Chapter Text
The city lights of Musutafu flickered like dying stars, their glow stretching across the rain-damp alley where Katsuki Bakugo leaned against a crumbling brick wall. A cigarette hung loosely between his fingers, smoke curling upward like a ghost. His eyes—usually sharp, alive with fire—were dull tonight, clouded by something he couldn’t name.
“Ease off, baby, you’re killing me.”
The lyric looped in his mind, too fitting for comfort. He’d been snapping at everyone lately, pushing them away before they got too close. Even his hero colleagues that were normally bearable at best.
He scoffed under his breath, lifting the short to his lips, dragging in another shaky inhale.
Why him? Why was it always him that got under his skin?
Izuku was everything Katsuki wasn’t—gentle, patient, kind. And somehow, he never left. No matter how harsh Katsuki’s words got, no matter how many times he told him to back the fuck off, Izuku stayed. Always.
“Boy, you’re killing me,” Katsuki muttered, the words burning more than the cigarette ever could.
The next day, the training grounds echoed with the dull rhythm of Katsuki’s fists striking the air. His explosions lacked their usual precision, his focus slipping every few seconds. His energy seemed to get so drained so fast lately. His mind betrayed him—flashing with memories of Izuku’s laugh, the light in his eyes when he talked about his students, the quiet way he carried other people’s burdens.
“Ease off, you’re killing me” he found himself whispering the lyric like a confession.
But that, he realized, wasn’t his to decide anymore.
He’d scroll mindlessly between mission reports, news headlines, and hero gossip accounts- until inevitably, his thumb hesitated on one name.
Midoriya Izuku.
He told himself it was just curiosity. A professional habit. Keeping tabs on a fellow hero. But that excuse fell apart the second he saw the photos.
Izuku at some event - the U.A Staff Association Gala - suit clean pressed, smile bright, Ochako beside him, her hand brushing his arm. They looked good together. Normal. Like people who didn’t destroy everything they touched.
Katsuki’s jaw clenched. He tossed the phone onto the table, the screen cracking slightly against the edge of a glass. He swore under his breath, louder this time, just to fill the quiet.
It didn’t help.
Some few hours later, he found himself sitting on the kitchen counter, bottle of whiskey in one hand, phone in the other. The notification light blinked softly in the dark - a new post.
Izuku again. Laughing this time, cheeks flushed pink, a smear of chocolate on his mouth. Ochako had tagged him.
“Couldn’t have done it without you, Deku <3”
Katsuki stared at it for a long time, thumb hovering over the comment button like a loaded gun.
He could type something. Anything. A ‘congrats’. A joke. An insult.
Instead, he turned off the phone and set it face down.
He drank until the edges of the room softened, until the ache behind his eyes dulled to something almost tolerable. But even then, the thought lingered –
he looks so happy.
And that should’ve been enough. Should’ve been what he wanted.
It became a routine recently; he’d call someone over after a late-night mission, after a patrol ended with too much blood, when his mind was left too heavy. The apartment would be filled with the low hum of music, the clink of glasses, the heat of a body pressed against his—and then the door would click shut behind them, the numbing silence swallowing them whole.
He could buy whatever he wanted— cars, apartments in every corner of japan, people—but no expensive clothes or model whores could buy him out of his head.
The penthouse apartment was quiet after one of his endeavors, except for the rumble of the city outside. Expensive whiskey and half-empty bottles littered the sleek glass table. Katsuki leaned back against the leather couch, shirt unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up, cigarette smoke curling around his head like a halo of defeat, of shame.
The clean, dark room smelled of alcohol, rich perfume, and something tangibly bitter- himself.
He hadn’t intended to think of Izuku tonight, not during this, but his mind betrayed him. Every laugh, every soft smile, every careless way Izuku carried the weight of the world pressed against the inside of his skull.
He tried to forget. He had called him over- someone new, someone beautiful, someone disposable. Katsuki didn’t even recall the man’s name. He had wanted the warmth of another body to erase the ache, to fill the hollow spaces Izuku had left.
But it hadn’t worked.
His voice, soft and amused, had tried to draw him out of himself. His rough hands had tried to tether him, but he’d been too far gone. He’d gone along with it, of course he did; whispered sweet nothings into his ear, kissed him, sucked him, got fucked. It was great. Amazing. Just wonderful.
But inside, his mind had been screaming: not you.
Not you.
Now he was gone, and the silence had returned. The expensive music still played from the speakers, but it sounded distant, muffled, meaningless. He was alone again, the luxury around him doing nothing to quiet the storm in his chest.
Katsuki crushed the cigarette in the ashtray, grinding it down as though he could also crush the thoughts of Izuku lingering in his mind. But the smell of smoke and sex mingled with guilt and longing, and he realized he couldn’t run.
Money didn’t matter. Power didn’t matter. He could buy anything, anyone- but he couldn’t buy him out of his head.
“Ease off, baby, you’re killing me,” he muttered under his breath, voice rough and broken. The lyric wasn’t just a song anymore—it was a warning and a curse all at once.
Katsuki swigged another shot of vodka, grimacing at the burn, wishing that something- anything- could dull the ache of missing Izuku. Deku. But the truth lingered: nothing could. Not the bottles, not the bodies, not the city lights flickering like dying stars outside his window.
Nothing could save him from himself.
The bass from the club pulsed through the floor like a heartbeat, low, vibrating in his chest. Katsuki sat at the corner table, a drink and a half in, watching the room move around him—light flashing off sequined tops, laughter spilling over the music, the air thick with perfume and cheap liquor.
He wasn’t drunk. Not yet. And for once he had no desire to be.
Kirishima’s arm was slung around Denki’s shoulders, both of them laughing at something stupid. Momo and Jiro sat across from them, pressed close together, sharing the same glass of wine like they always did. Mina was somewhere on the dance floor, moving with her latest fling- some tall, dark-haired guy who she’ll be over next month. At least she knows his address. Fuck, at least she knows his name.
Everyone looked settled. Or at least like they knew what they were doing.
Katsuki tipped back the rest of his drink, the burn biting all the way down. He didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. The others had long stopped trying to pull conversation out of him when he got like this.
“Man, you’ve been brooding all night,” Kirishima finally said, grinning with sharp teeth, red hair wild under the lights. “You good bro?”
Katsuki scoffed. “Do I look not good?”
Denki snorted. “You look like you’re plotting someone’s death, my dude.”
“That’s just his face,” Jiro said dryly, flicking Denki on his forehead. “Leave him alone.”
Katsuki rolled his eyes, signaling for another drink anyway. “I’m fine.”
He wasn’t. Not really. But saying it out loud would make it real, and he didn’t feel like bleeding in front of an audience.
He shook his drink, clinking the ice in the glass absently. He stared into the glass, watching the light scatter through the amber. He’d gotten good at pretending it was enough—hero work, money, recognition, the occasional body to fill the silence. But nights like this, surrounded by people who had someone to go home to, it all felt paper-thin.
The laughter at the table blurred into the music. Kirishima’s hand brushed Denki’s when they reached for the same drink, and Katsuki had to look away.
He told himself it didn’t matter. That he didn’t want that kind of shit anyway. Did he?
The truth was heavier than the liquor sitting in his gut.
Katsuki’s jaw tightened. He finished the drink in one swallow.
“Gonna call it,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket and tossing a few bills onto the table.
Kirishima frowned. “You sure, bro? We were gonna hit another place--”
“Yeah. You do that.” Katsuki’s voice came out clipped, final. “I’ve got an early mission briefing.”
It was a lie.
But it didn’t matter.
The night air hit him hard as he stepped outside, neon movie signs and advertisements flickering against wet pavement. The city hummed, alive and indifferent, and he lit a cigarette just to have something to do with his hands.
The others were probably still laughing inside. He could almost hear Mina’s voice through the door, sharp and bright.
He told himself he didn’t care.
But as he put out the lit, unsmoked cigarette between his fingers, he realized what a fucking lie that was.
One evening, he found himself outside a café. Through the window, he spotted Izuku—smiling. Scarred, rough hands wrapped around a mug, Ochako sitting across from him. Her laugh filled the space between them, light and easy, the kind of sound that didn’t belong to someone cruel.
Katsuki froze. His hand twitched in his pocket.
He told himself it didn’t matter. That it shouldn’t matter.
But it did.
It mattered like a fresh bruise pressed too hard.
When Izuku reached across the table to tuck a loose strand of Ochako’s hair behind her ear, Katsuki turned away before he could see her blush. He didn’t stick around to see if Izuku smiled back.
He shouldn’t have stopped to look. But he did.
And it hurt like hell.
He didn’t remember stumbling home that evening, soaked and shivering from the sudden downpour. He only recalled the sound of the song still playing in his head, too cruel in its honesty.
“Ease off, baby, you’re killing me.”
The drunken memories came sharp and grainy: late evening, training ground Beta, 9 years ago. Izuku standing in the middle of the dust, panting, bruised, grinning like the idiot he is. High schooler Katsuki had been on the ground, half out of breath, furious he’d been caught off guard by him.
He remembered the way Izuku had extended a hand to help him up, eyes wide but steady. Not scared anymore. Not of him.
He had bigger things to fear now.
“Good match, Kacchan.”
That voice- so damn sincere it burned. Katsuki had slapped his hand away then, spat something cruel just to keep things safe. But that look had stayed. That stupid, unshakable look that said I still believe in you.
He’d been chasing that look ever since- through missions, through blood, through every battle and villain he could find. Trying to kill it or keep it, he couldn’t tell anymore.
Now, sitting in the quiet hum of his own apartment, he realized he’d never managed to do either. The kid from the field was still there somewhere in the back of his head, smiling, like an open wound.
Katsuki let out an exasperated breath and dragged a hand down his face. The room tilted. He reached for the bottle again, but his fingers brushed empty glass instead.
He just poured his third- or was it fourth?- drink when he heard the muffled knock on his door.
When Katsuki opened the door, Izuku was there—cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, like he’d been running or crying or both.
Still beautiful.
He cursed himself.
“Kacchan,” he breathed, voice cracking.
Katsuki’s first thought was *are you okay?* After looking him over he deduced that the smaller man in front of him was physically unharmed. That’s a first. The guy’s a walking safety hazard. But then his second thought was *why the fuck are you here?*
“Where’s Round Face?” he asked, tone sharper than he meant.
Izuku flinched. “Don’t call her that.”
“Then what the hell do you want, Deku?”
Izuku’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I don’t know.”
Katsukis’s eyes narrowed before giving a short, humorless laugh. “What, needed a new charity case?”
“That’s not—” Izuku’s words caught, then died. He stared intently at his feet as if the floor would swallow him whole. “I don’t know why I came here.”
“Sure you do.” Katsuki said quietly.
The silence between them stretched—heavy, dangerous. And then Izuku stepped forward. Just a step out of the rain, letting himself into the apartment like he owned the place.
If it were anyone else Katsuki would have blown their ass up.
But Izuku was close.
Close enough that Katsuki could smell his cologne, faint and familiar, along with a hint of tequila on his tongue.
Close enough that Izuku had to tilt his head back slightly to remain holding their eye contact.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Katsuki muttered, but his voice was already unsteady.
“Like what?” Izuku whispered.
“Like you’re about to do something you’ll regret.”
Izuku’s breath hitched. “Maybe I already did.”
And then he kissed him.
It wasn’t sweet. It certainly wasn’t gentle. It was desperate and angry, all teeth and tongue and soaked in everything they’d both been denying for too long. Katsuki’s hand tangled in his hair before he could think better of it, pulling him closer, both of them stumbling through the threshold like they’d been waiting years to fall apart this way.
Later, the bedroom was quiet. Sheets tangled. The city lights bled through the blinds, painting Izuku’s face, glistening with both sweat and tears, gold.
Katsuki sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers.
Izuku lay behind him, silent. His breathing was uneven, too shallow to be asleep.
“Don’t,” Katsuki said, voice hoarse. “Don’t say you’re sorry.”
Izuku sat up slowly, the mattress shifting. “I have to.”
“No, you don’t.” He flicked ash into a tray that was already overflowing. “You’ll just make it worse.”
Izuku’s voice was quiet, wrecked. “Ochako didn’t deserve this.”
Katsuki’s jaw clenched. “Neither did I.”
Silence.
Izuku reached out, fingertips brushing Katsuki’s bare shoulder before pulling back, swinging his legs off the bed. “This can’t happen again.”
Katsuki didn’t answer. He just stared at the cigarette burning itself out between his fingers. After a long pause, he asked the same question as before, “Then why’d you come here?”
Izuku didn’t answer that either.
Katsuki was beginning to wonder if he was going deaf. Or he just didn’t want to listen to what he had to say.
He just stood, quietly pulled on some pants and a t-shirt -one of Katsukis, with an All Might print on it- gathered his clothes in shaking hands, and left.
The door shut softly behind him, and the quiet that followed was deafening.
Katsuki sat there for a long time, elbows on his knees, cigarette burning low between his index and middle fingers. The sheets were still warm behind him- still smelled like him, sweet coffee, rain, and guilt.
He didn’t need to turn around to know Izuku hadn’t really gone from the room, not yet. His presence lingered like static in the corners of the space. It clung to the air, heavy and real.
He lit another cigarette just to hear the click of the lighter, the tiny sound echoing louder than it should’ve. The ashtray was overflowing- half-burnt filters, blood-stained glass, his own reflection flickering in the window.
Outside, the city went on living without him. It was too sunny, the sky too blue. The light rays shone insistently through the blinds anyway, onto the rumpled covers of the empty bed. He stared at them until his eyes burned.
He dragged in smoke. Let it fill him until his chest ached. Exhaled slow. The sound came out like a laugh, but it wasn’t one.
The silence was too big. Too empty. Too him.
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, cig now trembling between his fingers. The ash fell and scattered across the floor. He didn’t bother to clean it up.
The night replayed itself behind his eyes in flashes: It was harsh, unrelenting, brutally paced. Nothing like the love soft little Ochako Uruaka likely made to her significant other. Izuku’s fingers against his neck, his back, his waist, his thighs. The sound of his breath when he panted and moaned his name like it hurt, the way his body had arched under his- confirmation they were both burning for something that couldn’t last.
Katsuki could still feel the ghost of him on his skin, the heat raw and unrelenting, teeth and nail marks across his neck, back, and thighs, a stubborn trace of what had passed, impossible to ignore. The sheets were a mess of creases and sweat, a dent in the pillow where Izuku’s head had been. His messily discarded tie was still on the floor by the bed, forgotten when he left in such a hurry.
He stared at it for too long, jaw tightening until it hurt. Then he stood and kicked it under the bed like it meant nothing.
He didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to remember how he’d reached for him in the dark, the soft words and praise that involuntarily fell from his lips, desperate and stupid. Pathetic things. Things he wasn’t supposed to say.
“God… you’re… you’re mine,” he’d muttered, voice rough and ragged, teeth grazing Izuku’s ear. “Don’t move. You fit… you fit right here, don’t move.”
“So good. So fucking good.” he’d gasped, thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “God, you take me apart so goddamn easily, y’know that?.”
“You’re… perfect,” he’d whispered, almost lost in the haze, voice breaking with need. “Fucking perfect… can’t even handle you.”
He didn’t mean for it to come out like that, but it had—words spilling over like fire, confessions he couldn’t hold back, raw and unfiltered. Desperate. Possessive. Hungry.
Now, in the silence, they clung to him like smoke. The ghost of his own voice echoed back in his head, rough and wrecked, and it made his stomach twist.
Izuku had barely made a sound- maybe trying to stop himself, like silence could make it less real. Just those quiet, unguarded moans- his name, breathed out like a secret neither of them were supposed to share. The way he’d whimpered it, begged for him, made Katsuki’s chest ache in a way he didn’t want to understand.
What the hell had he been thinking? Saying things like that- to someone who already belonged to someone else. Someone who smiled for another person in the daylight, who came home to soft hands and feminine warmth instead of this- ash and vodka and the stench of regret.
He’d meant every goddamn word, and that was the worst part.
His phone buzzed once on the nightstand, breaking him out of the memories that will probably haunt him forever. A message from his agency. Patrol in an hour.
He ignored it. he instead reached for the flask beside it, took a swallow, winced at the burn. It didn’t drown the taste of him. Nothing ever did.
“Ease off, baby,” he muttered under his breath, voice cracking on the words. “You’re killing me.”
The lyric circled his head again, looping and looping until it lost its meaning, until it was just noise in the dark—something to keep him company when nothing else would.
And for a while, he just sat there, letting the city hum and the smoke sting his eyes, pretending it hurt less than it did.