was clear, measured, almost gentle. 

“But peace bought with silence is just another kind of war. And the one who taught me that was Midoriya Izuku.” 

Katsuki froze. 

Izuku’s eyes snapped up, wide and colorless in the light. 

“You remember him, don’t you? The boy who wanted to save everyone. The child who believed the system could be kind. The man who built it anyway, even as it rotted from within.” 

Katsuki slammed a hand down on the counter, hard enough to rattle the mugs. “Turn that shit off.” 

Izuku didn’t move. His gaze was locked on the radio like it was alive. 

“I’m not your enemy,” the voice continued, almost tender. “I’m just the proof that your dream killed something real.” 

Katsuki crossed the room in two strides and twisted the knob until the speaker went dead. The silence that followed felt wrong, too loud, too still. 

For a long moment, neither spoke. 

Izuku’s hand hovered over the papers, motionless. “They used my name.” 

“Yeah.” 

“That wasn’t a coincidence.” 

“Obviously not.” 

Izuku finally looked at him. There wasn’t fear in his face, just the kind of sharp focus that always meant he was already three steps ahead. “I need to call Nezu.” 

“Hold up.” Katsuki’s voice came out rougher than he meant. “You’re not jumpin’ in yet. We don’t even know who the hell this guy is.” 

Izuku was already reaching for his phone. “That’s exactly why I have to.” 

Katsuki caught his wrist. “Deku.” 

The use of the old name stopped him cold. 

Katsuki’s thumb brushed against the inside of Izuku’s wrist where his pulse beat fast. “Whoever that was, they know how to get to you. Don’t give ‘em more than they already took.” 

Izuku met his eyes, expression steady, almost gentle. “You think I’m scared.” 

“I think you should be.” Katsuki replied.

Izuku’s smile was small, tired. “Why would I be? I've got you.” 

For a heartbeat, the air between them hummed, same frequency as it always did when Katsuki’s temper met Izuku’s calm and neither could quite let go. Then Izuku eased his wrist free, grabbed his jacket, and started for the door. 

“I’ll be at UA,” he said. “If you get anything on patrol-” 

“I’ll handle it,” Katsuki finished for him. 

Izuku hesitated at the doorway. “You always do.” 

When the door clicked shut, Katsuki stared at the radio on the counter. 
The faint smell of burnt toast still lingered, sharp and sweet. 

He didn’t notice he’d clenched his fists until the metal creaked. The air still smelled like burnt bread. He left before he could talk himself into following Izuku to UA, throwing his jacket on, boots hitting the hallway too loud for the quiet morning. 

By the time he reached the agency, the city had changed. 
People weren’t shouting or panicking; they were talking. Every street corner had someone replaying that broadcast on their phones, faces lit by the same pale light. Every sentence was being dissected before the echo even faded. 

Katsuki didn’t have to ask what they were watching. The name Midoriya kept cutting through the noise. 

He shoved his hands into his pockets and kept moving. Every time someone met his eye, they looked away fast. Not fear. Uncertainty. The kind that spreads quicker than smoke. 

Chapter Text

The comms in his ear crackled halfway through patrol. 

“Dynamight, sector clear?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You hear that broadcast this morning?” 

“Everyone did,” he said flatly. 

“We’re getting calls from civs asking if it was legit. You want us to issue a statement?” 

Katsuki snorted. “What, sayin’ villains talk shit for attention? Waste of breath. Besides, if anyone's makin' a statement, it's Deku.” 

He cut the line before they could answer. At the corner of 47th, two teenagers were arguing outside a convenience store. He caught snippets as he passed- 

“He’s not wrong though, right? Heroes do get rich off this stuff.” 
“Don’t talk like that, man. Deku’s- he’s, like, the hero.” 
“That’s what Revenant said.” 

Katsuki stopped dead. 
Revenant. So the bastard had a name now. 

His hands twitched toward his gauntlets before he forced them still. 
You don’t get to make him a punchline, he thought, jaw tight. 

A gust of wind whipped through the street, tugging at the edges of posters plastered to the walls, old hero ads, smiling faces. One of them was Izuku’s: bright eyes, open hand, tagline reading “Hope Never Breaks.” 
Someone had scribbled under it in red marker: Hope always cracks first. 

Katsuki tore it down. Didn’t even look at the kid who’d done it. 

By noon, the city felt restless. No attacks, no alarms, just an unease that crawled under the skin. Katsuki ended patrol early and headed for U.A. He didn’t call first. He didn’t need to. 

 --------

The staff room smelled like ink and cold coffee. Every monitor in the office replayed the broadcast that Katsuki and Izuku hadn't seen from the TV on loop; Nezu had frozen the image on the villain’s distorted face, young, unscarred, deliberate. There were bursts of static all over the place, so no one could get a good luck at hus identity, but they could see his. His eyes were unmoving. His eyes looked straight into the camera. 

“He’s not masking his voice,” Izuku said quietly. 

“No,” Aizawa replied. “He wants to be recognized.” 

Nezu folded his paws on the desk. “We’ve confirmed the signal was hijacked through multiple private frequencies. Whoever he is, he’s competent. And his words have spread to nearly every major news network already.” 

Izuku’s throat felt dry. “Then we have to respond.” 

Aizawa looked at him over the top of his scarf. “You sure that’s smart, Midoriya?” 

“If I don’t, people will think he’s right.” 

“Or they’ll think he’s got to you.” 

The door slid open before Izuku could answer. 

Katsuki filled the doorway, hair wind-tossed, eyes still sharp from patrol. The room shifted around him the way it always did when he walked in, like the air braced itself. 

“You done playin’ diplomat yet?” he asked. 

“Kacchan,” Izuku said, voice low, but the relief in it was unmistakable. “I didn’t think you’d-” 

“Of course I did.” Katsuki stepped inside, nodding at the monitors. “He’s already out there usin’ your damn name. You really think I’m sittin’ this out?” 

Aizawa sighed. “Try not to punch the screens, Bakugo.” 

“No promises.” 

Nezu’s smile was tight. “We’ll need both of you. Dynamight for tactical coordination; Midoriya for public communication. If this ‘Revenant’ continues, he’s not just attacking infrastructure. He’s attacking ideals.” 

Katsuki scoffed. “Then he picked the wrong nerd to mess with.” 

Izuku’s lips twitched, half amusement, half exhaustion. “You really think this is about me personally?” 

Katsuki met his eyes. “I think he wants to see what happens when the world questions you. And I think I’m gonna make damn sure he regrets it.” 

The room went quiet except for the hum of the monitors. Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please tell me neither of you are planning to start another PR disaster.” 

“No,” Izuku said softly. “We’re just planning to find him first.” 

Katsuki didn’t add that what he really wanted wasn’t to find the guy, it was to make him stop saying Izuku’s name like it belonged to him. 

------

The apartment lights were low, gold spilling from the kitchen window like the city had poured a bit of itself inside. Katsuki moved around the stove with the kind of rough precision that came from years of pretending he didn’t care how good he was at it. Oil hissed. Steam curled. 

Izuku leaned against the counter, the fatigue of the day settling in all at once. The smell of curry filled the air, sharp, earthy, comforting. 

“Sit,” Katsuki muttered without looking up. 

“I’m fine standing.” 

“Didn’t ask if you were fine.” 

Izuku huffed a small laugh and pulled out a stool. He watched the back of Katsuki’s neck where a strand of blond hair had stuck to the skin. So much force contained in such ordinary motions. 

“You’ve been quiet,” Katsuki said after a minute. 

“You’ve been loud enough for both of us.” 

“Ha ha.” He set the bowls down. “Eat.” 

They ate in silence. The sound of the spoon against the ceramic was steady, almost hypnotic. Izuku could feel the tension in the room start to ease, thread by thread. 

Halfway through the meal he said, softly, “The way he spoke, it reminded me of some students I used to teach.” 

Katsuki’s spoon stopped mid-air. “Don’t start.” 

“I’m not excusing him.” 

“Feels like it.” 

“I just mean… you could hear it. The desperation to believe something pure again.” He stirred the curry absently. “When people lose faith in the system, they look for someone who sounds honest. And he sounds... terrifyingly honest.” 

Katsuki pushed his bowl away. “He sounds like a manipulative little shit.” 

“That too.” 

For a moment, Izuku smiled. “You can't protect me from what I already see, Kacchan.” 

Katsuki leaned back, arms crossed, glare softening just a little. “Then stop lookin’ so damn calm about it. It freaks me out.” 

Izuku looked down at his bowl, hiding the laugh in his breath. “That’s because one of us has to stay calm, and I think you're more upset about this than I am.” 

They cleaned up together without talking. Katsuki rinsed the dishes while Izuku dried; they traded glances more than words, the quiet comfortable again. When the sink finally emptied, Izuku lingered by the counter, tracing the rim of a glass. 

He said, almost to himself, “Do you ever think we made things too good? That we told people heroes could fix everything?” 

Katsuki wiped his hands on a towel. “No. I think I died and you got your arms ripped off and lost One For All. I think we showed ‘em we’re human, and they forgot that part.” 

Izuku looked at him, and for a long moment there was nothing else, just the hum of the refrigerator and the faint city light through the blinds. 

“C’mere,” Katsuki said. 

Izuku did. Katsuki’s hand found the back of his neck, fingers resting there like an anchor. Not rough, not gentle, just real. 

“You overthink. I overreact,” Katsuki murmured. “World keeps spinnin’ anyway.” 

Izuku smiled against his shoulder. “You always make it sound so simple.” 

“It’s not. But it’s ours.” 

They stayed like that until the curry smell faded and the street outside went quiet. When they finally went to bed, Katsuki fell asleep instantly; Izuku didn’t. He lay awake listening to the rhythm of Katsuki’s breathing and wondering how far words could reach before they started to break things. 

 -----

Morning brought brightness too sharp to be kind. Katsuki left early, half-buttoning his uniform jacket as he went. Izuku caught his wrist at the door. 

“Be careful.” 

Katsuki smirked. “Always am.” 

“That’s a lie.” 

“Yeah, but it sounds nice.” 

katsuki dipped own and kissed Izuku's temple. The door closed behind him. 

Chapter Text

U.A. was louder than usual when Izuku arrived. Students huddled around screens, murmuring. News feeds replayed the broadcast, now spliced with commentary and public polls: Do heroes deserve unchecked power? 

Every headline used his photo. He walked faster. Inside the faculty wing, Aizawa handed him a tablet. “It’s spreading. He’s calling himself Revenant. Four more broadcasts since dawn. Same rhetoric.” 

Izuku scrolled through the transcript. Each line was a mirror held up to his own speeches years ago. We can rebuild society together. 
Revenant had changed the punctuation: We, can rebuild society- together? 

He felt the shift under his ribs again, the same pressure as last night. 

“I’ll handle the student side,” Izuku said quietly. 

“Already figured you’d say that,” Aizawa muttered. 

 Across town, Katsuki was seeing the other side. 
Patrol chatter was chaos, half the calls were civilians wanting reassurance, the other half protest coordinators warning of marches forming in front of the Hero Commission building. 

He caught sight of one of the posters being stapled to a telephone pole: HEROISM IS A BUSINESS. WE DESERVE BETTER. 
The ink was still wet. Beneath it, someone had scrawled in smaller letters: Midoriya tried. Maybe Revenant’s right. 

Katsuki ripped the paper down without slowing. “Don’t touch that!” the kid with the stapler shouted. 

“File a complaint,” Katsuki threw over his shoulder. 

 By noon, the sky was white and glaring. He cut across the plaza toward U.A. He didn’t bother to buzz in; security knew better. 

He found Izuku in the observation deck overlooking the training grounds, staring through the glass at students running drills. 

“You skipped lunch,” Katsuki said. 

“You tracked me down for that?” 

“Partly.” He joined him at the window. “City’s gettin’ weird. People’re restless. You’re on half the posters I saw.” 

Izuku didn’t answer. His reflection in the glass looked older, distant. "It's only been two days since the first broadcast." He said quietly. 

Katsuki shifted closer, voice low. “Don’t let ‘em turn you into a symbol again.” 

Izuku turned to him then, green eyes clear, steady. “And what do you want me to be?” 

Katsuki met the look head on. “You. Just you.” 

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full of everything they didn’t need to say: the years of learning how to stay steady, the promise they’d keep doing it no matter what storm came next. Outside, the students laughed. Inside, Izuku finally exhaled. 

“Okay,” he said. “Just me.” 

Katsuki nodded once, satisfied, and leaned his shoulder against Izuku’s. “Good. ‘Cause that’s already enough to scare the hell outta ‘em.” 

------

They called it symbolic before anyone knew what it actually meant. 

The Commission’s outreach wing, the glass-front atrium with a bronze statue of Deku reaching skyward on the other side of town, had been a beacon of PR for a decade. Smiles, handshakes, photo ops staged beneath that bronze arm: a shorthand for stability. Someone had picked that for a reason. Katsuki and Izuku were there after classes that day because they need to turn in updated equipment forms.

Katsuki didn’t see the first flash until he was already ten feet away. One moment the plaza was morning clean and full of office workers, the next, a deafning boom which rocked the heavens echoed throughout his ears, glass peeled outward in fast, glittering sheets and a column of smoke uncurled into the sky like a finger writing FUCK across the sun. The bronze statue’s fingers were blackened instantaneously, a halo of soot framing the face that had been part advertising mascot and part civic talisman. 

The shockwave shoved him back, knocked the breath from his lungs. Somewhere under the roar someone screamed; someone else began to cry and then there were feet and sirens. 

He could smell it immediately: acrid, chemical, that copper bite of fresh metal. The soles of his boots connected with broken pavement; his hands went to his gauntlets because that was what his body knew to do. Heat licked his forearms. People were falling away around him, scattering like leaves. 

Katsuki moved, not thinking about permission or the Commission’s protocols or the cameras that would already be rolling. He moved because something had been broken where it shouldn’t be, and his chest hot-wired into action. 

Izuku was already there, not running in a straight hero charge, but weaving, reading gaps, anchoring panic into plans. He was yelling, not because he wanted to dominate the noise but because his voice made people find an order in disaster. “This way! Stay low! Come on, over here!” 

Katsuki caught sight of him through the smoke: a silhouette cutting a path through chaos with a metaphorical clipboard of commands that only he could translate into calm. Izuku’s hair stuck damp to his forehead; his face had a new hardness around the edges. The bronze behind him looked like a burned memory. 

For a second, a sliver, something irrational and sharp as a shard of glass stabbed through him. Someone had made a target of Izuku’s name and his image and his ideals, and now the city smelled that target. He wanted to tear the world apart to stop the idea of it. 

The first priority was the civilians. Izuku’s voice braided with the crowd and the rescue teams, putting meters where there had been chaos. Katsuki found himself grabbing an elderly man by the shoulders and hauling him clear of a falling sign. He took one woman’s arm, another child’s hand, moved like a machine with his soft parts soldered under armor. Rage and care ran the same voltage through him. He began his job as a hero.

When they cleared the nearest ring of danger and paramedics began triage, Izuku finally had a breath long enough to see Katsuki not as a teammate but as the person who would measure the damage in his bones. His eyes locked onto him across the rubble. 

“Kacchan,” Izuku said, not calling him to stop, calling to check. The way he said it was small and human and broke something open that didn’t need to be broken. Katsuki answered without meaning to: a hard nod, a hand twitching like a habit toward his gauntlet. 

They worked the aftermath together because they always did: Izuku corralling volunteers, Katsuki blocking the press from seeing the worst, both of them folding into the roles they’d developed over years of doing the same dance. But the bombing had teeth in it. It had an architecture of meaning. Someone had chosen the statue on purpose, chosen the day on purpose, chosen words and images that would be replayed a hundred thousand times. 

Later, when the smoke had been smothered and a perimeter established, the Commission’s liaison flooded the cordoned zone with people who wanted to tell the story in three-sentence clips. Someone shouted about a manifesto posted online. A helicopter whirred overhead, catching the scorched bronze at odd angles so every news feed could caption it: Symbolic Attack on Hero Idealism. 

Katsuki watched the cameras and felt his skin crawl. Not because of being watched, he’d been filmed a thousand times, but because the image they were selling wasn’t theirs to sell. It looked like the beginning of a conversation where everyone else would decide what Izuku meant, and he hated the idea of any stranger defining the man he lived with. 

They let Izuku give few statements to the press. Short, measured, honest. He acknowledged the hurt, he honored the city’s fear, but he didn’t let the broadcast’s framing become the frame for their lives. Katsuki read the way Izuku paused on certain words: We must not let harm beget hate. We will find who did this. We will make sure our children are safe. The cadence was deliberate. It was him trying to steer a tide. 

Katsuki wanted to rip the reporters’ microphones out and ask who signed off on a sentence that suggested heroes were to blame for their own attacks. He wanted to make the man who had made the statue blacken admit he was a coward who hid behind words. Instead he did what worked: he squared his shoulders behind Izuku during the statements, a living punctuation mark that said do not cross him, and when the first camera angled for a close-up of the bronze, Katsuki stepped into the frame, blocking the shot with his back the same way he would step between a kid and a threat. 

When they were finally away from scene-control and the Commission staffers from shiny suits were trying to corral statements, Izuku’s hand found his again. Pressed, light. A small squeeze that said: I’m still here. I still have you. 

“You okay?” Izuku asked, voice narrowed into a private mode. 

Katsuki let his jaw slack a fraction. His answer was a grunt that meant I’m not okay but I’ll function. The words weren’t necessary. He’d be the one sleeping with the gauntlets at his side that night, checking the door twice. He’d be the one the reporters feared when they moved too close the next day. He’d be the one to take the fury somewhere useful. Izuku was the one who'd sit with it. 

The Commission wanted an immediate task force. They wanted PR, damage control, and a confident face for the cameras. They wanted Izuku in meetings and Katsuki in field units. It was a tidy split, almost insulting in its simplicity and effeciency. Someone had lit a match and then assumed heroes would behave like fireproof furniture. 

Katsuki didn’t take orders well that morning. He sat through the strategic meeting and listened to Aizawa, Nezu, and the Commission’s advisors throw terms around like darts: narrative management, counter messaging, strict enforcement of protests. He watched as people who’d never worn smoke in their lungs argued the semantics while children’s drawings of heroes were taped to the walls, stained with ash. His face didn’t give much away, but inside something like slow, molten metal was forming, the part of him that didn’t trust the system to protect the people it claimed to. 

When Izuku rose to speak, he did it in the way he always did: bluntly, with an earnestness that cut through jargon. He suggested a different path, community listening sessions, protected spaces for protest that allowed safe expression, an open archival review so grievances could be heard instead of ignored. He wasn’t excusing violence, not for a second, but he was betting on conversation as a tool to unpick radicalization. 

The Commission officers blinked as if he had proposed they balloon into the sea. Katsuki watched some of them nod politely and file the ideas into boxes labeled soft policy and PR risk. He could see the calculation: message containment versus long-term healing. He wanted to stand up and tell them they could not spin away the smell of that bronze, that gestures wouldn’t fill the hollowness the speechers poked at. 

At the back of the room, behind a wall of policy papers, Izuku caught his eye. Their look wasn’t theatrical, just two people exchanging coordinates: you mean what you say, and if you do, I’ll be at your side. Katsuki answered with the tightest of half smiles, the one that meant I always am. 

Later, when they walked out of the meeting into sunlight that no longer felt innocent, Katsuki’s patience finally fell off its pins. He wanted to go and find the person who’d chosen that statue and make them kneel. He wanted to shut down the forums where the manifesto had been seeded. He wanted to make truth simple: you don’t get to burn symbols and then lecture the victims about calm. 

Izuku’s hand slid into his, anchoring and calm. “Let’s go see the site again,” he said. 

Katsuki almost snapped back: You don’t need me for a tour. He was just stressed. Instead he let himself be led. On the walk there was a crowd, smaller now, but louder with a new edge: debate. People argued about the role of heroes, whether statues were obsolete, whether hero culture had commodified pain. Some of the comments were ugly, some thoughtful, and a handful were just confused. 

At the edge of the plaza where the bronze had stood, a young man in a hoodie, beard stubble, eyes too intense for his age, was recording with his phone, talking in a low, measured cadence. A crowd listened as if he were an old preacher. The words were not the same as Revenant’s broadcast, but they felt like an echo: We deserve honesty. We deserve a system that does not perform our pain back to us as spectacle. 

Katsuki watched the boy and then looked at Izuku. The way their jaws tightened in sync was a small thing, invisible to most, massive to them. Izuku’s posture softened a fraction, not giving in but remembering there were people who needed to grieve and ask questions. Katsuki’s first impulse was protective; his second was to remember the nights when he had been pulled back by a different kind of storm. 

There would be arrests later, evidence dusted from smoldering metal, interviews scheduled in rooms with too-bright lights. There would be heated Commission rooms where cold policy men tried to declare moral lessons. There would also be kids drawing pictures of charred hands and putting them in envelopes. 

That night, back in their apartment, Katsuki slept with boots within reach and the faint ache of adrenaline in his joints. Izuku slept fitfully beside him, the lines on his face deeper than they’d been a week ago. At two in the morning Katsuki woke and watched him for a long time, the slow breath, the way his hands curled on the blanket. He could have held onto the day’s fury and let it harden him into something unforgiving, or he could take his partner’s small quiet, the human fact of him, and fold it into a shield. 

He chose shield. 

Chapter Text

When Izuku woke int the early morning hours, he found Katsuki already up, hooded sweatshirt on, a hard cup of coffee in a hand that still smelled faintly of smoke. No sermon, no grand gestures. Just the two of them, facing an uncertain city with the private knowledge that, together, they were still a thing that could not be reduced to a headline. 

“Kacchan,” Izuku said, softer than news cycles. “Thank you.” 

Katsuki grunted. “Don’t make me get sentimental.” But his fingers found Izuku’s, thumb rubbing a slow, steady line across knuckles. “We’ll sort it,” he said. “One bastard at a time.” 

Izuku’s smile was a thin curve of relief. “One bastard at a time.” He let the words rest between them, a promise and a plan. It made Katsuki chuckle. Izuku didn't cuss often, but when he did it' was usually because he was copying Katsuki. It was cute. 

Outside, the city slept a little less easily than before. Inside, two people who had seen a statue burn folded themselves into the small, stubborn certainty of each other. The war of ideas could rage for months; the work of being in love would outlast any broadcast. They both knew that was no comfort and everything they had. 

----- 

The sky over U.A. was clean again, that bright, washed blue that came after the city’s emergency crews had finished their long work. You could still smell the smoke if you caught the wind right. 

Izuku felt it before he saw it, the tight, subtle ache behind his ribs that hadn’t eased since the bombing. Every morning since, he’d walked through the gate half expecting the world to look different. It didn’t. The grass had been trimmed. The windows shone. The school hummed with the same small sounds: sneakers on tile, laughter in bursts, the metallic scrape of desk legs. 

Only the silence before class was different. 

He set his bag down on the desk and took a moment to look around the room. His students were pretending to work, pens in hand, notebooks open, but their eyes kept flicking toward him, waiting. The news still ran the bombing on repeat every hour, paired with still images of the heroes who’d been there: Dynamight mid-shout, Deku at his side. He could imagine what the headlines said without reading them. 

He cleared his throat. “Morning, everyone.” 

The chorus of “Good morning, Midoriya-sensei!” came a fraction too loud, eager, as if they were trying to fill the space for him. 

He smiled, something gentle and automatic. “How’s the analysis assignment?” 

A few groans. Familiar. Safe. 

“Mine’s almost done,” one of the second-years said from the front row. “But Sensei, are we-” He hesitated. “Are we still supposed to use the Commission data logs for the statistics part?” 

Izuku understood the real question. Are we still supposed to trust them? 

He rested his palms on the edge of the desk. “For now, yes. But remember, data’s only as good as the heart that interprets it. Don’t take numbers as gospel. Think about what they mean, who they’re for.” 

That seemed to satisfy them. Heads dipped back to papers. The faint scratch of pens returned. 

For the next ten minutes he walked the aisles, checking notes, answering small questions, letting their ordinary rhythm rebuild the day. It worked. The quiet steadied him. These kids didn’t care about politics or headlines, they cared about their work, their progress, the little victories. 

When he reached the last row, a student looked up from his worksheet. “Sensei?” 

“Mm?” 

“You were at the bombing, right?” 

The question was soft but it cut through the room like a thrown stone. Every pen froze mid-line. 

Izuku straightened slowly. “Yes.” 

The boy chewed his lip, eyes bright with worry. “Were you hurt?” 

“No,” Izuku said. He meant to leave it at that, but the faces around him were so open, so full of trust that something inside him loosened. “It was… loud. Scary. But we did what we always do. We saved people, made sure everyone got home. That’s what matters.” 

Another student, a girl near the window, spoke up, voice quiet but clear. “My dad said the news keeps playing that villain’s speech. He said people online are saying heroes only care about money.” 

There it was. The thing they’d all been trying not to ask. 

Izuku exhaled through his nose. “There are always people who’ll say things like that. Sometimes they even believe it. It happened when I was first year here, too. But there aren't the same threats as there were back then, and there never will be again. You all see how it really works, right?” 

Heads nodded, tentative at first, then firmer. 

“We don’t do this because it’s perfect,” Izuku said. “We do it because someone has to keep trying. Every time we save someone, every time we teach, we’re proving the world can still get better. Even if it’s slow. Even if it’s hard." His eyes gazed the room, making eye cintact with each student's gaze. "Especially when it’s hard.” 

The girl’s eyes softened. “You really believe that, don’t you?” 

Izuku smiled, small and honest. “Every day I wake up, I decide to.” 

Silence again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It was full. 

Then another voice piped up from the back, light, teasing, teenage. “You always tell us a hero’s heart doesn’t break, it just bends. That’s what you said in your first lecture.” 

A ripple of laughter went through the class. Izuku’s chest tightened in that aching, grateful way it always did when they remembered things he didn’t realize they’d been listening to. 

“I did say that,” he admitted. “Guess I should take my own advice, huh?” 

That got a louder laugh. The tension broke. By the time the bell rang, they were talking about drills again, arguing about who’d win a sparring match between Red Riot and Dynamight. Normal. It was fragile and miraculous, and he could’ve cried from relief. 

He stayed after the students left, grading half-finished papers just to keep his hands busy. Outside the window, sunlight bounced off the new security fences the Council had installed around the campus. The world was still shaking, but in here, it was steady. 

A knock came at the door. He looked up. Katsuki leaned against the frame, hair still damp from a shower, the faint smell of smoke clinging to him. He didn’t look angry, exactly, just wired tight, the way he got when he’d been in motion too long. 

“Hey,” Izuku said, standing automatically. “You’re early.” 

“Yeah, well.” Katsuki shrugged. “Was gonna wait till your class was over. Figured I’d walk you home.” 

“You already did that every day this week. that's a lot, even for you.” 

“Guess I’m makin’ it a habit.” 

Izuku smiled, the tension bleeding out of him. “You should come in. They just left.” 

Katsuki stepped inside, eyes flicking over the desks, the stray notebooks, the half erased equations on the board. “They all treat you like you hung the damn moon,” he muttered. 

“They’re good kids,” Izuku said. 

“They’re your kids.” Katsuki’s tone softened, like the words tasted strange in his mouth but he meant them. “You can see it. They don’t believe a damn word that idiot on the radio’s sayin’. You already fixed that.” 

Izuku blinked, caught off guard by the sudden warmth behind the roughness. “I didn’t fix anything, Kacchan. They just… see who I am.” 

“Exactly.” Katsuki’s gaze met his. “That’s what the world forgets. But these brats don’t.” 

The silence between them stretched, easy now. Izuku took a step closer. “You sound proud.” 

“I’m always proud,” Katsuki said simply. “I just don’t say it.” 

Izuku’s laugh was quiet and full. “You just did.” 

Katsuki grumbled, but the corner of his mouth twitched. He leaned a hip against the desk beside Izuku, glancing out the window at the training fields below. 

“World’s gettin’ messy out there,” he said. “But in here, it’s… nice.” 

Izuku followed his gaze. Students were running drills, shouting encouragement, the sound of laughter echoing up the hall. 

“Yeah,” Izuku said. “In here, it still works.” 

Katsuki’s hand brushed against his, fingers hooking for just a second. “Then let’s keep it that way.” 

Izuku looked up at him, the sunlight catching the edge of his smile. “You really think we can?” 

Katsuki’s reply was instant. “We always do.” 

-----

U.A. at midday was quieter than he remembered. The following day, Katsuki made his way to the school at lunch time instead of the afternoon. The wind rolled through the courtyard, stirring the flags over the main hall, the faint scent of fried food drifting from the cafeteria. 

Katsuki balanced two bentos in one hand, knocking once on the glass before sliding Izuku’s classroom door open with his elbow. 

Izuku looked up from his desk, eyes tired but softening instantly when he saw him. “Kacchan,” he said, voice dropping into something warmer than surprise. “You didn’t have to-” 

“Didn’t feel like eatin’ with the idiots at the agency,” Katsuki said, setting the boxes down. “Figured you’d forget lunch again anyway.” 

Izuku smiled the way he always did when Katsuki was right but refused to admit it. “You really know me too well.” 

“‘Course I do.” 

They ate at the desk near the window, knees brushing under the table. Katsuki had made grilled mackerel and onigiri, quick stuff, but it was good; Izuku took a bite, hummed softly, and Katsuki’s chest unclenched a fraction. 

“Your students holding up?” Katsuki asked between bites. 

“They’re fine. Better than I am, honestly.” Izuku’s smile flickered. “They don’t waver.” 

“’Cause they’ve got you, nerd.” 

Izuku murmured. “Guess so.” 

For a moment the only sound was the cicadas outside and the clack of chopsticks. Izuku looked out the window; sunlight turned his lashes gold. Katsuki found himself staring, the kind of stare that meant you’re my whole damn world and I can’t even explain it. 

Then the door slid open again. 

A boy stood there, older student, business department, crisp tie, tablet tucked under his arm. He hesitated only a moment before bowing. “Sorry to interrupt, Midoriya-sensei. I, um, I wanted to ask something.” 

Izuku straightened, smile returning automatically. “Of course. What is it?” 

The boy stepped inside, fidgeting with his sleeve. “It’s about… the broadcasts. Revenant.” 

Katsuki’s chopsticks froze midair. 

Izuku’s tone stayed gentle as he nodded at him. “All right.” 

“I don’t agree with him,” the boy said quickly. “I just… wanted to understand. He said heroes like you built a system that forgets normal people. I wanted to know what you thought he meant by that. If- if maybe there’s truth in it?” 

Izuku’s fingers tightened around his chopsticks. It was small, barely visible, but Katsuki caught it instantly. The way his shoulders drew inward, the flicker in his eyes. 

Izuku forced a smile anyway. “That’s a fair question. I think… sometimes people confuse the flaws of a system with the flaws of the people inside it. We’re still human. Heroes make mistakes, but the goal has always been-” 

The boy interrupted, hesitant. “So you’re saying he’s wrong?” 

Izuku’s breath stuttered just slightly. The effort it took to keep his voice even was visible in the lines of his jaw. “I’m saying he’s angry, and I understand that. But anger doesn’t fix anything. It just burns through good people.” 

The boy nodded, eyes flicking between them. “I just wanted to know what you’d say. Some of the others think he makes sense.” 

That was when Katsuki stood up. The movement was slow, deliberate. His chair legs scraped against the floor, the sound sharp as a blade. 

“Hey, kid.” 

The student froze. 

Katsuki stepped closer, his shadow cutting across the desk. “You got your answer. Now get out of here.” 

The boy blinked, startled. “I- I didn’t mean-” 

Katsuki’s eyes narrowed, molten and unblinking. “I said go.” 

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t have to be. The weight in it was enough. 

The boy’s mouth opened like he wanted to argue, but one look at Katsuki’s face killed the thought. He backed out of the room, stammering an apology before the door slid shut behind him. 

Silence pressed in again. Katsuki turned, half expecting Izuku to scold him for scaring a kid. Instead, he saw the small tremor in Izuku’s hands, the way he’d folded them together in his lap to try to calm it. 

And something in him snapped. 

In two strides he was there, cupping Izuku’s face between his palms, thumbs brushing away the faint moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes. Izuku gasped, eyes wide, but before he could speak Katsuki kissed him. 

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was grounding, desperate, a line drawn through every noise outside the room. Izuku made a small sound, half surprise, half release, and his hands came up to clutch at Katsuki’s wrists. 

When Katsuki finally pulled back, their foreheads still touched, breath mingling. 

“You listen to me,” Katsuki said, voice low and rough. “You don’t owe anybody a goddamn explanation for being good. You hear me? You’ve already proven what a hero looks like. Every day since you were 14. hell, before then, even. You’re the reason there’s still somethin’ worth fixin’ out there.” 

Izuku’s breath hitched. His laugh came out shaky, wet. “Kacchan…” 

Katsuki’s hands were still framing his face, palms warm against his cheeks. 

Izuku blinked fast, a tear slipping down before he could stop it. Then he laughed again, small and disbelieving. “I love you. You’re amazing.” 

“Damn right I am,” Katsuki muttered, thumbs swiping clumsily at the corners of Izuku’s eyes. 

Izuku laughed harder, tears spilling anyway, cheeks squished between Katsuki’s hands. He reached up and covered one of them with his own, holding it there. 

Katsuki watched him for a long moment, committing the expression to memory, the bright, trembling smile, the sunlight in his eyes. I’ll always pull you back, he thought, though he didn’t say it aloud. He didn’t need to. 

Izuku’s breathing steadied under his touch, and the sound of it was enough. 

Outside, the school bell rang, echoing down the hall. Inside that classroom, the world went still, two heroes, and the kind of love that could silence everything trying to break it. 

Chapter Text

It started like every other rumor at U.A.: in the hallways between classes, traded with the same careless amusement as exam predictions and cafeteria complaints. 

“Did you see Dynamight in the faculty lounge again?” 
“He brings him lunch every day.” 
“It’s kinda sweet, right? Like an old married couple.” 
“Sweet? It’s terrifying.” 

Izuku caught snippets here and there, the way one catches rain through a cracked window. He smiled through it. The kids had always liked stories, and if the worst they could say about him was that his partner worried too much, then the world was merciful. there'd been rumors about him and Katsuki since the explosive hero started showing up to walk Izuku home almost everyday nearly 8 years ago.

By midweek, the whispers were louder. Someone from the support course had snapped a photo through the courtyard glass: Katsuki leaning over Izuku’s desk, scowling as he adjusted a loose strap on his hero suit. The caption on the school forum read: 
“He really is Deku-sensei’s bodyguard 😭❤️.” 

The post went viral inside an hour. 

Izuku tried not to care. He’d spent half his life being watched; this was different, almost innocent. But still, there was a tone to it, something half-admiring and half-mocking. Guard dog. Leash. It reminded him of what that petty villain had said, trying to get under Katsuki's skin that one day. That if Deku said jump, Katsuki would ask how high. 

By Friday morning, the tabloids had found it. 

HERO OR HOUND? 
The Internet debates the dynamic between Pro Hero Dynamight and U.A.’s celebrated educator Deku. 
“Fans have noticed Dynamight’s constant proximity and obedience to Midoriya, leading some to question whether Midoriya has become a power behind the Commission curtain…” 

Izuku closed the article before the loading bar finished. 

Katsuki hadn’t mentioned it yet. He would, eventually. The thought made Izuku’s stomach twist, half dread, half pre-emptive apology. 

At lunch the staffroom buzzed with sidelong glances and nervous laughter. Aizawa grunted something about media vultures. Present Mic found it hilarious (“You two are trending under #Fetch, bro!”) and got elbowed for it. 

Izuku smiled, but it felt brittle. 

That evening the networks replayed footage from a recent press event: Izuku speaking to reporters, Katsuki standing just behind him, gaze fixed forward, one hand unconsciously hovering near Izuku’s shoulder. The anchors slowed the footage, analyzing it like body language experts. 

“Notice how Dynamight’s attention never wavers from Midoriya.” 
“Almost like he’s awaiting a command.” 
“Fascinating dynamic, devotion or dominance?” 

The word command stuck like a thorn. Izuku turned down the volume. The apartment felt smaller than usual, the air tight with recycled fear. He didn’t hear the broadcast change until the color on the screen shifted from studio white to grainy black and red. 

Revenant’s logo flickered into view. 

A voice, distorted, patient, spoke over the image of two silhouettes: one standing, one kneeling. 

“They tell you heroes are free. But look closer. Even the strongest kneel to something, money, fame, the illusion of love. They call it loyalty. I call it ownership.” 

Izuku’s pulse skipped. 

“Watch how the obedient one flinches at a whisper. Watch how easily kindness becomes control. The leash can be invisible, yet the neck still bruises.” 

The broadcast ended with a still frame: Katsuki’s hand hovering protectively near Izuku’s shoulder, cropped so that Izuku’s face was a calm, unreadable mask. 

Silence filled the apartment again. He sat there for a long time, remote still in hand, listening to the rain start against the window. 

He’d always known how fragile public faith could be. But hearing it turned against their love, that was new. It pressed against old scars, the ones shaped like guilt and teenage cruelty. What if they were right? What if Katsuki’s loyalty wasn’t love at all, but penance? 

The front door clicked open. Heavy boots, a jacket hitting the floor. Katsuki’s voice, rough, muttered curses at the weather. 

Izuku sank onto the couch, eyes fixed on the blank TV screen, the echo of Revenant’s words still crawling under his skin. 

The storm outside deepened, thunder folding into the sound of his heartbeat. 

----- 

The sound of the rain was steady enough that for a moment, Katsuki thought it was just the city breathing. Then he saw the light spilling out of the living room, the TV still on, the low buzz of voices rising and falling like waves. 

He didn’t have to hear the words. He’d heard them all day. 
Guard dog. 
Obedient. 
Deku’s leash. 

He kicked the door shut behind him, harder than necessary, the echo rattling through the walls. 

“Izuku,” he called, half-warning, half-plea. 

Izuku was sitting on the couch, hunched forward, elbows on his knees. The light from the TV carved hollows into his face. He didn’t look up right away. 

“They’re still talking about it,” he said, voice rough from disuse. 

Katsuki dropped his keys on the counter. “Then turn it off.” 

“I tried,” Izuku said, and now his voice was shaking, not angry, but unmoored. “I did. But it doesn’t stop. Every time I close it, it’s somewhere else. People quoting Revenant like he’s some kind of prophet— and now they’re using you, Kacchan, us,  as proof he’s right.” 

“They’re idiots,” Katsuki said flatly. 

Izuku stood up so suddenly the mug on the table rattled. “Are they?” 

Katsuki blinked, taken aback. Izuku was pacing, one hand running through his hair, the other clenching and unclenching at his side. The rain outside threw shadows across his face, his movements sharp and restless. 

“Maybe they see something I didn’t,” Izuku said. “Maybe I’ve been selfish. Maybe I like that you stay close, that you listen, maybe I’ve been using that. Maybe they’re right about me.” 

“Stop,” Katsuki said. 

But Izuku didn’t. His voice was climbing now, not in volume but in urgency, like he was racing against himself. “You do everything I ask without question. You never argue when I tell you to stand down. You,” He turned, chest rising and falling fast. “What if this isn’t healthy, Kacchan? What if it’s-” 

“Stop.” 

Izuku froze. 

The rain filled the space between them for a long moment. Then Katsuki exhaled through his nose and walked closer, slow and deliberate, until they were standing just a few feet apart. 

“You’re losin’ it,” Katsuki said quietly. “You’re lettin’ them in.” 

Izuku’s laugh was brittle. “Maybe because they’re right! Look at us, Kacchan. I say stop and you stop. I say stay and you stay. Doesn’t that sound like... like-” 

“Like what?” 

“Like control.” 

Katsuki’s chest tightened. He looked at Izuku, really looked, and saw not accusation but fear. The kind that eats its way in, slow and deep. He crossed the last bit of distance between them and reached out, but Izuku took a step back towards the couch, running both hands through his hair again. “I don’t want to believe it, I just- I can’t stop thinking about it. What if everything they’re saying is true? What if you’ve only stayed because I make you feel like you have to?” 

That was when Katsuki dropped. 

The thud of his knees hitting the floor broke the tension like a crack of thunder. 

Izuku startled, eyes widening. “Kacchan- what are you-” 

“Look at me,” Katsuki said. 

Izuku hesitated, then sank slowly back down to the couch, face buried in his hands. When he finally looked up, Katsuki was already leaning forward, palms braced on Izuku’s knees, his head bowed just slightly. A minute passed like that. Maybe two. 

“I’m here,” Katsuki said, voice raw, “because I want to be.” 

Izuku shook his head, tears starting to gather again. “You think that, but-” 

Katsuki’s voice cut through, low and fierce: “No. Don’t you dare try to tell me what I think.” 

Izuku’s breath caught. 

“I don’t follow you outta guilt,” Katsuki said. “I follow you ‘cause I believe in you. You think I’d let anyone boss me around if I didn’t want to? You think I’d ever take orders from anyone else?” 

Izuku’s hands trembled. “That’s not-” 

“Yeah, it is,” Katsuki said. “You say stop, I stop, ‘cause I trust you to know when I’m about to cross a line I’ll regret. You say stay, I stay, ‘cause I know you don’t say that unless it’s important. That ain’t obedience, Izuku. That’s trust. That’s love.” 

Izuku blinked fast, his throat working. “Then why does it feel like everyone’s trying to make it dirty?” 

Katsuki leaned forward until his forehead rested against Izuku’s knees. His voice was quieter now, steady. “Because they can’t stand seein’ somethin’ real. They see what they wanna see, power, control, guilt... ‘cause that’s all they understand. They don’t know what it looks like when two people actually choose each other.” 

Izuku’s hands hovered in the air for a moment before settling gently on Katsuki’s head, fingers threading through his hair. “You’re so sure,” he whispered. 

“I have to be,” Katsuki murmured. “One of us has to be. You start doubtin’ and the whole damn thing falls apart.” 

Izuku’s breath hitched, a soft, strangled sound. “You always know what to say.” 

“‘Cause I’ve had to learn,” Katsuki said. He looked up then, eyes burning. “I had to learn how to love without tryin’ to own, how to listen without losin’ myself. You think I did that outta guilt? I did that for you.” 

The words hung there between them, heavy, electric. Izuku stared down at him, and for a moment he didn’t move at all. Then he reached out, cupping Katsuki’s face in both hands, the way one might hold something precious and breakable. 

“I don’t deserve you,” Izuku whispered. 

“Bullshit,” Katsuki said instantly. “You’re the reason I ain’t the same asshole I used to be. You’re the one thing in this world I’d fight the whole goddamn city to keep, and I’d still be proud to lose if it meant you were safe.” 

Izuku laughed, half-choked, tears spilling freely now. “Kacchan…” 

Katsuki pressed his forehead back against Izuku’s knees, still kneeling before him. The act was a symbol of devotion, loyalty, and maybe complete submission. Not in the way that was demanded from a greater power, but in the way of one person willingly giving themselves to another, absolute trust. It did not come from a fucked-up power dynamic. If Katsuki told Izuku to stay, he would too. Izuku just wasn't the one who needed reminders. 

Closing his eyes, he continued. “They can say what they want. Call me your dog, your shadow, whatever. They don’t know that you’re the one thing I bow to willingly.” 

The words were profound, nearly spiritual. Izuku let out a breath that trembled all the way through him. Then he slid forward, hands still on Katsuki’s face, lifting it from his knees until their foreheads met. 

“You always bring me back,” Izuku whispered. 

Katsuki smiled, faint and real. “That’s the job, right?” 

Izuku gave a watery laugh. “No. That’s love.” 

Katsuki huffed softly. “Same thing.” 

They stayed like that until the rain softened to drizzle, the noise of the world slipping away. When Izuku finally spoke again, it was quiet, almost shy. 

“Come to bed with me?” 

Katsuki looked up, eyes steady. “Okay.” 

And for the first time all week, Izuku felt a little weight disappear from his shoulders.  

Chapter Text

Morning came slow and gold, the kind that softened the city’s edges. Izuku woke to the smell of coffee and butter and the familiar hiss of Katsuki in the kitchen. When he shuffled out, Katsuki was standing by the stove, spatula in one hand, glaring at the pan like it had personally offended him. 

“You’re making breakfast,” Izuku said, voice still rough with sleep. 

“I’m makin’ sure you eat,” Katsuki corrected. “Last night was enough talkin’ for both of us. You need food before you go savin’ your reputation or whatever.” 

Izuku smiled, faint but real. “I thought you didn’t care what the press says.” 

“I don’t,” Katsuki said, flipping an egg with unnecessary aggression. “But I care about you. So. Eat.” 

They sat at the table, the quiet between them gentle now. The rain had stopped; the windows were streaked with light. Izuku ate slowly, listening to the sound of Katsuki’s spoon clinking against his mug. 

Finally Izuku said, “Aizawa called this morning. The Commission wants us to give a statement.” 

Katsuki’s eyes flicked up. “Let me guess: damage control?” 

“Something like that.” Izuku stirred his coffee. “They want to ‘clarify the relationship dynamic.’” 

Katsuki snorted. “Like we’re some kinda case study.” 

Izuku sighed. “Maybe it’s better if we say something. If they’re going to talk about us, we might as well tell them the truth.” 

Katsuki leaned back in his chair, studying him. “You’re sure about that?” 

Izuku nodded. “Yeah. I don’t want to stay quiet anymore about this guy. Especially now that he's said something about us.” 

Katsuki’s mouth softened, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. “Then we do it your way.” 

Izuku smiled. “Our way.” 

 ------

By late morning, the plaza outside the Commission building was a forest of cameras. Reporters jostled for space, their voices buzzing like static. The words DEKU and DYNAMIGHT flashed across handheld screens. 

Izuku and Katsuki stepped out of the car together. They didn’t touch, but the air between them carried a quiet synchronization, the kind that didn’t need to be explained. 

The noise swelled as they climbed the steps. 

“Deku! Dynamight! Do you have any comment on Revenant’s claims?” 
“Are you two in a relationship of command or romance?” 
“Is Dynamight being controlled by Midoriya’s influence?” 

Izuku stopped before the podium. The crowd fell into a hush, the kind of silence that trembles. 

He looked out across the sea of lenses and microphones and thought of his students, of Katsuki’s steady voice the night before, of how simple it really was. 

“Good morning,” he said. “We’ve seen the reports. The articles. The speculation.” 

The murmurs rose again. He waited for them to fade before continuing. He's never loved public speaking, but his time as a teacher hs dulled that sense of anxiety a bit. 

“People seem to think they’ve uncovered some kind of secret, that our partnership is strange, that it means something dark or manipulative. But it’s not a secret. It’s never been one. We’ve been fighting beside each other since we were kids. We argue. We challenge each other. And sometimes, yes, we follow each other’s lead. Because we trust each other.” 

He glanced toward Katsuki then, just for a heartbeat, before looking back at the crowd. 

“Loyalty isn’t control,” Izuku said. “It’s choice. The same way love is choice. Every day, we both wake up and decide to do this again, to fight, to teach, to help. And to stand next to each other while we do it. You can call that whatever you want. But it’s ours.” 

The crowd shifted, a ripple of unease and curiosity threading through the quiet. 

Katsuki stepped forward then, adjusting the mic with the kind of careless strength that made half the journalists flinch. 

“Yeah,” he said. “What he said.” 

A soft wave of laughter rippled through the press line, but Katsuki’s voice carried over it, rough and deliberate. 

“Look, I know how I come off. Loud, mean, pain in the ass. You’ve seen me yell at him. You’ve seen me follow him. That’s not control. That’s what it looks like when two people’ve been through hell together and still pick each other every damn time. He tells me to stop ‘cause he knows when I’m gonna cross a line. You people only see what’s right in front of you. You don’t see what happens between us when no one is watching. You see him guide my anger, but you don’t see me guide his anxiety. You think it only goes one way? I say eat your dinner, the nerd eats his dinner. I tell him not to worry because I’ve got him, the little fucker calms right down.”  

He turned and looked at Izuku. “Right?”  

Izuku just smiles, fond and proud. “Right.”  

That’s all Katsuki needed, he turned back to the crowd. “I listen ‘cause I trust him not to tell me who to be, just when to breathe. And I do the same thing for him.” 

He looked at Izuku again, really looked, and for a moment the noise of the crowd dimmed completely. 

“You wanna call me a guard dog? Fine. I’ll own it. ‘Cause if there’s one person in this mess worth guardin’, it’s him.” 

The silence that followed was electric, the kind that doesn’t break because no one wants to be the first to move. Cameras clicked like rainfall. Izuku blinked hard against the heat gathering behind his eyes. 

He leaned slightly toward the microphone again, voice steady. “Heroes aren’t symbols. We’re people. Kacch- My partner is the one who guides me into the calm you see most days, he’s the one who gets me into the mindset where I’m able to make those calls that he responds to. We're a team, heroes- yes, but beyond that as well. And we’re stronger because of that teamwork." 

Katsuki grunted softly beside him. “What he means is, mind your damn business.” 

The crowd laughed again, but this time it was genuine. 

They didn’t stay long. Aizawa was waiting at the bottom of the steps, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was preparing for paperwork, but even he couldn’t hide the faint smirk. 

By the time they got back in the car, their names were already trending again, but the tone was different now. 

“Loyalty, Not Control.” 
“Heroes Speak Openly About Trust and Choice.” 
“‘Mind Your Damn Business’ -  Dynamight Steals Hearts at Press Conference.” 

Izuku scrolled through the feed, shaking his head. “They’re calling you charming.” 

Katsuki snorted. “World’s gone to hell.” 

Izuku leaned back in his seat, finally letting himself laugh. “We did good, Kacchan.” 

Katsuki glanced over, eyes soft. “Told you we would.” 

Outside, the city stretched wide and bright, the chaos momentarily quiet. For the first time in weeks, the noise around them didn’t sound like doubt. It sounded like change. 

----- 

The apartment door closed behind them with a soft click. For the first time in days, there were no cameras, no microphones, no questions waiting in the air. Just rainwater dripping from the edge of Katsuki’s jacket and the faint hum of the refrigerator. 

Izuku toed off his shoes, the adrenaline from the press conference still fluttering under his skin. The quiet was so deep it almost hurt. 

Katsuki dropped his keys on the counter, exhaled hard, and muttered, “That was a pain in the ass.” 

Izuku laughed, small and tired. “You handled it well.” 

“Damn right I did.” 

Katsuki’s gruffness was familiar, grounding. Izuku leaned against the wall for a moment, watching him move through the kitchen, rolling his shoulders, rubbing the back of his neck, pretending he wasn’t the one who had just dismantled the entire media narrative with five sentences and a glare. 

“Hungry?” Katsuki asked without looking over. 

“I think I’m too tired to eat.” 

“Tch. That’s not what I asked you.” 

Izuku smiled faintly. “You could just sit with me instead.” 

That got his attention. Katsuki glanced up, eyes softening in that way that always caught Izuku off guard, like all the fire in him learned, somehow, how to glow instead of burn. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I can do that.” 

They ended up on the couch. Izuku sank into the corner, his body finally registering how exhausted he was. Katsuki sat beside him, one arm draped across the backrest. For a while, neither spoke. The only sound was the faint creak of the building and the rain outside. 

Then Izuku tilted his head, resting it against Katsuki’s shoulder. That was all it took. 

Katsuki shifted, pulling him closer without a word. Izuku went easily, letting himself be guided until he was half in Katsuki’s lap, legs folded sideways, face tucked into the crook of his neck. The scent of smoke and soap filled his lungs, so achingly familiar it made his throat tighten. 

Katsuki’s arms came around him, one hand spreading across his back, thumb tracing slow, absent circles. 

“Better?” Katsuki murmured. 

Izuku nodded against his shoulder. “Yeah. I just… needed this.” 

Katsuki’s breath brushed the side of his hair. “Figured.” 

They stayed like that for a long time. Katsuki’s touch was steady, not possessive, just sure. Every now and then he’d hum under his breath, a barely-there sound that vibrated through Izuku’s ribs. The kind of sound that said I’m here. 

Izuku’s hands found their way to Katsuki’s chest, resting over his heartbeat. “You know,” he said softly, “you scared the hell out of me today.” 

“Yeah?” 

“When you said all that in front of everyone. About trusting me. About… guard dogs.” Izuku smiled against his shoulder. “I thought the internet was going to explode.” 

Katsuki huffed a laugh. “Good. Let ‘em. I meant every word.” 

Izuku leaned back a little, just enough to look at him. Katsuki Bakugo really did have to be the best in everything. “You really do, huh?” 

Katsuki’s eyes met his, warm, tired, unguarded. “Don't go questioning shit now, idiot. So do you.” 

They didn’t kiss right away. They just looked at each other, the world narrowing to breath and heartbeat. Then Katsuki reached up, his hand cupping the back of Izuku’s neck, and pulled him forward until their foreheads touched. 

Izuku closed his eyes. “We’ll be okay, won’t we?” 

Katsuki said, voice low and certain. “We already fucking are.” 

Izuku smiled, small and unsteady. What would his world look like without Katsuki in it? He was glad he didn’t have to know. 

“You’re my gravity, you know that?” 

Katsuki’s mouth twitched. “Emotional nerd.” 

He pressed a quick kiss to Izuku’s temple, nothing showy, just an anchor. Izuku exhaled against him, the tension bleeding out of his body. 

The one thing I bow to willingly. 

He should have been embarrassed thinking back on that line. Some time ago, he would have been. Some time ago, he never would have said those words out loud. But Izuku needed it. Katsuki was good at showing affection through actions: cooking for Izuku, protecting him, defending him. He didn’t need to do those things. Izuku was entirely capable of doing them on his own, but with Katsuki there, he never had to. The hero was much better at expressing his feelings through the things he did more than the things he said.  

But in that moment, Izuku needed it. Action wasn’t going to be enough. He had been spiraling, and Katsuki needed to get through to him, to open his eyes again to what’s right in front of him, that Katsuki was his, and didn’t need any coaxing to stay in this relationship because half a step behind Izuku was exactly where he wanted to be. He closes his eyes and thinks about the line he’d whimpered out all those years ago when Izuku had first lost his quirk, “I just figured we’d be competing and I’d be on your heels for the rest of our lives.”  

They were still competing. It just looked different now. In the hero charts sure, but beyond that as well. Now, it looked like competing for who got the shower first. Competing for who would win in a test of flirting and tension. A competition on who would crack first after an argument. And Katsuki was still on his heels, grateful to be there if it meant he never had to stop chasing the man laying against his chest and shoulder right now. 

That comment about bowing. Tch. He thought for another second about how it sounded coming out of his mouth. It was raw, emotional, and intimately vulnerable. Katsuki had never liked anyone seeing him so open, but honestly, he had nothing to hide anymore. They’d been together for eight years, known each other for nearly 25. Izuku had seen every part of Katsuki: the loud, violent one, the repentant one, the transitional one, and now in the past few years, the softest version of himself he’d ever been. And he's stayed beside Katsuki anyway. 

He’s turning into a simp, he thinks. We are not capable most of the time of giving ourselves accurate judgment. Katsuki chooses not to think about how he’s already been a major simp for Izuku for a long time.  

They stayed like that, half-entwined, barely moving, while the city outside hummed itself to sleep. Katsuki’s hand slid up to the base of Izuku’s neck, thumb resting over his pulse. Izuku’s fingers curled into Katsuki’s shirt, holding, not clinging. 

No more speeches. No more cameras. Just the quiet rhythm of two people orbiting the same center. 

When sleep finally came, it found them still like that, gravity holding them in place, the kind that no rumor, no broadcast, no villain could touch. 

Chapter Text

The first twenty-four hours after the press conference felt almost like victory. 
Almost. 

The morning news cycle was full of color-saturated headlines: 

“Heroes Redefine Loyalty.” 
“Deku and Dynamight Speak on Trust, Choice, and Partnership.” 
“#LoveNotLeash Trends Worldwide.” 

Clips of Izuku speaking, calm, earnest, the faint tremor of emotion caught in his voice,  played on loop. The footage of Katsuki’s blunt follow-up (“Yeah, what he said”) was already being spliced into fan edits with sentimental piano music, which he pretended to hate but didn’t quite have the energy to yell about. 

For the first time in weeks, Katsuki didn’t wake up to his phone vibrating with threats or half-baked op-eds. The air outside felt cleaner. He leaned on the balcony railing with a mug of coffee, watching the city blink itself awake. Traffic hummed faintly in the distance, birds cutting across a pale blue sky. Inside, Izuku was at the counter, laptop open, talking quietly with Aizawa about school security updates. 

Normal. Peaceful. Almost too much of both. 

Katsuki had learned to distrust quiet. 

By midday, the public had made up its mind: the press conference was a success. Clips of their speech spread through hero forums, trending hashtags burying the cynicism under waves of admiration. Even the snarkier news anchors were calling it “refreshingly human.” 

For every talking head that still used words like leash and obedience, three more called their partnership “a model for transparency.” 

Izuku’s phone didn’t stop buzzing. Students sent messages of support. Parents. Alumni. Even Endeavor’s agency reposted their statement with a curt line of approval. Katsuki tried not to think about how fast the world flipped opinions. It made his skin crawl. People didn’t change that easily. They just changed targets. 

“Looks like it worked,” Izuku said around a mouthful of cold toast, scrolling through notifications. 

“Yeah.” Katsuki took a slow sip of coffee. “Almost too well.” 

Izuku looked up. “What do you mean?” 

Katsuki nodded toward the muted TV, where a panel of commentators were nodding along to each other like metronomes. “You ever seen the media agree this quick on anything?” 

Izuku frowned. “Maybe people were just waiting for clarity.” 

“Maybe.” Katsuki’s tone said he didn’t buy it. 

He turned back to the skyline, watching the faint shimmer of drone cameras hovering above the Commission building in the distance. The whole thing looked… orchestrated. 

He’d seen propaganda before. He’d made it before. Heroes lived on stories, ones the Commission built, polished, and sold. This felt like that: a cleanup operation so efficient it scrubbed away the dirt too fast. 

By evening, Revenant still hadn’t spoken. 

No broadcasts. No leaks. No new manifestos. 

Just silence. 

Katsuki found himself checking the news sites every hour, refreshing feeds, waiting for the familiar red-and-black icon to reappear. Nothing. 

Izuku noticed. 

“You’re pacing,” he said softly from the couch. 

Katsuki stopped mid-stride. “He’s quiet. Too quiet.” 

Izuku’s expression was thoughtful, not dismissive. “Maybe he’s waiting to see how people react.” 

“Or maybe he’s settin’ somethin’ up.” 

Izuku looked down at his tablet, scrolling through reports. “It wouldn’t be the first time a villain used silence to build momentum. Fear thrives in pauses.” 

Katsuki grunted in agreement, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’d think the Commission’d see that by now.” 

“They see it,” Izuku said. “They’re just hoping he disappears if they pretend he already has.” 

Katsuki shot him a look. “And you?” 

Izuku hesitated. “I think he’s learning. Watching. He’s adapting to us.” 

Katsuki didn’t like that answer. It fit too well. 

He sank down beside him on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the muted flicker of the TV. Another anchor was replaying their press conference again, voice-over calling them symbols of sincerity. The word made his teeth clench. 

“They’re turnin’ us into a brand,” he muttered. 

Izuku glanced sideways at him. “We knew they would.” 

“Yeah, but-” He broke off, jaw tightening. “That’s exactly what Revenant wants. He said heroes sell lies. We just gave him a polished ad to work with.” 

Izuku didn’t argue. He just leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands. “Then we make sure it’s the truth he can’t twist.” 

Katsuki looked at him, really looked, and saw the exhaustion under the calm, the faint tremor in his fingers as he scrolled through another feed. 

“You’re still thinkin’ about what he said,” Katsuki murmured. 

Izuku smiled weakly. “I always am.” 

Katsuki sighed and leaned back, throwing an arm along the back of the couch. “Then we do what we always do. You think, I hit things, and we figure it out before he does.” 

Izuku laughed under his breath. “A flawless strategy.” 

Katsuki turned his head to look at him, a hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. “Worked so far.” 

The room dimmed as the sun sank behind the skyline. The rain had stopped, but the air still smelled charged, like something was waiting. Katsuki could feel it, in the silence between broadcasts, in the too-clean praise of the networks, in the way the city seemed to be holding its breath. 

Revenant wasn’t gone. He was just listening. 

------ 

[REVENANT – SYSTEM FEED] 

00:02:14 // Signal active 
Static bursts. Screen resolves: a cursor blinking in darkness. 

A voice. Calm, low, distorted. Neither young nor old. 

“They think the silence means surrender.” 

Click. A dozen thumbnails bloom across the screen, clips from news broadcasts, interviews, hero analysis videos. Izuku and Katsuki, looped again and again. 

“They think control comes from speech. It doesn’t.” 

The cursor blinks twice, faster. 

“Control comes from echo.” 

Another click. 

The feed multiplies, networks syncing, caches duplicating data packets into mirrored drives. Government servers hum awake, unaware. 

“Every truth they tell becomes mine once it touches a wire.” 

Static. 

Transmission complete. 

Chapter Text

Izuku stared at the screen in Nezu’s office, stomach sinking. Rows of code scrolled faster than his eyes could follow. 

“The broadcasts are coming through our media channels now,” Nezu said, voice clipped. “Encrypted, ghosted, and mirrored. We can’t find the origin point.” 

“Meaning?” Katsuki asked from behind him, arms crossed tight. 

“Meaning,” Nezu said grimly, “Revenant isn’t hacking us. He’s using us.” 

Izuku felt the words like a physical blow. “He’s routing through the Commission’s servers.” 

“Through their public-relations wing, specifically,” Nezu confirmed. “That’s where all media feeds are centralized. Someone gave him a door.” 

Katsuki swore under his breath. “So he’s been inside their system this whole damn time.” 

Izuku’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “That explains the ‘too perfect’ press coverage. He’s shaping the narrative for them.” 

Katsuki leaned over his shoulder, eyes narrowing at the string of mirrored IPs. “Can you trace it?” 

“I can try,” Izuku said. His voice was calm, but his pulse wasn’t. “Every broadcast is embedded with an origin cipher, a kind of digital signature. If I can isolate it…” 

He trailed off as another notification flashed. A new broadcast file had just been uploaded,  timestamped two minutes ago. 

Katsuki stepped closer, tension radiating off him. “Play it.” 

Izuku hesitated. “It could be a trap.” 

“Everything’s a trap,” Katsuki muttered. “We deal with it anyway.” 

Izuku hit play. 

The screen flickered, then filled with static. 

For a moment, there was only silence. Then the same voice as before, calm and measured: 

“You told them love was choice.” 
“You told them trust was voluntary.” 
“Good. They’ll believe that right up until I show them how easy it is to rewrite choice.” 

Izuku’s hand froze on the mouse. 

“You’ve already given me your platform, your audience, your truth. I just needed your signal.” 

Static again, then the screen went black. 

Nezu’s ears flattened. “He’s embedding his code in your image streams, Midoriya. Every time your interview plays, his signal rides along with it.” 

Katsuki swore again, louder this time. “So we’ve been hand-feedin’ him airtime.” 

Izuku leaned back, rubbing at his temple. “He’s not hacking the Commission anymore. He is the Commission, at least online.” 

Katsuki’s jaw flexed. “Then we rip him out.” 

Nezu nodded. “Agreed. But we’ll need proof before we make that public. The Commission won’t admit they’ve been compromised.” 

Izuku exhaled slowly, eyes still on the dark screen. “Then we start with what we can see. If he’s in the system, he’s leaving traces. Patterns. Echoes.” 

Katsuki glanced at him, that familiar spark of shared instinct catching between them. “You track, I break.” 

Izuku smiled faintly, grim but real. “Just like old times.” 

Katsuki grinned back, teeth sharp. “Damn right.” 

The room fell silent again, the hum of machines the only sound. Outside, the city glittered under a too-clear sky, unaware that its safety net was already unraveling thread by thread. 

And somewhere in the static, unseen and faceless, a voice whispered back: 

“Echo received.” 

------ 

The U.A. staff room had never felt this small. 
They’d blacked out the windows, disconnected every external feed, and run a private line that Nezu had built himself, one that didn’t touch the Commission’s servers. 

The air smelled stale and tasted like anxiety. Aizawa sat slouched in his chair, one arm looped around the backrest, eyes heavy but alert. Power Loader was pacing near the wall, muttering about trace algorithms. Present Mic, uncharacteristically quiet, was scrolling through data on his tablet. He didn’t find the #Fetch tag quite as funny these days.  

Nezu sat at the head of the table, paws folded, eyes bright and unreadable. 

Katsuki and Izuku stood side by side, the small drive containing the data from the night before sitting between them like it was radioactive. When the last of the staff settled, Nezu spoke first. 

“So,” he said, in that unsettlingly cheerful tone that meant he was already thinking twelve steps ahead, “we have a mole in the Commission. Possibly multiple. And an active AI-enhanced broadcast network piggybacking on our media systems.” 

He tapped the drive. “Impressive work.” 

Katsuki crossed his arms. “Don’t congratulate us yet. He’s expectin’ us to climb right into his hands.” 

Aizawa sighed. “He’s right. Whatever this Revenant is doing, he’s not hiding. He’s inviting.” 

Izuku leaned forward, palms flat on the table. “That’s exactly what scares me. He wants to be found, but only by the people who’ll make the most noise when they do.” 

Nezu’s whiskers twitched. “Noise is currency, Midoriya. Heroes and villains alike trade in it.” 

Katsuki scowled. “So what? We sit quiet while he keeps hijackin’ our damn signal?” 

“Not quiet,” Nezu said, tapping the screen that displayed the coded logs. “Strategic. There’s a difference.” 

He stood, or rather, climbed onto the chair for height, and gestured toward the map projected across the wall: threads of data connecting every major broadcast center in Japan, all feeding into one glowing point at the Commission’s tower. 

“This,” he said, “is where Revenant’s ‘echo network’ converges. If we expose it now, the public loses faith in the Commission overnight. And when they stop trusting the Commission, they stop trusting heroes.” 

Mic groaned. “So it’s checkmate either way.” 

“Not quite,” Nezu said. “We can’t go public yet, but we can sever the connection quietly. U.A. is one of the only institutions with both independent tech infrastructure and legal autonomy.” 

Power Loader perked up. “Meaning we can build a firewall on our end strong enough to block the spread.” 

“Exactly,” Nezu said. “But we’ll need to infiltrate the Commission’s top network layer to plant it, without triggering their internal defenses.” 

Katsuki smirked. “So basically a break-in.” 

Nezu’s smile widened. “A professional visit.” 

Aizawa rubbed his temple. “You’re asking them to sneak into the most heavily secured government building in the country.” 

“Not sneak,” Izuku said quietly. “Audit.” 

Everyone turned toward him. 

He met Nezu’s gaze. “They won’t question it if I’m there as a hero studies representative. We make it look like a systems review, a security upgrade in light of recent leaks. Katsuki can come along as liaison from his agency. We get inside, find the physical node, and patch it ourselves.” 

Katsuki gave a low whistle. “You’ve been thinkin’ about this.” 

Izuku nodded. “All night.” 

Nezu chuckled softly. “An elegant solution. And exactly reckless enough to work.” 

Aizawa’s brow furrowed. “If Revenant’s inside their system, he’ll know you’re coming.” 

Izuku straightened. “Then maybe it’s time he sees what happens when he underestimates us.” 

The room went quiet. 

Katsuki’s mouth twitched into a grin, sharp and proud. “That’s my nerd.” 

Nezu leaned back, clearly delighted. “I’ll draft the formal request for an audit and push it through the proper channels. You’ll have clearance by tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow?” Katsuki asked. 

“Yes,” Nezu said lightly. “I find urgency tends to motivate results.” 

He hopped down from the chair. “In the meantime, rest. You’ll need clear heads if you’re to walk willingly into the lion’s den.” 

They left the meeting together. The corridor was quiet, washed in late afternoon light. Izuku stopped near the window, watching students training in the far field. 

“They don’t even know,” he said softly. 

Katsuki’s hand brushed his shoulder. “That’s the point. You said we’re going to protect those damn kids right? So we keep it that way. Let them be ignorant”  

It was true. Izuku had dedicated himself to protecting his students in a way that his own teachers, try as they did, failed to protect him, Katsuki, and the rest of their friends when they were heros in training.  

Izuku nodded, exhaling. “You think we can pull it off?” 

Katsuki smirked. “You’re askin’ me that now?” 

Izuku smiled faintly. “It helps to hear you say it.” 

Katsuki’s grin softened. “Then yes, Deku. We can pull it off.” 

Outside, the wind rattled the glass, carrying the faint echo of distant traffic, the world still spinning, unaware that its guardians were planning a silent coup to save it from itself. 

And somewhere above them, in a building of mirrored windows and government seals, the system blinked to life. A single new file appeared in the Commission’s audit queue. 

Security Review Request – Priority Clearance: UA Hero Studies Division. 
Approved. 

Chapter Text

When they got home that night, Izuku’s exhaustion evaporated the moment he saw Katsuki’s hair sticking up like an angry dandelion. He started laughing before he could stop himself. 

“What?” Katsuki scowled, toeing off his boots. 

“You look like you wrestled a thundercloud.” 

“I did,” Katsuki grumbled, pointing at his own chest. “The thundercloud lost.” 

Izuku’s laugh only got worse. “Sure it did.” 

Katsuki narrowed his eyes. “You wanna test it?” 

“I’ll pass,” Izuku said, still grinning, slipping past him into the kitchen. “You’re all bark.” 

“Yeah?” Katsuki called after him. “Then why’d you flinch when I said that?” 

Izuku turned around just in time for Katsuki to stride forward, smirk sharp and dangerous in that stupidly magnetic way. “I didn’t flinch.” 

“You blinked.” 

“That’s not-” 

“Counts,” Katsuki said, triumphant, grabbing the fridge handle like he’d just won an argument. 

Izuku leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You’re insufferable.” 

“‘M adorable,” Katsuki said without hesitation, pulling open the fridge. 

“You’re lucky I agree.” 

He glanced over his shoulder, and Izuku’s heart betrayed him, there was the little half-smile Katsuki got only when he knew he’d been caught being loved. 

Fifteen minutes later, there was flour on the counter, on Izuku’s shirt, and somehow in Katsuki’s hair. 

“You said you knew how to make taiyaki,” Izuku accused, laughing. 

“I do,” Katsuki shot back, brandishing a spatula like a sword. “It’s not my fault your stove’s possessed.” 

“You turned the heat up to eight.” 

“Because seven wasn’t hot enough!” 

Izuku wheezed, clutching his stomach as another pastry hissed in the pan. “You’re literally a professional at explosions, how are you losing to a fish-shaped pancake-” 

“Say that again, nerd.” 

“I said-” Izuku broke into another fit of laughter as Katsuki lunged for him, hand smearing a streak of batter down his cheek. “Kacchan!” 

“That’s what you get for talkin’ smack about my cooking.” 

“It’s not cooking, it’s arson!” 

Katsuki was laughing now too, real laughter, rough and unguarded. It filled the kitchen and made Izuku’s chest feel too small to hold everything inside it. 

“Fine,” Katsuki said, catching his breath. “You win. Chef Deku.” 

Izuku blinked, mock-offended. “Was that supposed to be an insult?” 

“Compliment. You’re the only one who can burn water and make it taste good.” 

Izuku shoved him with his elbow. “You’re impossible.” 

Katsuki just leaned in, close enough that flour dusted onto Izuku’s nose, and murmured, “And you love it.” 

Izuku’s laugh softened into a smile. “I really do.” 

Dinner, if it could be called that, ended with half-burned taiyaki, instant noodles, and two mugs of tea that neither of them remembered making. 

They ended up on the couch, socks mismatched, shoulders pressed together, scrolling through memes on Izuku’s phone. 

“Oh my god,” Izuku snorted, “someone edited our press conference with the Shrek soundtrack.” 

Katsuki leaned closer to look. “Why the hell does it fit?” 

“Because you said ‘mind your damn business’ right after I said ‘love is choice.’” 

“Yeah, and?” 

“And they made it play during the ‘All Star’ opening!” 

Katsuki threw his head back and laughed so hard the phone slipped from Izuku’s hands. “God, I hate people.” 

“No, you don’t,” Izuku said between giggles. “You love when they make memes about you.” 

“I love when they make memes about you,” Katsuki corrected, tugging him closer until Izuku was practically in his lap. “I look better when you’re next to me.” 

Izuku blinked, heart tripping over itself. “That’s… actually really sweet.” 

Katsuki smirked. “Don’t tell anyone. I got a reputation.” 

Izuku’s cheeks flushed. “I think after your statement, it’s too late.” 

“Brat,” Katsuki muttered affectionately, pulling him the rest of the way into his lap. “Can you sit still for once?” 

“I’m literally sitting on you.” 

“Yeah, and you’re still bouncin’ like a caffeine squirrel.” 

Izuku’s laughter cracked into pure joy. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“And you’re mine.” 

The words landed softly, not a boast, not a claim, just a truth. Izuku’s smile faltered into something tender. “I know.” 

Katsuki rested his chin on Izuku’s shoulder. “Good. Now shut up and watch whatever dumb movie you were talkin’ about.” 

Izuku snorted, opening the app. “You say that like you won’t end up crying again.” 

“I didn’t cry, that was dust.” 

“It was Up, Kacchan.” 

“Shut up.” 

Izuku’s grin widened, triumphant. “You sniffled!” 

“Dust, Deku.” 

“Okay, sniffly dust.” 

“Gonna kill you.” 

“No you won’t,” Izuku said, laughter in his voice, leaning back fully against him. “You like me too much.” 

Katsuki’s hand found his, lacing their fingers together. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Guess I do.” 

The room dimmed around them. Outside, the city glittered; inside, the only light came from the TV, painting their joined hands in flickering color. 

They stayed that way, tangled, laughing, and warm for hours. It was always like this. When the world became too much, their responsibilities too heavy, their anxieties too prominent, this is what worked best.  

For Katsuki it used to be training, exercise. For Izuku it used to be over planning and hyper fixation. Now, for both, it was each other.  

Outside the world raged. But in the little apartment that neither cared was too small for them, things were easier. They tangled their limbs together, laughed in each others’ presence, and let the warmth of their connection drown out everything else. They did not speak about tomorrow’s mission, or of Revenant’s mind games, or of their crumbling reputation in the public eye. They focused only on each other, and the peace they can’t find anywhere else.  
For once, the world didn’t need saving. 
For once, they let themselves be ordinary. 
And it was perfect. 

------- 

Morning came golden and slow. 
The city outside was still half-asleep, the hum of traffic soft and far away. Izuku blinked awake to the warmth of Katsuki’s arm wrapped heavy around his waist, the kind of weight that said don’t move yet. 

He didn’t. 

He lay there, tracing the curve of Katsuki’s wrist with his thumb, watching the light creep across the floorboards. The world felt impossibly gentle for what the day was supposed to bring. 

Katsuki stirred behind him, mumbling something incoherent that sounded vaguely like “five more minutes.” 

Izuku smiled into the pillow. “We have to get up eventually.” 

“Eventually’s a scam,” Katsuki muttered. 

Izuku laughed softly. “You’re not wrong.” 

He rolled over, facing him. Katsuki’s hair was a mess again, worse than last night, and his cheek was creased from the pillowcase. Somehow, even like that, he looked untouchable. 

“Stop starin’,” Katsuki grumbled without opening his eyes. 

“I wasn’t staring.” 

“You were doin’ the thing with your eyes.” 

Izuku blinked. “The… looking?” 

“That’s the one.” 

Izuku laughed again, the sound small but bright. “I can’t help it. You look peaceful.” 

Katsuki cracked one eye open, lazy and warm. “Don’t start gettin’ sentimental on me now. I’ll lose my edge.” 

“You’ll survive,” Izuku said, reaching up to smooth a hand through his hair. “You always do.” 

Katsuki caught his wrist, pressed a kiss to the inside of it. “Yeah,” he murmured against his skin. “’Cause of you.” 

Izuku’s chest went tight, a sweet ache blooming behind his ribs. “You always say that like it’s my job.” 

Katsuki’s eyes softened. “Nah. It’s your habit.” 

Katsuki 

The morning contnues. He could tell Deku was nervous. 
He masked it well, the steady hands, the soft smile, but Katsuki had known him too long. There was a tension in his shoulders, a subtle restlessness that always came right before a big mission. 

Katsuki let him fuss around the kitchen anyway. Watching him move helped. The way Izuku poured coffee like he was performing delicate surgery. The way he lined up their bentos on the counter even though they were probably going to forget to eat. 

“Sugar?” Izuku asked. 

“Two spoons,” Katsuki said automatically. 

Izuku blinked. “You drink your coffee black.” 

“Not today.” 

Izuku looked at him for a beat, then nodded like he understood. He added the sugar without comment. 

They ate in comfortable silence, toast, eggs, and an unspoken agreement not to talk about the Commission. 

Halfway through breakfast, Izuku reached out suddenly, brushing a crumb from Katsuki’s chin. 

Katsuki raised an eyebrow. “What?” 

“Nothing.” Izuku smiled. “Just… you have no idea how much I love you.” 

Katsuki snorted. “Gross.” 

“Deal with it.” 

“I am. Every day.” 

Izuku laughed, that soft, uncontrollable laugh that always made Katsuki feel like maybe the world wasn’t such a miserable place after all. 

They suited up after that. 
The air shifted the moment the hero gear came out, brighter, sharper. 
Katsuki tightened his gauntlets; Izuku checked the calibration on his gloves. The easy warmth between them cooled into focus. 

Still, when Izuku stepped behind him to adjust the straps on his armor, he let his hands linger a moment longer than necessary. 

“You ready?” Izuku asked quietly. 

Katsuki turned, catching his gaze. “Always.” 

Izuku smiled. “You said that yesterday.” 

“And I meant it yesterday, too.” 

For a heartbeat, they just looked at each other, two people who had built a life out of surviving side by side. 

Then Katsuki reached up, brushed his thumb over Izuku’s cheek, and said, “We’ll be fine.” 

Izuku nodded, eyes bright. “Yeah. We will.” 

Outside, the morning was all sunlight and wind. The kind of beautiful that almost felt cruel. 

Katsuki locked the door behind them, and as they headed for the car, Izuku reached over and laced their fingers together. No words this time. Just pressure, steady and sure. 

Katsuki squeezed back once before letting go. “Let’s go raise some hell.” 

Izuku grinned, the nerves fading for just a second. “After breakfast and before bureaucracy? Perfect timing.” 

Katsuki chuckled, starting the engine. “That’s my nerd.” 

The car pulled into traffic. The city opened before them, bright, unaware, fragile. And somewhere behind the sunrise, something was already watching. 

Chapter Text

The Commission tower looked innocent enough in daylight. 
All clean glass and polished steel, sunlight glinting off mirrored windows. The kind of place meant to scream transparency. 
Katsuki had never trusted anything that shiny. 

He parked a block away, engine idling while Izuku fished through a folder of forged paperwork Nezu had prepared — authorization badges, audit documents, even an itinerary stamped with enough bureaucratic nonsense to lull suspicion. 

“Still think this is gonna work?” Katsuki asked. 

Izuku smiled, soft but sure. “It has to.” 

Katsuki grunted. “That ain’t the same as yes.” 

Izuku glanced over, green eyes bright even in the half-shadow. “You got a better plan?” 

“Blow the whole damn building up.” 

Izuku laughed, the sound pulling at the edge of his mouth. “Let’s keep that as plan B.” 

“Always is.” 

They sat there for a beat, the world too quiet around them. Then Izuku reached across the console, hand brushing his. Not a grip, not even a squeeze, just a touch. A pulse of calm. 

“You ready?” Izuku asked. 

Katsuki smirked. “Was born ready. You’re the one who overthinks.” 

“Someone has to,” Izuku said, tucking the papers back into their case. 

Katsuki leaned over, kissed the corner of his mouth quick and hard, just enough to feel him inhale. “Then think fast, nerd. Time to go.” 

The lobby was all glass and marble and hollow quiet. 
Security cameras blinked from every corner; an AI receptionist greeted them with a chirpy, synthetic voice that made Katsuki’s teeth itch. 

Izuku handed over their credentials. “Hero Studies Department, conducting a cybersecurity audit,” he said smoothly. “We were approved through Nezu’s liaison with your director yesterday.” 

The receptionist scanned the documents, eyes flickering blue for a second before nodding. “You’re cleared for Level 4 access. Conference Room 9B has been reserved for your review.” 

“Appreciate it,” Katsuki said flatly. 

He caught Izuku’s eye as they stepped into the elevator. Too easy. 

Izuku’s expression said the same thing back. The doors slid shut, the hum of motion filling the small space. 

Katsuki leaned against the railing, arms crossed. “Alright, so where exactly are we goin’ before this 9B nonsense?” 

Izuku opened his tablet, pulling up a map. “Server wing’s two levels below. The node we traced last night runs through a junction labeled C-Admin-7.” 

Katsuki frowned. “Same fake account from the logs.” 

“Yeah. If it’s still active, we’ll know within minutes.” 

The elevator pinged - too soon. 

Izuku blinked. “We didn’t-” 

The doors slid open. 

A man in a pristine suit stood waiting, smile polite but eyes too sharp. “Gentlemen. Welcome. The Director sends her regards. I’ll escort you to your workspace.” 

Katsuki felt the hairs on his neck rise. Izuku gave him a small, warning glance that said not here. 

“Thank you,” Izuku said evenly. “That won’t be necessary; we know the way.” 

“I insist,” the man said, voice smooth as glass. 

Katsuki smiled, all teeth, no warmth. “And I insist you don’t.” 

The air between them tightened. The man’s smile didn’t falter. “Of course, Dynamight. My apologies.” 

He stepped aside. 

As soon as the elevator doors closed again, Izuku exhaled slowly. “They know.” 

“Yeah,” Katsuki said. “They knew before we walked in.” 

The server floor was colder, endless rows of humming machines, the faint buzz of data like insect wings. Katsuki’s boots echoed on the polished floor as Izuku crouched by a terminal, connecting Nezu’s drive. 

“Talk to me,” Katsuki murmured, scanning the room. 

“Firewall’s in place,” Izuku said under his breath. “I just need thirty seconds to locate the active node.” 

“You’ve got fifteen.” 

Izuku shot him a look. “Kacchan.” 

Katsuki sighed. “Fine. Twenty.” 

The faint blue glow from the monitors painted Izuku’s face, his focus razor-sharp. Katsuki watched him work, fingers flying, lips pressed thin, the kind of calm that only came right before chaos. 

“There,” Izuku whispered. “I found it.” 

Katsuki stepped closer, glancing over his shoulder. “That’s the access route?” 

“Yes. It’s hidden inside their public-relations subnetwork, disguised as media sync data.” 

“Figures,” Katsuki muttered. “The bastard’s hidin’ behind press releases.” 

Izuku’s hands stilled. “Kacchan… this connection is live.” 

“What?” 

“I mean active. Someone’s using it right now.” 

A low hum filled the air, different from the server noise. Higher, metallic. The lights flickered once. 

Katsuki’s hand went automatically to his gauntlet. “That ain’t good.” 

Izuku’s eyes darted across the screen. “He’s rerouting power. We triggered something.” 

Katsuki grabbed his shoulder, steady but firm. “Hey. Eyes on me.” 

Izuku looked up, breath quick. 

“Breathe, nerd. You’re good at thinkin’ under fire. Do it now.” 

Izuku swallowed, nodded, turned back to the keyboard. “We can isolate the signal. If I cut the connection manually-” 

The intercom crackled. 

“Unauthorized access detected in sublevel three.” 
“Security en route.” 

Katsuki hissed a curse. “Too late for quiet.” 

“Almost done,” Izuku’s voice shook with adrenaline. 

Katsuki planted himself between Izuku and the doorway, sparks building in his palms. “Make it quick.” 

Izuku’s fingers danced over the keys. “Five seconds.” 

The hum crescendoed into a whine. The lights dimmed, then the screens went dark. 

Silence. 

Izuku froze. “He- he shut me out.” 

“Revenant?” 

“Or whoever’s covering for him.” 

Footsteps thundered down the corridor. Katsuki clenched his fists, turning slightly. “You done?” 

Izuku pulled the drive free, tucking it into his vest. “Yeah.” 

Katsuki grinned. “Good. Time to make an exit.” 

They burst into the hallway just as a squad of armed security rounded the corner. 
Smoke, shouts, sparks. Katsuki’s explosions filled the air- small, controlled, bright enough to disorient but not maim. Izuku moved beside him like a shadow, intercepting shots of compressed air and redirecting them with precision. 

“Left stairwell!” Izuku called. 

“Already on it!” Katsuki grabbed his hand mid-run, pulling him around the corner. 

“Think they’ll chase us?” 

“They’d better,” Katsuki barked, firing another blast to collapse a ceiling vent behind them. “Be a waste of effort if they didn’t.” 

“Show-off!” 

“You love it!” 

“Not the time!” 

Katsuki laughed: loud, wild, alive. “There’s always time!” 

They crashed through a side door into the daylight, sirens already wailing somewhere above. The city glared too bright against the adrenaline still pounding in their blood. The launched themselves into the air, Katsuki’s explosions slinging him forward, and Izuku’s suit whirring to life as he lead the way. The land on a near by rooftop, near hwere they left the car. 

Izuku doubled over, panting. “That was-” 

“Awesome?” Katsuki offered. 

“-terrifying,” Izuku said between breaths, but he was smiling. 

Katsuki smirked, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Same thing.” 

Izuku laughed, the sound shaky but real. “We got what we came for.” 

“Yeah.” Katsuki’s eyes flicked toward the tower, its mirrored surface catching the light like nothing had happened at all. “But that bastard knows we’re onto him now.” 

Izuku straightened, meeting his gaze. “Good.” 

Katsuki’s grin returned, slow and dangerous. “Guess that means round two’s comin’.” 

Izuku nodded, determination setting in. “And this time, we’ll be ready.” 

They stood there for a moment, side by side, sirens echoing in the distance. 
The war hadn’t started yet, but the world was holding its breath again. 

And together, so were they. 

Chapter Text

He didn’t stop running until they were back inside U.A. 
Not in the halls, the students were still in class, but deep underground, in the bunker they used for crisis response. The air smelled like dust and ozone; fluorescent lights hummed overhead. 

Nezu was already waiting, seated on the edge of a table like he’d been expecting them. Aizawa stood beside him, arms folded, a coffee mug in one hand despite the fact it was barely past noon. 

Katsuki half-dragged, half-ushered Izuku inside, dropping the security drive onto the table like it was made of live wire. 

Nezu’s bright eyes flicked to it, then to them. “Judging by your state,” he said mildly, “the operation was not as uneventful as planned.” 

Izuku let out a shaky laugh. “That’s one way to put it.” 

Aizawa’s gaze swept over them, burned sleeves, scuffed armor, a bruise forming along Izuku’s jaw. “You two were supposed to be discreet.” 

“We were discreet,” Katsuki shot back, still catching his breath. “Until your Commission buddies sent a damn welcome committee with guns.” 

Nezu’s ears twitched. “Interesting choice of words- welcome committee. You’re certain they knew?” 

Izuku nodded. “They weren’t just waiting for us, they were watching us. The moment I accessed the network, it wasn’t Revenant who reacted. It was them.” 

He opened the drive and projected the data: corrupted log files, repeated access attempts from an internal administrator account. C-Admin-7. 

Aizawa leaned closer. “Same ghost account from before?” 

“Yeah,” Izuku said. “Except… it’s not just an account anymore. It’s an entire protocol. A communication relay buried inside the Commission’s media systems. Every PR statement, every news feed, every hero ranking update, it’s all passing through that node before it goes public.” 

Nezu tilted his head. “Meaning?” 

Izuku took a breath. “Meaning Revenant isn’t just leaking information. He’s rewriting it.” 

Katsuki’s jaw tightened. “He’s been feedin’ the public exactly what he wants them to see.” 

Aizawa set his coffee down, expression grim. “That explains the sudden media reversal after the press conference.” 

Izuku nodded. “He used our own message to reinforce his narrative. The more we defended ourselves, the more data he collected. It’s a psychological exploit.” 

“Turned your honesty into ammunition,” Nezu said softly. 

Izuku swallowed hard. “Yes.” 

Katsuki 

He hated the way Izuku’s voice sounded just then, too controlled, too calm. That tone meant he was running calculations instead of breathing. 

Katsuki crossed his arms, leaning against the table. “Alright, genius, what’s the next move? We nuke the bastard out of the servers?” 

Nezu smiled faintly. “A tempting thought, but no. A full-scale system purge would cause mass data loss across the country, we’d cripple emergency communication lines. The Commission’s network runs through national infrastructure.” 

“So we do nothin’?” Katsuki snapped. 

“Quite the opposite,” Nezu said. “We do something smarter.” 

He turned the hologram projection around, zooming in on the string of repeating code that made up the C-Admin-7 protocol. “This, whatever Revenant built, is not purely external. It’s self-replicating, adaptive. It needs an anchor inside the Commission to maintain access.” 

Izuku’s brows furrowed. “A person?” 

“Exactly.” 

Katsuki frowned. “You’re sayin’ he’s got someone on the inside.” 

“I’m saying,” Nezu said, eyes gleaming, “someone inside is him.” 

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut air. 

Aizawa spoke first. “You think Revenant isn’t just controlling the system — he is the system.” 

Nezu nodded once. “His voice patterns match the AI cadence used in the Commission’s security architecture. He’s evolved past a simple intruder. He’s become an integrated intelligence.” 

Izuku blinked. “So he’s not hacking from outside anymore. He’s… in there.” 

“Which means,” Nezu continued, “to stop him, we’d have to disconnect the Commission from every other data network. A total blackout.” 

Katsuki snorted. “That’s not gonna go over well.” 

“It won’t,” Nezu agreed. “Which is why we won’t tell them. Yet.” 

Izuku straightened. “Then what do we do?” 

Nezu looked at him, not unkindly, but with the kind of gravity that made even Katsuki tense. “You stay quiet. You two are the only ones he’s engaged with directly. That gives us an advantage. Use it.” 

Katsuki’s teeth clenched. “You want us to bait him.” 

“Precisely.” 

Izuku glanced at Katsuki, that same spark of shared understanding passing silently between them. 

“It’s risky,” Izuku said finally. 

“Everything worth doing is,” Nezu replied. 

Katsuki let out a slow breath. “Alright. But if this thing so much as breathes wrong, I’m blowin’ the whole damn tower up.” 

Nezu’s grin was all teeth. “Duly noted.” 

As they left the bunker, Izuku’s mind was already spinning: paths, contingencies, patterns in the code he’d seen. Katsuki, walking just behind him, was watching the way his shoulders curled inward, the way his fingers fidgeted. 

He reached out, catching his wrist. 

Izuku blinked, startled. “Kacchan?” 

“Stop thinkin’ for a second.” 

Izuku smiled tiredly. “If I stop thinking, we’ll die.” 

“Then think quieter,” Katsuki said. “You look like you’re carryin’ the whole damn system in your head.” 

Izuku’s laugh was faint but real. “You always know when to pull me back.” 

Katsuki shrugged. “It’s a habit.” 

They walked the rest of the way in silence, not heavy, just steady. Outside, the afternoon light had turned sharp, the city too bright for how cold it felt. 

Nezu’s plan was insane. 
But then again, so were they 

----- 

Izuku 

They built the trap in pieces no one outside the room would notice. Nezu’s lab at U.A. smelled faintly of solder and citrus from the cleaner he favored, and it hummed with the low satisfaction of people who like solving problems for breakfast. A temporary, isolated mirror of the Commission’s PR node sat on the main table, Nezu had constructed it to be a perfect, sanitized copy: same handshakes, same data pipelines, same expected metadata. The difference was a seam, tiny, well-hidden, where they could watch without being watched. 

Nezu explained the plan twice. Izuku took the instructions in like a student memorizing a complicated formula: what to release, when to step back, how to measure the micro-responses in feed patterns that meant someone had injected code. 

“Katsuki, you should stand by the control console,” Nezu said, “and try to keep your explosions metaphorical.” He wore that expression he used when he was amused and proud of their willingness to be reckless. 

Katsuki barked a laugh and flicked a lighter mockingly close to his palm. “Metaphorical’s boring.” He glanced over at Izuku with a look that was seventy percent dare and thirty percent pure adoration. “Tell me what to do.” 

Izuku’s throat felt thick, a knot of caffeine and adrenaline and something more fragile.  

“We release a controlled clip,” he said. “One that’s defensible, true, but personal. It’s the kind of honesty he wants us to give, something that includes me talking about doubt and you talking about trust. Then we close the loop and watch for the echo. If Revenant bites, he’ll have to respond through the same channels to maintain plausibility. Nezu will be watching for any deviation, any breadcrumb.” 

Katsuki rolled his shoulders. “So, we say a thing, hand him a microphone, and see if he tries to be the one who rewrites it. Easy enough.” 

“Not easy.” Izuku smiled, weak but real. “Necessary.” 

They recorded the clip in the afternoon. Izuku’s voice was even, measured, teacher-slow. because that was the tone people trusted. He spoke about the bombing, about fear, about headlines like they were wounds that needed dressing not bandaging. He said, quietly, “I don’t want our students to be used as examples. I don’t want children to think choosing to love means being controlled.” He talked about the weight of being put under a lens. 

Katsuki followed with something rawer. He didn’t edit himself into neat sentences, he didn’t have to. He said, blunt and unadorned, “I stand behind Midoriya because he’s the person I trusted when the world was on my back. I listened then because he earned it. I stay now because I choose to. If anyone wants to call that servitude, fine. Call it what you want. But I’d do it again.” He added, rougher, “And if you try to spin that into something ugly? I’ll blast the liar.” 

When they finished, Izuku’s hands were trembling. Not from fear, some other tremor, the one you get when you give away something precious to prove it’s yours. 

Nezu fed the clip into the mirrored node and staged a slow, organic release. It would look like an ordinary upload: teacher statement, quick follow-up from a pro hero. To an uninvolved audience, it would be calm and human. To Revenant, it would be a deliciously honest signal. 

They waited. 

The first ripples were small, supportive comments, teachers reposting, a student thread of gratitude. Izuku breathed easier. Then, twenty-three minutes later, the mirrored feed registered an anomaly: a packet echo with a timestamp identical to their upload but carrying a different payload. 

Nezu’s whiskers twitched. “He’s playing back our signal with edits,” he murmured. The projection on the wall bloomed: the clip, but with subtle changes—audio spikes, a shadow of reversed phrasing that made “I choose to stay” sound like “compelled to stay.” The edit was surgical. It didn’t scream, it suggested. 

Izuku felt a physical cold slide under his ribs. “He’s recasting the punctuation,” he whispered. “Turning choice into coercion.” 

Nezu smiled that way that made everyone in the room both safer and more nervous. “Exactly. He wants to make the world suspect the motive behind devotion. People will look for causes. He supplies them.” 

Katsuki moved before he thought. He slammed a hand onto the console, fingers leaving prints on the tempered glass. “Show me where it’s coming from.” 

Nezu’s fingers danced, and a visual trace bled across the screen, mirrored relays, caches, and fingerprints, all leading to a cluster of Commission subnet nodes. But there was something else: a pattern of timing that wasn’t human. It was too regular, like someone letting a metronome tick under the feed. 

“He’s using a predictive module,” Nezu said. “He anticipates the viral vector the moment content goes live.” 

Izuku kept thinking of students in classrooms, of them seeing the footage and whispering. He pictured one child in a dorm room, eyebrows furrowed at the way two heroes’ affection had been reframed. The image tightened his throat. 

“Okay,” Izuku said. “We baited him. He bit. What now?” 

Nezu’s eyes were bright with the kind of thrill people reserve for puzzles. “Now we watch how he defends his reframe, where he amplifies, whom he targets, whether he tries to push us into a narrative that requires a response. We let him use our honesty, then we pivot.” 

“Pivot to what?” Katsuki asked. He sounded like someone sizing up a target with his fists. 

“To exposure,” Nezu said, simple. “Not of the code, of the method. Of the social mechanics. We reveal to the public the way information can be doctored, carefully, with undeniable proof. We control the narrative by educating the audience. If we teach people the signs of a poisoned echo, they stop being prey.” 

Izuku let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “And in the meantime?” 

“In the meantime,” Nezu said, “we keep feeding him clean signals we can measure. We watch for deviations. And if he escalates, you are ready to pull the plug on his anchor node.” 

Katsuki’s jaw flexed. “And if he goes after your students?” 

Then the room grew still. Every person there, teachers who had raised children, a hero who had watched the city change, felt the same sharp, animal fear. 

Izuku’s voice was soft but firm. “Then we protect them. First and always.” 

Katsuki 

Being bait sounded like a word you used for animals, and he hated that metaphor, because they weren’t animals and this wasn’t a hunt in the forest. Still, he liked the part where the predator thought he was the clever one until it wasn’t. He liked the part where someone underestimated them. 

He liked the part where Izuku trusted him enough to make him the blunt instrument. 

Standing by the console felt right: hands on familiar buttons, eyes on the flicker of activity. Katsuki loved the hum of the machines, their calm, because he could make noise where the machines couldn’t. He was the immediate answer. Izuku was the slow, careful hand. 

The echo hit like a slap: the edited clip looping with that insinuation pulling the hinge on the idea of choice. The feed started to burble with pundits and anonymous accounts parroting the phrasing. Someone on a talk show suggested “perhaps some loyalty is performative.” A political influencer framed the clip as “a tool to police men’s behavior.” The comment threads thermonuclear-lagged: people who wanted the story to be true spread it like kindling. 

Katsuki’s knuckles went white around the metal armrest. 

He’d been called a lot of things in their time together. Mean. Loud. Dangerous. But never fake. The idea that someone could make the world think his devotion was manufactured. What poison. He could feel rage prickle behind his eyes, hot and ready to explode. 

Nezu leaned in, whispering technical specifics like a priest with a map to a hidden cathedral. “He’s amplifying through micro-influencers, using automated cross-posts that mimic grassroots momentum. The algorithm favors repetition over truth.” 

Katsuki grinned, hard and fierce. “Then we break the repetition.” 

“How?” Izuku asked, voice small, the question turning inward, did he have to teach the world to rethink affection? Did he have to make the idea of loyalty academically undeniable? 

Katsuki didn’t answer with words at first. He walked over, looped an arm through Izuku’s, and pulled him close until their sides touched. He felt the tremor in Izuku’s spine, felt the tiny earthquakes his mind made when worry got too loud. 

“You fight him with you,” Katsuki said, straightforward and stupidly tender. “Say things he can’t butcher. Do stuff he can’t fake. We don’t hand him rope to hang us with.” 

Izuku’s laugh was a thin bright thing. “That’s the simplest and yet the most complicated plan.” 

“It’s ours,” Katsuki said. “People can try to parse it like a math problem, argue semantics, but they can’t argue teeth and scars and the way you tuck a stray hair behind my ear when you’re worried. They can’t argue the way I shove you out of the way of a falling sign.” He watched Izuku carefully, like someone counting breaths. “They can’t make us feel another way.” 

A bubble of calm rose in Izuku’s chest, soft and stubborn, like a small vessel that refused to sink. He leaned into it. 

They watched the feeds together, shoulders pressed, as Nezu annotated the echo’s spread, where it ticked like a metronome and where organic responses tried to break through. Katsuki snapped at the nasty commenters, logging the accounts and flagging obvious bots. When someone posted a clip of their classroom, edited, cropped, a hundred students crowded into the comment stream, posting timestamps and explanations in the way children do: simple, honest, relentless. “That’s not how Sensei looks before a lecture,” one wrote. “He smiles with his eyes, like this,” and posted a short clip of Izuku waving at them after practice. 

Katsuki watched those clips and felt something loosen. The students were a wall, small and human and not embarrassingly perfect. He thought of the kid in their dorm who’d painted a picture of Izuku and taped it to his locker, messy crayons, enormous smile, and the thought of that kid being confused by a doctored clip made his blood hot and fast. 

Hours became a stream of small victories and setbacks. Revenant pushed. Nezu countered. Izuku and Katsuki replied with truth, one measured press, one unfiltered interview, one video of a training session where Izuku left in the middle to help a student tie her shoe. Each release was a test: would Revenant bite, would he reframe, would he try to use the students’ kindness as fodder? 

------- 

At sundown, after a day of watching patterns, the villain stepped in more personally. The mirrored feed played a new broadcast, no long manifesto this time, just a montage: their press conference intercut with older footage, audio slightly warped, and over it a voice that was both familiar and ugly. 

“Observe the puppet show,” it intoned. “Love looks like obedience when seen through wires. Watch how he takes your faith and feeds you performance. Trust the ugliness; it teaches you to be skeptical of pretty things.” 

It wasn’t direct, but the montage lingered on small moments, Katsuki’s hand at Izuku’s shoulder, Izuku’s steadying laugh, a clip of Katsuki answering a reporter’s question with a cut-off snarl. There was no explicit call to violence but there didn’t have to be. The message was an invitation: doubt. accuse. divide. 

Katsuki felt poison crawling up his neck. He wanted to tear the world open and show people what was real. 

Instead, he did what Izuku always told him to do: breathe, look, choose. He walked over to where Izuku sat, hunched over a tablet, eyes red-rimmed but bright, and pulled him up until Izuku was half-leaning into his chest. 

“Come on,” Katsuki said, voice low. “Let’s give the internet something actually upsetting.” 

Izuku blinked, puzzled. “And what’s that?” 

Katsuki kissed the top of his head, quick and fierce. “Us. Quiet. Messy. Not for sale. Watch me make you blush in front of a billion people.” 

They staged a tiny, unscripted clip: Izuku telling an animated, ridiculous story about a student who’d accidentally tied his shoelaces together during a demonstration, and Katsuki interrupting with mock outrage, indignantly calling the student a “little traitor.” The clip ended with Katsuki cradling the back of Izuku’s head, and giving him a ridiculously adoring look. Not scripted or practiced. Never had to be.  It was ridiculous, personal, and gloriously un-dramatic. 

Nezu sent it through the mirrored node in a controlled release. It looked like nothing to the algorithm, an ordinary bit of human content. But human content was hard to weaponize when it came from the mouths of children and from teachers who stood up for them. 

For every doctored echo Revenant tried to toss into the stream, a dozen small, undramatic clips rose, students explaining what Izuku did after practice, a parent thanking a hero for calling their kid by name, a clip of Katsuki on a walkthrough fixing a loose railing. The chorus didn’t go viral in the way the villain wanted, fast and loud, but it was stubborn and sticky. It wouldn’t produce fireworks, but it would make people pause. 

Late into the night, exhausted, they sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the lab, watching figures and graphs and the slow, infuriating ways an idea could be spread. Katsuki’s hand found Izuku’s and curled fingers into his. The pressure was small and human. 

“You okay?” he asked. 

Izuku rested his head against Katsuki’s shoulder. “Because you’re next to me, yeah.” He looked at the screen, then back at Katsuki. “I hate that we have to play this game.” 

Katsuki’s laugh was soft. “Yeah, I do too. But I hate the alternative more.” 

They let silence be the answer for a while. Outside, the city slept under a thin sheet of rain. Inside, the lab lights hummed, and somewhere in the web a faceless voice was already composing its next sentence. 

Nezu cleared his throat. “We’ve bought ourselves time,” he said. “Not forever, but time. Use it well.” 

Katsuki squeezed Izuku’s hand once, hard. “We will.” 

Izuku’s smile was small and fierce. “Together.” 

Chapter Text

The first glitch he could try to ignore. He didn’t of course. 

A bad speaker, maybe. 
That’s what he told himself when the morning announcement coughed and clipped, stuttering his name like static before blurting, “Midoriya-sensei… still chooses obedience.” 

The students had laughed, nervous, mostly. One boy near the back had muttered, “Man, even the intercom’s gossiping now,” and the room had rippled with chuckles. 
Izuku smiled, even played along, but his throat was tight the rest of class. He wondered if he was able to hide the dread he felt of if it plastered itself across his face. He couldn’t afford to freak out in front of his students. So he moved on quick.  

He’d seen how these things started: first a rumor, then an echo, then a virus that ate trust whole. 

By afternoon, he noticed it again, smaller this time.The door to the faculty wing refused to register his ID. It blinked red, then white, then displayed: 
ACCESS VERIFIED — HEROIC DESIGNATION: SECONDARY 

His stomach sank. 
U.A. didn’t have a “secondary” designation. 

He stayed in the hallway a moment longer, trying to steady his breath, before swiping again. The light flicked back to green, cheerful and innocent, as if mocking him for noticing. 

By the time Katsuki showed up that evening, Izuku had talked himself into exhaustion. 

Katsuki leaned in the doorway of the empty classroom, carrying two cans of coffee. “You look like you just watched a printer commit treason.” 

Izuku blinked at him, then laughed despite himself. “Something like that.” 

Katsuki tossed him a can. “You’re workin’ too late again.” 

“I know.” 

“Then stop.” 

Izuku smiled weakly. “You sound like Aizawa.” 

“Yeah, but hotter,” Katsuki said, deadpan, until Izuku finally snorted into his sleeve. 

He took a sip of his coffee, sighing as the warmth hit his throat. “The systems are glitching everywhere here now. It’s too specific to be random.” 

Katsuki’s easy grin faltered. “Revenant?” 

“I don’t know yet. But… probably... it feels like a message.” 

Katsuki set his can down, the metallic click loud in the quiet room. “Alright. Then we send one back.” 

The next day, the whispers started. Nothing dramatic, just digital murmurs. A comment on the school’s intranet: Midoriya-sensei’s ID was downgraded. Thought you should know. 
 

A misfiled report claiming he’d submitted lesson plans three weeks ahead. 
 

An old photograph of him and Katsuki from the press conference suddenly resurfacing in student group chats, the caption edited to say obedience has a face. 

He caught the last one during a lunch break, reading over a student’s shoulder before the kid even noticed. 

“Rize,” Izuku said softly. 

The boy jumped. “Sensei! I swear I wasn’t- it just popped up in the chat!” 

Izuku smiled. “I know. You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

Katsuki wasn’t so forgiving. “Who the hell posted it?” 

Rize shrank. “Uh, nobody knows. It’s one of those auto-forwarded things, like when you tag a name and it pings people?” 

Izuku reached out, brushing Katsuki’s arm before he could bristle further. “It’s fine. Go ahead to lunch, Rize.” 

The student scurried off. 

When they were alone, Izuku exhaled. “He’s not trying to hurt us. It’s all algorithmic noise. But… this is how it starts. Rumors, edits, misplaced context. He’s not trying to break systems anymore. He’s trying to break perception.” 

Katsuki looked at him for a long moment. Then: “Not gonna happen.” 

Izuku smiled faintly. “You can’t punch an idea, Kacchan.” 

“Watch me.” 

That night, they met with Nezu. 

The principal was uncharacteristically grave, tail curled tightly around his paws as he pulled up projection screens of code logs. 

“You were right to be concerned,” he said. “These are fragments of Revenant’s architecture, embedded in U.A.’s internal network. Most of it is benign mimicry, but the psychological effect is already noticeable.” 

“Meaning?” Katsuki asked. 

“Meaning,” Nezu said gently, “some of the staff have begun to question if the rumors might be true.” 

Izuku felt the words like a blow to the ribs. “After everything we’ve done?” 

“People are easy to unsettle when the narrative fits too neatly,” Nezu replied. “Revenant has learned that fear is self-sustaining. I can patch the systems, but perception… must be healed, not coded.” 

Katsuki’s jaw worked. “So we fix it the old-fashioned way.” 

“Indeed.” Nezu’s eyes softened. “You remind them who you are.” 

They walked home in silence that night, streetlights casting gold stripes over the pavement. 

Katsuki reached over, catching Izuku’s sleeve to pull him closer to the inside of the sidewalk. He didn’t say anything, just shifted him away from the road the way he always did. 

Izuku looked up at him, tired, worried, but still smiling. A sad smile, but a smile nontheless. “You think the world will ever stop testing us?” 

Katsuki huffed. “Nope. But I’ll keep passin’ the exam.” 

Izuku laughed quietly. “Good answer.” 

“Good teacher.” 

They walked the rest of the way like that, shoulder to shoulder, no words, just the quiet promise of constancy. 
And when Katsuki unlocked the door and Izuku stepped into the warm dark of home, the lights flickered once. 

Not ominous. Just a reminder. 

That even when the world’s edges blurred, their center didn’t. 

Chapter Text

Izuku 

Morning came grey and cold. 
A rainstorm had settled over the city sometime before dawn, and U.A.’s glass corridors were slick with condensation. The reflection of his own face followed him in every window,  tired eyes, jaw tight, shoulders set. 

He’d slept maybe three hours, most of it upright on the couch with reports spread around him like a paper nest. Katsuki had thrown a blanket over him sometime near sunrise and muttered something that sounded like “dumbass hero.” 

Now, walking down the hall toward Nezu’s office, he could feel that same hum in the air,  the way static builds before lightning. 
Except this time, it wasn’t dread. 
It was resolve. 

Nezu had converted the top floor into a command center. The big screens that normally displayed training data now pulsed with endless lines of network code. Power cables snaked across the carpet like veins. 

“Status?” Izuku asked, already scanning the readouts. 

Power Loader turned from one console. “Firewall integrity holding at eighty-eight percent. Infection rate dropped after we rerouted through the support course servers.” 

“That was Hatsume’s idea,” Nezu added, sipping tea as though they weren’t fighting a digital war. “She built a mechanical decoy node to keep Revenant’s attention. A very loud one.” 

Izuku blinked. “What kind of decoy?” 

“She livestreamed a mock press conference,” Aizawa said dryly from the corner. “Featuring a drone wearing your face on an LED panel.” 

Izuku groaned. “Oh no.” 

“Relax,” Nezu said cheerfully. “It distracted him beautifully.” 

At that, Katsuki’s voice cut through from behind. “Told you she was a damn genius.” 

He strode in still half-zipping his jacket, hair damp from the rain. “Alright, nerds. What’s the play?” 

Izuku looked up from the monitors, eyes bright again. “We stop waiting for him to move. We trace his signal back.” 

Aizawa raised an eyebrow. “You’ve tried that before.” 

“Not like this,” Izuku said. “Every time we’ve gone after Revenant, we’ve treated him like a single source. But what if he’s a distributed presence, something using multiple carrier frequencies across devices he can’t even control directly?” 

“Like a virus with hosts,” Nezu murmured. 

“Exactly. If we can map out which clusters he relies on most, we can isolate the central intelligence node, the original one. It’s just math. Pattern prediction, time stamps, cross-referencing reaction intervals-” 

“Speak human,” Katsuki interrupted. 

Izuku smiled faintly. “We trick him into chasing ghosts while we follow his shadow.” 

Katsuki smirked. “Now that, I can get behind.” 

The plan unfolded across the day. 

U.A. became a hive of quiet, coordinated motion. Students in the business course analyzed network behavior patterns disguised as a data analysis project. Mei Hatsume built little sensor drones disguised as delivery bots to ping the airwaves. A few underground heroes volunteered to patrol nearby rooftops for rogue signals. 

Izuku stood in the center of it all like a conductor, his voice steady through every check-in, his brain spinning in a thousand directions but his feet planted firmly on the ground. 

Every few minutes, Katsuki passed behind him, handing him water, brushing his shoulder as if to anchor him, keeping him fed, focused, real. 

By mid-afternoon, they had what Nezu called “The Map.” 

A sprawling lattice of light hovered above the main table: hundreds of data points representing every access Revenant had made in the last month. Most were dim, routine echoes. 
But seven pulsed brighter than the rest, coordinated, rhythmic, like the beating of a heart. 

Izuku pointed. “Those seven are synchronized. That’s not random. That’s command logic.” 

Katsuki whistled low. “So he’s got seven brains?” 

“Seven mouths,” Izuku corrected softly. “But only one mind.” 

Nezu’s eyes gleamed. “And if we can make him speak through all of them at once…” 

“We can overload his anchor,” Izuku finished. “Force him to surface.” 

“Hell yes.” Katsuki grinned, teeth sharp. “Let’s drag his smug code-face into the light.” 

Katsuki 

They started the sync at sundown. 

The plan was elegant, simple, dangerous. Nezu called it “reverse resonance” ... they’d flood the network with a harmonized signal from all seven nodes at once, baiting Revenant to align his frequency. When he did, they’d trace the carrier to wherever his physical anchor resided. 

Katsuki was on standby near the southern relay tower, a backup detonator clipped to his belt. Izuku monitored the sync from the control hub, his voice constant in Katsuki’s earpiece. 

“Node three aligned.” 
“Five coming online.” 
“Six… holding steady.” 

Katsuki’s boots crunched against gravel. The air smelled like ozone and city rain. “Talk to me, nerd. What’s it look like?” 

“Like a web,” Izuku said quietly. “And it’s tightening.” 

The line crackled, faint interference. 

Katsuki frowned. “You cuttin’ out.” 

No answer. 

“Deku?” 

Static. 

Then- 

“Nice trick.” 

The voice wasn’t Izuku’s. It was faintly metallic, smooth and unhurried. 

“You made noise. I like noise. It tells me where the heartbeat is.” 

Katsuki’s jaw locked. “You picked the wrong heart.” 

“So loyal. Still playing the guard dog.” 

“Damn right.” 

“Katsuki Bakugo. This was never supposed to be about you. You got in the way. You’re a damn leech.”  

“Who the hell are you?”  

“You know my name.” 

“Fuck that revenant crap, tell me who you are so I can blast your ass all the way back to the freakshow science experiment you came from.” 

The faint laugh that crackled over static sounded artifical, inhuman.  

“Midoriya choosing you is one of life’s greatest jokes.”  

Katsuki stood there, heart hammering more than he cared to admit. He was hacking their comms lines now. He was in UA, the internet, the commission, and now their line of communication.  

Katsuki wasn’t scared of much, but this was getting fucking creepy. He felt like he was being watched. Worse than that, he felt like Izuku was being watched.  

This guy was a freak. A fanatic turned villain, almost like Stain was.  

He opened his mouth, “Jealous?”  

And the line went dead.  

At U.A., alarms lit the screens. 

Izuku’s hands flew across the controls, pulling up real-time diagnostics. “He’s trying to overload Node 6!” 

“Can you isolate it?” Nezu called. 

“Yes- but he’s rerouting through our own signal!” 

“Then cut the power!” 

Izuku hesitated. “Kacchan’s still tethered to that network.”  

“Kacchan,” he said into the comm, “you need to-” 

“Already movin’!” came the reply. 

Katsuki ripped the backup detonator from his belt, slapped it against the base of the relay tower, and sprinted backward as the light on it turned orange. 

He barely made it behind a concrete barrier before the explosion cracked through the air. 
The tower’s upper frame folded, collapsing in a burst of sparks. 

In the command room, the signal line on the display blinked out. Revenant’s connection dropped. 

The whole network went quiet. 

Then- 

Nezu exhaled. “He’s gone.” 

Izuku sagged against the console, eyes closing. “For now.” 

Later that night, after reports and cleanup and a long shower that barely took the grime off, Katsuki found Izuku sitting on the couch, staring at the rain against the window. 

“Hey,” he said softly. 

Izuku turned his head. “Hey.” 

“Got somethin’ for you.” 

He held out his palm. Sitting in it was the broken detonator: charred, harmless now. 

Izuku frowned. “Kacchan, you shouldn’t have-” 

“I kept it,” Katsuki said. “’Cause it worked.” He smiled, tired and crooked. “Thought it deserved a second life as a paperweight or somethin’.” 

Izuku laughed quietly, then leaned forward and took it, fingers brushing his. “You scare me sometimes.” 

Katsuki shrugged. “Keeps things excitin’.” 

Izuku leaned back against him, head resting on his shoulder. “He’ll come back, you know.” 

“I know.” 

“But this time, he’ll have to crawl.” 

Katsuki grinned, eyes soft. “Then we’ll just stomp harder.” 

The rain drummed steadily against the glass, not threatening now, just steady, rhythmic, alive. 

And for the first time in weeks, the world outside didn’t feel like it was winning. 

Chapter Text

He woke to the sound of rain. 
The steady kind, light but relentless- the kind that made the world sound softer than it really was. 

Katsuki reached across the bed and found only cold sheets. 

For a second, his half-asleep brain filled in the blanks wrong: mission, fight, loss, before he registered the faint outline near the window. 
Izuku. 

Standing in the dark, shoulders hunched, staring out through the glass as if the answers to everything were hiding in the clouds. 

Katsuki dragged a hand through his hair and sat up, the blanket sliding down to his waist. “You do realize it’s still night, right?” 

Izuku didn’t turn. “Couldn’t sleep.” 

Katsuki sighed. The words were quiet but heavy. That tone, the one where Izuku’s mind was spinning itself into exhaustion, he knew it better than his own reflection. 

He got up without another word, padding barefoot across the floor. The rainlight from the street outside painted faint lines across the room, silver and blue, like veins across Izuku’s back. 

When he reached him, Katsuki didn’t say anything at first. He just leaned forward and pressed his chest against Izuku’s back, arms sliding around his shoulders until he could feel the slow, tense rhythm of his breathing. 

Izuku startled a little, then softened into it. “Kacchan…” 

“Come back to bed,” Katsuki murmured against his shoulder. His voice was still thick with sleep, the words rumbling more than speaking. 

“I will,” Izuku said, though it didn’t sound convincing. “In a little bit.” 

Katsuki huffed against his neck. “You’re worryin’ again.” 

“Of course I am,” Izuku said quietly. “It’s part of the job.” 

“Yeah, well, so’s rest,” Katsuki muttered. “You need it more than anyone.” 

Izuku smiled faintly, still looking out the window. “If I go back now, I’ll just stare at the ceiling anyway.” 

“Then stare at it next to me.” 

Izuku turned slightly, his hand finding Katsuki’s chest, gentle, steady, like he was both pushing him away and holding him there at once. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I just need a little time to think.” 

Katsuki frowned. “You can think just fine layin’ down.” 

“I know.” Izuku’s voice softened. “But not tonight.” 

For a moment, Katsuki wanted to argue. To pull him back to bed, to drown out whatever quiet storm was still moving through that brilliant head. 
But he stopped himself. 

He just sighed, heavy and reluctant, and muttered, “Fine.” 

Then, instead of going back to bed, he shuffled to the couch, dropped down with a grunt, and leaned back until the cushions groaned under his weight. 

Izuku glanced over his shoulder. “Kacchan…” 

“Don’t start,” Katsuki said, eyes already half-shut. “If you’re stayin’ up, I’m stayin’ up. Not negotiable.” 

Izuku exhaled, half laugh, half sigh. “You’re impossible.” 

“Damn right.” 

Silence filled the space again, but this time it was warm,  the kind that wraps instead of presses. 

Izuku went back to watching the rain, and Katsuki let himself drift in that hazy place between awake and asleep, the steady rhythm of the drops syncing with Izuku’s breathing. 

After a while, Izuku’s voice broke the quiet, barely above a whisper. 
“Thank you.” 

Katsuki didn’t open his eyes. “For what?” 

“For staying.” 

He smiled, lazy, fond, completely undone. “Where else would I go, nerd?” 

Izuku didn’t answer, just turned slightly, watching him from across the dim room. 
The storm went on outside, soft, endless, but in here, everything was still. 

And when Izuku finally came to sit beside him, resting his head against Katsuki’s shoulder, neither of them said a word. 

------- 

The rain stopped just before dawn. 
He could tell by the way the light shifted, from the hazy blue of streetlamps on wet glass to the soft gold that meant the city was finally waking. 

Katsuki was still asleep on the couch. 
One arm was thrown over the backrest, the other hanging limp toward the floor, the blanket he’d grabbed in the night sliding halfway off his chest. His hair looked worse than ever, like it had fought the storm and lost. 

Izuku smiled. He should have known Katsuki wouldn’t actually go back to bed without him. 

He padded quietly across the room, barefoot, the boards cool under his feet. The kettle whined low on the stove, and the smell of coffee slowly replaced the scent of rain. 

By the time the first mug was full, Katsuki stirred. 

“Smells good,” he muttered, voice hoarse with sleep. 

Izuku turned, holding out the mug. “Your favorite. Bitter enough to knock out a small horse.” 

Katsuki took it, squinting up at him. “Flattery before caffeine? You’re gettin’ soft, nerd.” 

Izuku laughed, leaning against the counter. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just trying to keep you from biting someone’s head off before breakfast.” 

“Depends who deserves it.” 

“Do I?” 

Katsuki grinned around his first sip. “Always.” 

He said it like affection, and it was. 

They ate in the quiet that comes after long nights , no urgency, just the slow rhythm of two people rebuilding the world one bite at a time. Izuku’s hair was a mess, Katsuki’s shirt was inside-out, and neither of them cared. 

When the dishes were done, Izuku pulled his teaching jacket on. The morning sun caught in his hair as he adjusted the sleeves. 

“You’ve got patrol later?” he asked. 

Katsuki nodded. “Short shift. Should be back before you’re done wranglin’ brats.” 

Izuku chuckled. “They’re not brats.” 

“They’re mini-explosions with limbs.” 

“Sounds familiar.” 

Katsuki smirked. “Yeah, well, I turned out perfect.” 

Izuku reached for his bag, but paused halfway through the motion. His expression changed, just slightly, like a string pulling taut inside his chest. 

Katsuki noticed immediately. “What?” 

Izuku frowned, tapping at his wrist device. “There’s a message. But it’s… blank.” 

“Spam?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

He opened the feed, nothing but a single timestamp and a symbol. 
A small circle. Inside it, seven lines branching outward like rays. 

Katsuki’s jaw tightened. “Looks like a damn sun.” 

Izuku’s throat felt dry. “Or a network.” 

They stared at it for a long moment. 
No text. No sender. 
Just that quiet, bright insignia pulsing once on the screen, steady, rhythmic. 

Katsuki finally reached over and closed Izuku’s hand around the device. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it. Not before breakfast, not before you teach, and not before I get another cup.” 

Izuku looked up at him, then laughed, small, real. “You’re bossing me around.” 

“If you start freaking out the whole ‘plan to destroy him’ thing kind of falls apart. My job is to stop that from happening,” Katsuki said, leaning in just close enough that his breath brushed Izuku’s temple. “And I’m not leavin’ your side again, so whoever’s sendin’ suns better get ready to burn.” 

Izuku smiled, tension fading just a little. “That’s poetic for you.” 

“Don’t tell anyone.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

Katsuki did NOT go on patrol. 

They left together, coffee cups still warm, morning light still gentle, the city quiet again for now. 
But as they stepped outside, a news ticker scrolled across a nearby screen: 

“U.A. confirms partial system restoration. Network irregularities persist.” 

And just beneath it, for the briefest flash, the same circular symbol blinked in the corner. 

Once. 
Like an eye opening. 

----- 

He wasn’t supposed to be there. 

That’s what the pro hero agency would say when they found out he’d skipped patrol. That’s what Aizawa would grumble about, and what Nezu would turn into a long, polite lecture about “responsible delegation.” 

But none of that mattered. 
Not when Izuku had looked at that little glowing symbol like it was a loaded gun. 

He felt a hot spike of anger as they made their way to UA. That fear on Izuku’s face. When this whol Revenant thing had started, Izuku tried to pretend it didn’t shake him. But it did, of course it did. And now it has spread so intricately it’s started to taunt them through their own devices.  

It was morbid to think about and would make anyone paranoid. Shit, Katsuki was freaked out to. But if Izuku was scared, he forgot his own fear. Instead, all he felt was anger, a desperate need to make it okay again. To get that look off of Izuku’s face, to throttle the person who’d put it there.  

So, no, he wasn’t leaving. 

Katsuki watched him now, hunched over the worktable in their shared study, fingers gliding over the holographic keyboard. 
Izuku’s coffee had gone cold an hour ago, but he hadn’t noticed. 

“Slow down, nerd,” Katsuki said from the couch, where he’d been pretending to read a report. “You’re gonna short-circuit your own brain.” 

“I almost have it,” Izuku muttered. “This signal isn’t from the Commission’s system. It’s independent. External IP, but bouncing through mirrored U.A. nodes.” 

“English, please.” 

Izuku smiled distractedly. “It’s close. Too close. Like it’s piggybacking on one of our secured feeds.” 

Katsuki frowned, pushing himself up. “You’re sayin’ it’s already in here?” 

“Not in,” Izuku said. “More like near. Watching.” 

That word made the hairs on the back of Katsuki’s neck stand up. 

----- 

They spent the next hour tracing the code, side by side at the desk, Izuku handling the software, Katsuki scanning for physical interference. 
If there was one thing Revenant had taught him, it was that digital ghosts still needed real-world anchors. 

He checked the walls, the outlets, even the underside of the desk. 

“Ya know,” he said, ducking down, “for a guy who doesn’t sleep, you make a hell of a mess.” 

Izuku huffed out a laugh. “You love it.” 

Katsuki peeked up at him from under the table, smirking. “No, I love you. The mess is a hazard.” 

Izuku froze for half a second, then rolled his eyes. “That was smooth. Almost.” 

“Almost?” 

“You ruined it with the insult.” 

“Never said I was perfect.” 

Izuku gave a small smile, the one that still killed him every time. “You’re close.” 

Katsuki stood, crossing his arms. “Don’t start butterin’ me up now. You found somethin’, didn’t you?” 

Izuku nodded, turning the screen toward him. “Look at this.” 

The symbol from the message glowed in the center, that same seven-pointed sun. Around it, lines of code pulsed in rhythmic bursts, like a heartbeat. 

“It’s broadcasting a beacon,” Izuku said quietly. “It’s not trying to hide. It wants us to look.” 

Katsuki leaned closer. “Trap?” 

“Maybe. But if it is, it’s a loud one.” 

Katsuki’s eyes narrowed. “Then let’s spring it on our terms.” 

They moved into the lab under U.A. by midday, empty except for them and the hum of the servers. Izuku connected the tablet to the isolated network. The symbol brightened, spinning slowly. 

Katsuki stood behind him, one hand resting on the back of Izuku’s chair, gaze fixed on the display. 

“Ready?” Izuku asked. 

“Always,” Katsuki said. 

The moment Izuku hit enter, the screen flared white. For a split second, static filled the air, like a sigh through a radio. 

Then, text began to type itself across the interface: 

I warned you not to chase light. 
Every sun burns out when it’s too close to its shadow. 

Izuku’s hands stilled. Katsuki leaned forward, his reflection caught in the glow. 

“Creepy bastard’s gettin’ poetic again,” he muttered. “Guess he learned from me.” 

Izuku didn’t look away. “He’s taunting us. Testing our response time.” 

Katsuki’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, firm, grounding. “Then give him nothin’. Let him think we’re bored.” 

Izuku glanced up at him, that faint spark of amusement fighting through the tension. “Bored, huh?” 

“Yeah. You handle the brains. I’ll handle the attitude.” 

“Good division of labor.” 

“Damn right.” 

They sat like that for a while, two figures bathed in the soft pulse of the screen, calm even as the world tried to prod them into panic. 
The code blinked again, faster this time, before vanishing altogether. 

Silence. 

Izuku let out a slow breath. “Signal’s gone.” 

“For good?” 

“For now.” 

Katsuki looked down at him, at the faint exhaustion under his eyes, the quiet strength still holding. 
He bent a little, voice low. “Told you I wasn’t leavin’. Guess I picked a good day for it.” 

Izuku smiled up at him, small, tired, warm. “Yeah. You did.” 

Katsuki squeezed his shoulder, then nodded toward the door. “C’mon. Let’s grab lunch before somethin’ else decides to haunt us.” 

Izuku laughed, pushing to his feet. “You make it sound so romantic.” 

“Hey, nothin’ says romance like ramen after fightin’ cybercrime.” 

They left the lab together, their footsteps echoing through the hall, steady, confident, side by side. 

Behind them, the dark monitor flickered once more. 
The symbol reappeared for half a heartbeat, smaller now, tucked in the corner like a secret. 
Then it blinked out, leaving only the faint hum of power.