Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Oh, god. This is bad.

This is fucking bad.

Izuku Midoriya stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror like it was a crime scene. Hands pressed against the cool porcelain sink, he took in the green in his hair that was sticking up at odd angles from running his fingers through it too many times, the sharp crease forming between his brows, and the growing paleness of his skin.

He was definitely in trouble. Not the “oops, forgot an assignment” kind of trouble, not the “missed breakfast” kind of trouble. No, this was far worse. This was catastrophic. This was “I need to sell everything I own, move to another country, change my name, and start life over” level of trouble. And he had nobody to blame but himself.

It had all started innocently enough. Lunch had been normal, relatively. He had been talking to Shoto, just catching up between classes, discussing what seemed like the most mundane of things— homework, lecture notes, clinical rotations for next semester, the usual. Shoto was quiet, as always, but engaged enough, asking questions and occasionally letting a small smirk escape when Izuku rambled about some minor scientific discovery he’d found fascinating. It had been a calm, almost comforting moment.

Then Kiro appeared. Kiro, the obsessive, infuriating, impossible-to-ignore Kiro— had practically barged into their conversation without warning.

Izuku Midoriya had never imagined that lunch could feel like a death sentence, but there he was, gripping the edge of the cafeteria table with pale fingers, staring at the tray of untouched food in front of him as if it could magically solve his life problems. And honestly? At that moment, he wished it could.

One second, Izuku was rambling about the new pediatric research journal he’d been reading. Next, Kiro was leaning over the table, face close enough that Izuku could count the faint freckles on his cheeks, eyes wide and unnervingly bright, a grin plastered that was anything but friendly.

“Hey,” Kiro had said, voice dripped with that infuriating blend of charm, “are you free tonight?”

Izuku opened his mouth, not to answer, but to pray to any higher power listening. “Kiro, I—”

“Come on,” Kiro cut in, sliding into the seat beside him like he owned it. Shoto raised a brow, unimpressed, but said nothing. “Just dinner. Or a movie. Or both. I’m flexible.” His grin widened, and Izuku swore the cafeteria lighting dimmed purely out of dread.

“I’m not free tonight,” Izuku said, forcing a polite smile, the kind that was stretched thin and brittle. “I have plans.”

Kiro blinked, unfazed. “Okay. Tomorrow night then.”

Izuku inhaled slowly. I can do this. I can be firm without being mean. Just say no. Normal people can say no. Izuku Midoriya, pre-med student, future pediatrician who deals with screaming children on a daily basis— you can say one simple ‘no.’

“I’m also busy tomorrow,” he said.

“With what?” Kiro leaned closer, elbows hitting the table. His voice dipped low, as if they were sharing some secret. “You study too much. You need to relax. Let me take you out.”

Izuku gritted his teeth behind closed lips. Relax? With you? I’d rather give myself a root canal using a plastic fork.

Shoto cleared his throat pointedly, the faintest warning. Izuku ignored it. He had this under control… mostly.

“Kiro,” he tried again, choosing his words carefully, “I genuinely am busy.”

“Then we’ll work around your schedule,” Kiro said, smiling like this was some cute, romantic back-and-forth instead of a slow descent into madness. “You tell me when you’re free, and we’ll go. Simple.”

Izuku stared at him. He stared at him the way one might stare at a fire spreading across a kitchen stove— horrified, mildly frozen, and contemplating whether to just walk out of the house and let the insurance handle it.

“Kiro,” he said, massaging the bridge of his nose, “I don’t think you understand—”

“Oh, I understand perfectly.” And now Kiro was leaning in, elbows braced on either side of Izuku’s tray, close enough that Izuku instinctively leaned back. “You’re trying to be polite. You don’t have to be polite with me. Just tell me when.”

Izuku blinked very slowly. Because this guy is fucking unbelievable Izuku wished he could just punch him right now—

Oh, this is ridiculous. He’s not listening. He has never listened. I could say I’m moving to Antarctica and he’d probably ask if he could help me pack. And I am 100% sure he'd ask if I could shove him inside my luggage and bring him with me.

Shoto glanced at him again, but Izuku could only muster a weak, “Kiro, really, I—"

Kiro cut him off again, because of course he did. “Tonight. I’ll pick you up. Eight?”

And that was it. Izuku snapped, though not loudly. He's too much of a sweetheart to do so. He screamed internally. His sanity just quietly packed its bags, left the room, and locked the door behind it. Before he could stop himself, before he could think, before he could so much as blink, the words tumbled out—

“I’ll be with my boyfriend tonight,” he said.

Dead silence.

Absolute, glorious, horrifying silence.

Even Shoto’s brows rose an entire millimeter, which for Shoto was the equivalent of a dramatic spit take. Izuku kept his expression neutral, calm and collected as if he wasn't grabbing himself by his own shoulders and screaming what the fuck is wrong with you Izuku Midoriya internally. Like he hadn’t just metaphorically hurled himself off a building.

Kiro laughed.

Laughed.

Not a normal laugh, either. This bitch never laughs like how a normal human being would. Instead, it sounded an amused huff that sounded almost he's in disbelief. “Your what?”

Izuku resisted the urge to slam his head into the table. “My boyfriend.”

“Midoriya,” Kiro said, eyes narrowing like he was trying to solve a complex equation, “you— have a boyfriend.”

“Yes,” Izuku said, already preparing a headstone for his future reputation. “I do.”

“Since when?” Kiro demanded, leaning back with crossed arms. He wasn’t angry, the bastard was entertained. Like Izuku had just told a very funny joke and he was waiting for the punchline. Izuku shrugged casually, though his soul had already left his body. “A while now.”

“And you… never mentioned him?” Kiro pressed.

“Why would I?” Izuku shot back, finding a spark of sass purely out of desperation. “It’s not like we’re friends.”

Shoto coughed— possibly to hide a laugh, possibly because he was choking on air. Hard to tell. 

Kiro’s eyes narrowed further, scanning Izuku as if waiting for him to crack. “You? Top of the department? Mr. Nose-in-his-textbooks Midoriya? You barely go out. You don’t date.” His eyes glinted, a challenge. “So what’s his name?”

Izuku froze.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Why didn’t I think ahead? Why did I say that? Why am I like this? I need to run. I need to flee the country. Does med school exist on Mars? I can go to Mars. Mars sounds good. Yeah, let's go to fucking Mars.

“My boyfriend’s name is—” he began, completely unprepared to finish that sentence, ready to improvise something stupid and doomed. And Kiro waited, leaning in, smelling blood in the water, absolutely convinced Izuku was about to trip over his own lie and fall flat on his face.

Izuku swallowed.

Izuku’s mouth opened, ready to blurt something, anything. Maybe the name of the first random man that popped into his head, maybe the name of a cartoon character, maybe help me, I’m lying and stupid. 

But salvation arrived in the form of an extremely unimpressed Todoroki Shoto. One moment Shoto had been quietly sipping his tea, the picture of serene disinterest in the entire disaster unraveling across the table. The next, he inserted himself into the conversation with all the subtlety of a meteor crashing into the earth.

“That’s none of your business,” Shoto said flatly.

Both Izuku and Kiro turned to stare at him. Shoto, as usual, looked like he’d simply commented on the weather. Or the molecular structure of salt. Completely neutral, completely calm, completely done with this entire situation. ‘Cause he fucking is.

Kiro scoffed. “Excuse me?”

Shoto smiled in that painfully polite way that somehow managed to be condescending. “You heard me. Asking for someone’s partner’s name is personal information. Especially when you’re not close to them.”

Izuku wanted to hug him. He wanted to worship him. He wanted to send him flowers. He wanted to drop to his knees and thank the gods for giving him a friend with the ability to verbally eviscerate someone without so much as shifting his posture. He also wanted to curl into a ball under the table and never be perceived again.

Kiro let out a scoff that was halfway to sounding like a laugh. “It’s just a name.”

“And it’s still not your business,” Shoto replied evenly, taking a sip of his tea like this was the most casual conversation in the world. “Midoriya already told you he’s not free. You continuing to press him is unnecessary.”

Unnecessary. Shoto said it like he was a professor writing a red X over an incorrect answer on an exam.

Kiro bristled. “Why are you even butting in? I’m talking to him.”

“And I am sitting right here.” Shoto gestured calmly between them, expression unreadable. “You’re being intrusive. You rudely barged into our conversation. Isn't it you who's butting in?”

Izuku felt something warm bloom in his chest. Gratitude, probably. It could be relief, or maybe the final sparks of his will to live slowly returning. Izuku genuinely thought he might ascend into the sky. Shoto was not just defending him—he was dismantling Kiro brick by brick, calmly and unapologetically, like he was teaching a lesson in respectful boundaries to a toddler.

Kiro’s jaw tightened. “I’m not being intrusive. We’ve known each other since freshman year—”

“Yes,” Shoto interrupted, “you’ve been pushing since freshman year. If he wanted you involved in his personal life, he would have invited you in.” He tilted his head slightly. “He hasn’t.”

Kiro’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. Izuku desperately avoided eye contact with both of them. Izuku felt the tension spike, thick enough to chew on. He tried to make himself as small as possible, shoulders tightening as if he could tuck himself into invisibility, but that was wishful thinking.

“And,” Shoto continued, unbothered, “has he ever asked for your opinion, or invited your attention? Because from the outside, it looks one sided.”

Izuku was going to die. Not from humiliation this time, but from pure admiration. This was a verbal assassination. Shoto Todoroki was committing social homicide at the cafeteria table. Oh, bless Shoto and his soul. Izuku wishes his pillows and bedsheets are cold when he sleeps tonight.

“I just asked a simple question,” Kiro finally managed, his voice brittle with frustration.

“And he declined to answer,” Shoto said, tone unwavering. “Multiple times.” He paused to place his cup gently on the table. “You’re not entitled to more than that. Intrusive, as the dictionary says.”

Izuku felt the entire table shift with unbearable tension. He tried to shrink, which was difficult considering he was already leaning halfway off his chair. The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating, and Izuku wanted to peel his skin off and flee the cafeteria entirely. He felt Shoto’s presence beside him as a steady wall and Kiro’s presence across from him as a spiraling tornado of bruised ego. 

Kiro’s fists clenched at his sides. “So he gets to avoid the question and hide behind you?”

Izuku opened his mouth, probably to say something idiotic. Something like I’m not hiding behind anyone, I’m just imploding mentally— but holy grail the Gods above favoured Izuku, Shoto spoke first.

“He doesn’t need to hide,” Shoto said. “He just needs you to listen. Clearly, that’s the issue here.”

Izuku watched. Stunned, impressed, and terrified as Shoto stared Kiro down with all the emotional intensity of a cat watching a ceiling fan. Izuku attempted a weak, apologetic noise that came out somewhere between a sigh and a whimper, but it didn’t matter. Shoto had already taken over the battlefield and planted a flag in the center. Kiro glared at them both, jaw clenched so tight that the muscle twitched near his temple.

“You know what?” he said sharply, pushing himself up from the seat. “Fine. Whatever.”

His chair scraped the floor in a way that had half the cafeteria glancing over, but he didn’t seem to care. He shot Izuku a long, simmering stare that promised retribution, one that swore this wasn’t over and that he'll prove Izuku was lying to his face, or maybe just another chapter of unsolicited persistence. And with a huff, he stomped away across the room, shoulders tense and strides stiff.

Izuku exhaled.

Then inhaled again when he realized he had been holding his breath for way too long. He slumped forward, face crashing into his arms on the table with a dull thud. “I’m going to throw myself into traffic,” he muttered into his sleeve.

Shoto’s voice remained maddeningly steady. “That would be inconvenient.”

Izuku groaned louder. “I hate you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Izuku lifted his head just enough to glare weakly at him. “I now owe you my entire existence.”

Shoto sipped his tea again. “I’ll make use of that later.”

Izuku wanted to laugh, cry, and vomit simultaneously.

Kiro was gone, thank God. No, wait. Thank Shoto.

But the lie? Oh, the lie was still here. Looming and growing roots. Izuku dug his own grave and Shoto handed him the fucking shovel. And now he had a fictional boyfriend he had to… expand on.

Oh, god. He was so screwed.

Chapter Text

It had been a long day. A really, really long day. One of those days where even breathing felt like an arduous chore, like every inhale was just a reminder that the universe was actively conspiring against you. Izuku Midoriya, occasional disaster magnet, and current liar extraordinaire, just wanted to go home. He wanted to collapse onto his bed and let his body melt into the mattress. He wanted to scroll mindlessly on his phone, maybe cry quietly, or scream into a pillow, and definitely, absolutely, unreservedly avoid the world.

But apparently, the universe had other plans. Fuck the universe. 

Because the moment he stepped into the department lounge, the whispers started. Soft at first, like the rustling of leaves in a barely there breeze. And then louder, sharper, impossible to ignore.

“Did you hear about Midoriya’s boyfriend?”

“Yeah! He’s been hiding a boyfriend this whole time? Incredible.”

“I mean… poor Kiro, right? He’s been obsessed since freshman year!”

“Don't you think Izuku pulled a dirty move on Kiro?”

“Nah, he doesn't owe Kiro shit just because the dude is obsessed with him.”

Izuku froze. One hand instinctively went to his chest, because yes, literally, he felt like someone had punched him squarely in the sternum. He had been here for less than thirty seconds. Thirty fucking seconds. And already the entire student body of their department—well, a disturbingly large fraction of it—had formed a full blown narrative about him, his alleged boyfriend, and Kiro’s tragic heartbreak.

The universe was mocking him. Or maybe it was just reality. Potato, po-tah-to.

Some said he was cruel. Poor Kiro, a few cooed, shaking their heads as if Izuku had personally ripped someone’s heart out with a single glance. Others argued that no, Izuku didn’t owe anyone anything, that Kiro’s obsession was his own problem and it wasn’t fair to blame Izuku for maintaining the tiniest shred of personal boundaries.

It made his head spin, his stomach churn, and his pulse accelerate to the point where he could almost hear it in his ears over the dull hum of the AC and the soft scratching of pens against paper around him.

I am going insane and it's only Tuesday.

He wanted to crawl into a vent and hide. He wanted to disappear entirely. He wanted to go back in time, intercept the exact moment he opened his mouth and said, “I’ll be with my boyfriend tonight,” and punch himself, metaphorically, in the throat. Maybe not just metaphorically, no. He wanted to punch himself so fucking bad right now that he'd actually do it if only he wasn't in public.

But no. No time travel, no escape, and definitely no loopholes. Just him, the gossipy stares, and the fact that apparently everyone had already drawn diagrams on the whiteboard about the timeline of his relationship (a timeline that did not, in fact, exist) and were now debating the personality of his completely fictional partner.

Izuku collapsed into the cushioned chair in the student council room, shoulders slumping like he was carrying the weight of an actual boulder instead of a semester’s worth of paperwork. His backpack, overloaded with notebooks, textbooks, and the faintly tragic remains of a cold sandwich, fell onto the floor with a sad thunk. 

He rested his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. His fingers twisted his green hair into a mess, tugging at the strands as if that could somehow untangle the web of lies and chaos he’d created in less than twenty four hours.

Because, of course, it wasn’t just “a little lie.” That would have been manageable. That would have been survivable. That would have been boring. No, this was a full blown, wildfire level disaster that had already spread through half the department like gossip on steroids. 

He was smart. Everyone knew he was smart. A walking encyclopedia with a neatly calculated life plan that should have protected him from idiots like Kiro. And yet, somehow, that reputation worked against him now. People had decided he was the emotionally constipated asshole who dangled hope in front of Kiro for almost four years. Four fucking years of torment. 

People assume of his hidden life of social exploits that Izuku, personally and tragically, did not actually have. He cursed the universe for the delicious irony that now all of those qualities were fueling the gossip tornado in which he was spinning helplessly.

“Midoriya!”

He nearly jumped out of his skin. His advisor, the eternally cheerful and alarmingly energetic Ms. Midnight, was waving at him from across the room, clipboard in hand and a smile that could melt glaciers.

“Yes!” he called, voice cracking slightly, because of course it did.

“Perfect timing! We need your input on the new student council budget revisions. Can you come by my office?”

Izuku’s stomach twisted. Perfect timing, indeed. The universe was truly on a roll today. Of course, he couldn’t just skip it. Student council duties were non negotiable. He had signed the forms, swore the oaths, probably promised his firstborn soul or something equally ridiculous, and now here he was—trapped.

“Yes, Ms. Midnight,” he said, swallowing hard, and began the trek toward her office. Each step felt like wading through quicksand. He wanted to sprint, cry, and punch the air all at once. But social norms and the faint hope of retaining some dignity restrained him.

Along the way, he passed groups of students. Small clusters, huddled like conspiratorial crows. And yes, their eyes found him instantly. Their whispers followed him. Some were sympathetic, some were judgmental, some clearly amused. He tried to ignore it, focusing instead on his footsteps, the faint buzzing in his ears, the sudden need to invent a universe in which he could disappear.

“She’s got to be joking,” one voice said behind him. “Midoriya… dating? He’s practically a saint.”

Another added, “Yeah, but Kiro… poor Kiro, man. He’s had it bad since day one.”

Izuku stopped. Half of him wanted to spin around and shout, “I do not exist in a relationship with anyone! IT IS A LIE!” The other half, the slightly more rational (but very tiny) half, reminded him that public confrontations might escalate the situation into… well, something exponentially worse. Like international incident level worse.

He wanted to collapse face first on the nearest table. Or maybe just vanish entirely. Maybe even both.

By the time he reached Ms. Midnight’s office, his pulse had settled into a pace that could generously be described as panic adjacent. He knocked lightly, taking care not to make too much noise, because even the sound of his own existence seemed like a personal affront to the universe right now.

“Come in!”

He opened the door. The smell of coffee hit him first. Then the sight of Ms. Midnight seated behind her desk, waving him closer with the kind of enthusiasm that might have been lethal under normal circumstances.

“Ah, Izuku!” she said. “Perfect timing. Let’s get started.”

He nodded, silently praying the meeting wouldn’t require him to speak. Any conversation, any sentence, any casual remark that could somehow be twisted into “yes, I am dating someone who doesn’t exist” had the potential to end his life as he knew it.

And of course… it wasn’t just Ms. Midnight in the room.

He spotted Mineta in the corner, lounging against a filing cabinet, arms crossed, smirking faintly. He had that look, the one that said I know everything, and I will use it to your disadvantage if necessary.

Izuku’s stomach sank, because he knew. He absolutely knew. And the universe? The universe was still laughing.

Finally.

Izuku Midoriya, disaster magnet extraordinaire, and now full time creator of catastrophic lies, had finally made it home.

After what could have been a week compressed into a single day, after the glares, the overwhelming gossip about his non existent love life, the unintentionally judgmental compliments, after Ms. Midnight’s budget discussion that lasted three hours longer than recommended for any human being with a functioning nervous system, after Mineta’s smirk (Izuku would like to bleach his eyes to remove it), after the humiliating, unending torment that had become his Tuesday—

He was home. The door closed behind him with a muted click that sounded suspiciously like a victory fanfare, though he didn’t feel victorious. Not in the slightest, not even remotely.

He didn’t even make it to his room. No, there was no energy for ritualistic undressing, no mental capacity for negotiating with himself over whether the light needed to be on or off, or if he could eat something without vomiting purely from stress. Instead, his legs gave out almost immediately, knees buckling, and he simply flopped forward onto the hardwood floor. Face down. Limbs splayed in a manner that suggested both surrender and the faint hope that gravity would somehow erase the last eight hours.

“I hate this. I hate today. I hate me. I hate everything,” he muttered, muffled by the carpet fibers pressing against his cheek. The words sounded pathetic even to him. He didn’t care. He had no energy to care. He had no energy to care about dignity, about composure, about the fact that he might be creating permanent indentations in the floor with his face.

Kiro’s going to find me in my sleep and make me pay. Everyone hates me now. I’m socially dead. Why did I even open my mouth? Why do I exist?

It wasn’t fair, but maybe it was deserved. Childhood Izuku had been bullied with astonishing frequency, and high school Izuku had spent years building up a reputation. Careful, polite, studious, and perfect that had allowed him to survive. College Izuku? College Izuku had mastered the art of being “liked and respected but not noticed too much” and had achieved the near miraculous skill of navigating campus social life without incident.

And now, in the span of not even twenty four hours, he had destroyed all of it.

Because apparently, saying “I have a boyfriend” was all it took to ignite a four year long obsession, rumors, gossip tornadoes, and the slow, torturous humiliation of knowing that half the department now had headcanons about him, his fictional love life, and Kiro’s tragic heartbreak.

And Kiro’s well-known reputation throughout the entire college department and his constant boast and reminder to everyone that he'll make Izuku his for the past years ever since Izuku had stepped foot into that campus, is not helping at the slightest. Now, most people assumed he was the trainwreck asshole who kept Kiro holding on for almost four years.

He deserved a drink. A hard drink. Preferably something that burned like hellfire on the way down. Preferably three of them. And a pack of cigarettes, even though he didn’t smoke. Even though he had never smoked a day in his life. Even though the closest he’d come to nicotine was the faint, haunting smell of Shoto’s cigarette in an empty stairwell.

But right now, nicotine sounded divine. And alcohol sounded like salvation. And the combination of both, though obviously illegal in a responsible adult pre-med student kind of way, sounded like exactly what he needed to survive.

He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. The ceiling tiles were gray. His ceiling tiles. And yet somehow, they were judging him. They were judging him with an ineffable weight, as if every fiber of the universe knew what he had done and was now silently tallying his sins in the margins of a cosmic ledger.

And then, because apparently one’s brain is contractually obligated to add insult to injury, he screamed. A single, long, soul shaking scream that no one else in the building needed to hear but him. Possibly the neighbors would hear it. Possibly they’d call the police. Possibly it didn’t matter.

His limbs felt like overcooked spaghetti, his muscles trembling from the strain of surviving his own day. He ran a hand through his hair and tugged frantically. Perhaps if he could rip the green strands out, he could also pull the anxiety, the humiliation, the social terror, and the universe’s endless mocking right out with it.

And after the scream, because of course screaming didn’t fix anything, he lay there, staring into the grain of the floorboards like they held the answers to all of life’s questions. They didn’t.

He thought about Kiro. About the way Kiro’s smile had stretched too wide, about the way Kiro had leaned in like personal boundaries were a myth. About how utterly relentless he had been. And he shivered. Not from fear, not exactly, but from the creeping realization that this, right now, was what it felt like to be a person whose entire life had been one calculated attempt to not be the center of attention… suddenly becoming the center of attention in the worst possible way.

Because that was the thing. He had worked so hard. So hard. Elementary school, middle school, high school, college— they had all been exercises. Invisible routes, silent victories, polite words, and keeping a perfect balance between being competent enough to command respect but not competent enough to invite jealousy. He had learned to dodge, to hide, to survive. And now? He was lying about a boyfriend to a guy who would almost certainly find out eventually, and the department— half of it, at least— was already dissecting his “relationship” like a cadaver in anatomy lab.

He rolled over onto his back, staring at the ceiling. The ceiling didn’t answer. The ceiling had never answered. But it was there. Much like the universe, which had clearly been conspiring against him since the moment he opened his mouth in the cafeteria.

He groaned, louder this time, because apparently his lungs had opinions about the day too. “I’m so screwed,” he whispered. Quiet, fragile, utterly defeated. “I’m… completely screwed.”

There was a long pause, a silence thick enough to suffocate in. Then, because misery loves company, the voice in his head that had been narrating his life since forever added a special little garnish of doom. You could call Uraraka. She’d know what to do. She always knows what to do.

Izuku blinked at the ceiling. Call Uraraka? To help with… what exactly? Inventing a boyfriend? Managing an obsessive classmate? Maintaining the illusion that he had a normal, functioning social life when, in reality, he had just been lying for survival?

“Fuuuuck.”

He stayed there for a while, quiet except for the faint, irregular hiss of his breathing, until the shadows lengthened and the sun finally dipped below the horizon. The apartment was dark, empty, andvsilent. And yet, somehow, it felt like it had always been waiting for this exact moment.

Izuku wasn’t sure how long he had been face down on the floor. Minutes? Hours? Years? Time had lost all meaning somewhere between his fourth mental breakdown and his third internal vow to fake his own death. The silence of the apartment wrapped around him like a thick blanket of failure. He was contemplating whether rolling under the couch and becoming a permanent carpet gremlin was a viable lifestyle choice when the front door clicked.

He didn’t lift his head. He didn’t even twitch. He simply lay there, hoping whoever came in would assume he was a corpse and leave him in peace.

The door shut. Footsteps. A plastic bag crinkled. And then, a sigh. A long, deeply disappointed sigh. One that carried the energy of “I expected this from you, but I’m still exhausted by the reality of it.”

“Izuku.”

Shoto’s voice— flat, unemotional, mildly judgmental. Exactly the combo Izuku absolutely did not have the emotional bandwidth to handle. Izuku groaned into the floor. “…Go away.”

Shoto didn’t go away. Of course he didn’t. Instead, he walked farther into the living room, stopped right beside Izuku, and stared down at him like an art critic evaluating an extremely shitty modern sculpture. He held a plastic takeout bag in one hand and looked, annoyingly enough, perfectly composed. Perfect hair, perfect posture, perfect everything. Meanwhile, Izuku was sprawled on the floor like a tragic crime scene.

“You look weird,” Shoto said, as if stating a medical diagnosis.

Izuku made a noise that almost sounded like a dying animal. “Good,” he muttered. “Let me be weird. Let me decompose. Let me die with dignity.”

“You’re face down on the floor,” Shoto deadpanned. “There is no dignity here.”

Izuku considered rolling over just to glare at him more effectively, but he didn’t have the energy. The floor was comforting, the floor understood him, the floor didn’t judge.

“My life is over,” Izuku said dramatically, words muffled by the hardwood. “I’m dropping out. I’ll run a convenience store or something. Maybe a farm. I’ll change my name. Grow potatoes.”

Shoto didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he set the takeout bag on the coffee table. Then, without warning, he lifted one foot and pressed it firmly against Izuku’s ass. Izuku yelped loudly. The sound bounced off the walls in a way that deeply offended his pride.

“Stand up,” Shoto commanded, giving him another unceremonious shove with his foot.

“No!” Izuku flailed weakly on the ground, limbs flapping like an angry, overcooked noodle. “Stop stomping me! Let me die! It’s over, Shoto, it’s all over—”

“You’re being dramatic,” Shoto said, utterly unbothered, upping the pressure just enough to force Izuku’s hips off the floor. “Get up.”

“I deserve to be dramatic!” Izuku insisted as he reluctantly pushed himself upright on trembling arms. “My entire department thinks I’ve been leading a man on for four years. Four years! And now I’m dating a guy who doesn’t exist! I should receive an award for the fastest decline of a human being ever documented!”

Shoto stepped back once Izuku was on his knees, staring down at him with a look that hovered somewhere between boredom and mild pity. “Get. Up.”

Izuku wobbled to his feet, hair a mess, shirt wrinkled, dignity entirely nonexistent. Shoto gave him a once over and frowned faintly. “You look gross.”

Izuku clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “Excuse me! I’ve suffered.”

“You smell like suffering,” Shoto corrected. Then he pointed toward the hallway bathroom with the same finality a general used when ordering troops into battle. “Go shower.”

Izuku narrowed his eyes at him, offended on a molecular level. “I don’t need a shower. I need to fix my life.”

“You can’t fix your life if you stink,” Shoto replied.

“I do not stink!”

Shoto didn’t blink. Didn’t waver. Didn’t show a single sign of mercy. “Izuku. Shower. Now.”

Izuku had half a mind to argue. He really did. He wanted to plant himself on the floor again, go limp, and force Shoto to drag him like a stubborn toddler refusing to leave the playground. But Shoto’s expression told Izuku that he was not going to win this fight. He never does, anyway. He huffed loudly and dramatically. Theatric as hell.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But after I shower, you have to help me fix this.”

Shoto shrugged. “I was going to anyway.”

Izuku blinked. “Wait… really?”

“Yes.” Shoto crossed his arms. “Someone needs to save you from yourself.”

Izuku opened his mouth to argue, but before he could form a counterattack, Shoto was already turning away, pulling the takeout out of the bag and arranging the containers neatly on the table like a civilized adult with functioning brain cells. Izuku stood there. Damp with emotional chaos, wired with stress, seemingly dead, entire life in shambles.

He trudged toward the bathroom anyway, grumbling under his breath, “Still hate today… still hate everything… but fine… shower…”

Shoto didn’t respond, but Izuku could hear him thinking it. 

Chapter Text

Shoto didn’t even bother waiting for Izuku to sit up properly before he started in on him. Classic, devastatingly straightforward Shoto fashion.

“You should’ve just rejected him,” he said flatly, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like Izuku hadn’t spent the last four years performing social gymnastics that would make Olympic athletes cry. “Blatantly and directly. ‘I’m not interested in you.’ End of story.”

Izuku made a wounded noise into the blanket, “I can’t just—Shoto, he’s Kiro. Everyone likes Kiro. The entirety of the Health Sciences Department practically treats him like their emotional support golden retriever. I can’t just stomp on his heart in broad daylight.”

“You didn’t have to stomp,” Shoto replied, lowering his phone as if even he needed a moment to process how dramatic that sounded. “A simple no would’ve done the job.”

Izuku finally peeled himself off the couch, wet hair sticking out like a particularly distressed dandelion. “A simple no doesn’t exist in situations like this! If I say I’m not interested, suddenly I’m the villain. I’m the guy who rejected The Campus Darling after four years of him pining and everyone whispering about how ‘perfect’ we’d be together. Do you know what that does to a person? My reputation—”

And there it was.

Shoto leveled him with the kind of stare that could burn through floors. His tone had the kind of authority usually reserved for telling someone the cafeteria was out of fries. “Izuku. You care too much about being the goody two shoes. It’s not healthy.”

Izuku physically recoiled, clutching at his metaphorical pearls. “I do not—! I’m not—! That’s not— okay, it’s a little— but it’s not like that!”

“It’s exactly like that,” Shoto said, voice calm but merciless. “You bend over backwards so no one gets mad at you. You don’t like conflict. Fine, understandable. But you’re avoiding Kiro because you don’t want him to be disappointed. You’re lying to half the department because you don’t want them to judge you. And now you’ve made up an entire boyfriend because you don’t want strangers to think badly of you. Somewhere in this mess, Izuku, you forgot that you’re allowed to choose yourself. You’re letting everyone else write your script for you, and it’s exhausting to watch.”

Izuku opened his mouth to argue. Yet, nothing came out except an embarrassing, squeaky exhale. He hated when Shoto made sense. It felt rude. But he knows damn well Shoto has a point.

“I wasn’t avoiding him,” Izuku tried weakly.

“You ran away from him in the hallway yesterday.”

“I strategically retreated.”

“You dove into a supply closet.”

“It was open!”

“You knocked over three boxes.”

“They were in the way!”

“They were on a shelf.”

Izuku wilted. He visibly wilted, shoulders slumping like someone had unplugged him from the wall outlet. There was no use trying to win an argument against Shoto at this point. Not like he had ever won a single argument with Shoto anyway.

Shoto sighed, softer this time. “Izuku. You’re miserable. And this is only going to get worse if you keep trying to protect everyone’s feelings except your own.”

Izuku stared at his hands, fingers twisting together like they were reenacting a tragic love story. He hated that Shoto was right. He also hated that Shoto was saying it out loud, where Izuku could actually hear it and not just ignore it in the privacy of his own spiraling thoughts.

“I know,” he whispered. “I know, but… I don’t want to hurt him. Or disappoint people. Or— I don’t know. Make things messy.”

“They’re already messy,” Shoto said gently. “The difference is that right now, you’re the only one getting hurt.”

Izuku’s throat tightened. Right. Yeah. That… sounded about right.

“And besides,” Shoto added, glancing at the clock, “we still need to talk about this fake boyfriend situation. Because if you’re going to lie, which I am not endorsing by the way, but if you’re already committed to this particular brand of chaos, then at least pick someone who won’t make your life worse.”

Izuku blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Here’s where I take over!” a bubbly, high pitched voice announced like a confetti cannon had detonated in his living room. Izuku’s eyes widened, jaw slack, because yes, somehow the universe had decided today was also “Let Uraraka invade your apartment without warning” day.

“Ochako?” he stammered, tone somewhere between startled, horrified, and vaguely pleading. His phone teetered in his hands like a newborn bird unsure if it should fly.

Shoto, who had been leaning against the wall in his usual immovable posture, glanced at the intruder with a single raised brow. “How long have you been standing outside the door listening like a creep?” 

Uraraka, entirely undeterred, pressed a finger to her lips. “Shhhhhh!” she said, a conspiratorial twinkle in her eyes. Before either of them could react further, she launched herself at Izuku. “I missed you!” she exclaimed, wrapping him in a bear hug that left him squirming and muttering incoherently.

Sure, it's been a while since he had last seen Uraraka. And no doubt he misses his best friend, considering that she attends a university an hour away from Izuku and Shoto’s— but holy fuck, what happened to hi and hello? 

“Wai—” Izuku sputtered, flailing slightly in her grip. He could feel the warmth of her excitement radiating off her in waves that were somehow both comforting and absolutely overwhelming. “Hi? How did you even—”

“I have my ways!” Uraraka interrupted, still hugging him like he was a life preserver in a stormy sea. “I’m here now, and I’m taking over. Don’t worry, I’ll fix everything. Everything!”

Todoroki pinched the bridge of his nose, the faintest sigh escaping him. “You realize this isn’t a literal rescue mission, right?”

“Details, details,” Uraraka waved him off, ignoring his glare entirely as she continued to hold Izuku like he was an overstuffed plush toy. “I missed you! And you look… squishy. Like you need hugs. Lots of hugs. And snacks. And maybe sleep. But mostly hugs.”

Shoto finally raised his gaze from the floor, where he had been contemplating how much patience he actually had for this chaos. Answer: disturbingly high, given the circumstances. He glanced at Uraraka, who was bouncing slightly in place with an energy that threatened to fracture Izuku’s already fragile state of equilibrium. 

“I texted her earlier,” Shoto said, voice calm enough to make the words feel like a scalpel. “About you and your pitiful situation. Maybe she can offer help.”

Izuku’s stomach did a somersault that would have made gymnasts weep with envy. “The situation,” he echoed weakly, voice squeaky enough to be considered a medical symptom. “Oh, yes. My fictional boyfriend. The never existing, entirely imaginary boyfriend that now apparently has the emotional investment of half the department. That situation?”

Uraraka’s grin widened, if that was possible. “Exactly that situation!” she chirped, still hugging him with an enthusiasm that made Izuku’s shoulders ache. “And I’m perfect for this! I mean, I have experience in problem solving. And emotional support. And, uh, distractions. Totally qualified!”

Izuku squirmed in her grip, twisting just enough to give himself a sense of spatial autonomy without actually leaving the hug. “Distractions? I— wait, what kind of distractions?” His voice carried the nervous undertone of someone teetering on the edge of complete panic, a man dangling from the precipice of his own absurd lies.

Uraraka pressed a finger to her chin thoughtfully, eyes sparkling. “Well… I know someone who could help. He’s… let’s call him ‘the perfect distraction.’ You know, the kind who’s very convincing, very reliable, and just happens to have the charm that makes Kiro and all his little gossip enthusiasts back off. Totally practical, not at all romantic, I promise!”

Izuku blinked, trying to process this at the speed of a student trying to memorize an entire semester’s lecture in ten minutes. “Practical, you say? And he exists in…?” His words trailed off because the idea of someone intentionally involving themselves in his catastrophic life seemed both terrifying and somehow inevitable.

Shoto, still calm as a lake in January, added, “She knows someone from her internship. They’re in fashion design. Different department, different school. But same company for the summer. Reliable, low drama, and unlikely to make the situation worse. If you’re going to escalate the lie, this is the least disastrous route.”

Izuku pressed both hands against his temples, trying to massage the panic out through sheer force. “Escalate the lie,” he muttered, voice low enough that it might have been considered a whisper, but loud enough for both of them to hear. “Oh, yes, that’s exactly what I need. I need the lie to expand. Grow legs. Acquire a resume. Possibly develop a career. Fantastic. I am brilliant.”

“You’re not brilliant,” Shoto said, tone flat enough to sting, “you’re panicked. And in case it isn’t obvious, panicked people make mistakes.”

“I’m not panicked!” Izuku protested, though the flailing hand gestures betrayed him entirely. “I am… calculating! Strategizing! Performing necessary damage control!”

“Damage control,” Shoto repeated, deadpan. “You mean creating an entire alternate reality and dangling it in front of someone who does not respond to boundaries.”

Uraraka finally let go of him, allowing him a moment to gather a shred of dignity while she spun to face Shoto. “Exactly! That’s why he needs me. And my distraction guy. It’s perfect! Trust me, Izuku, we’ll handle this. He’ll never know it was a setup. You’ll survive. Probably without losing your mind entirely.”

Izuku leaned back against the couch, eyes wide and wild, heart hammering like it was auditioning for a drumline. “Survive? Without losing my mind? You’re casually saying that as if it’s a reasonable possibility. This is the same universe that just orchestrated my public fake-boyfriend reveal, remember? The same universe that has been laughing at me all day? And now you’re telling me survival is… probable? That’s… that’s optimistic.”

“Optimism is mandatory,” Uraraka replied, nodding firmly. “Especially when you’re dealing with Kiro.”

“I am a goddamn liar on the brink of collapse,” Izuku muttered, drumming his fingers against the couch cushion. “The department thinks I’m heartless. Kiro is obsessed. And now, I’m about to outsource my boyfriend to… someone I barely know?”

Shoto leaned forward, resting one elbow on his knee, face still carved from the same unshakable stone as always. “You’re not outsourcing anything. You’re delegating. And if we pick the right person, Kiro stops being a problem, the department stops shoving their noses in your business, and you… survive intact.”

Izuku let out a shaky laugh that might have been mistaken for a sob. “Delegating, yes. I am delegating the entire disaster that is my social life. To a stranger. Who is definitely going to judge me. Or, worse… get involved emotionally. Or… fall in love. Oh god, fall in love. This is a trap, isn’t it?”

Uraraka threw her arms around him again, this time holding him at a reasonable, non-suffocating distance. “No traps. No emotional disasters. Just… smart maneuvering. And snacks. Snacks always help.”

Izuku stared at her. “Smart maneuvering? I’m not sure I’m capable of that right now. My brain has declared a full strike against me.”

Shoto gave a faint smirk, the kind that Izuku knew spelled subtle judgment. “Then let her do the maneuvering for you. You focus on not passing out from panic. It’s really that simple.”

Izuku flopped back against the couch again, gripping a cushion like it was a flotation device. “I hate you all equally,” he muttered, voice muffled. “And yet… I think I may have no choice.”

“Yes!” Uraraka said, triumphant, spinning like she had just won a gold medal in chaotic problem-solving. “You’re cooperating! That’s step one. Step two, contact me tomorrow morning, and we’ll set everything in motion. Don’t worry, Izuku, I’ve got you.”

Shoto leaned back, expression calm as ever. “Step three: survive.”

Izuku groaned. He wasn’t sure if he was groaning from despair or gratitude. Probably both. Probably everything. Probably he was about to cry in a strategically calculated, socially acceptable fashion if either of them so much as suggested a plan involving Kiro.

And deep down, somewhere in the tangle of panic, shame, and disbelief, Izuku realized—this might be the only plan that actually had a chance of saving him.

But that didn’t mean he was ready to admit it aloud.

Chapter Text

Izuku slumped into the seat beside Shoto with the grace of a Victorian child dying of something dramatic. His backpack hit the floor with a thud that echoed the exact sentiment of his soul— tired, defeated, and begging for a merciful end. Shoto glanced at him once, an unimpressed side eye that traveled from Izuku’s face down to the coffee cup trembling in his hand.

“You look terrible,” Shoto announced.

Izuku inhaled, slow and lethal. “Thank you,” he muttered, pinching his own thigh hard enough to make his vision sparkle for a second. Pain kept him awake, pain was his friend now. “I’m aware.”

Shoto leaned closer, squinting as if he wasn’t sure Izuku was a real person anymore. “The shadows under your eyes are so dark I could fall into them.”

Izuku pinched his thigh again, harder this time. “Shoto, I swear on everything holy, if you don’t shut up—”

“I’m just observing,” Shoto replied, tone maddeningly serene. “You look exhausted.”

“I am exhausted!” Izuku whisper-yelled, because the professor had the auditory range of a bat. “It’s been three days. Three entire days. My body has forgotten what rest feels like.”

Shoto nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. I’ve been here for all three of them. Unfortunately.”

Izuku shot him a dirty look, even though he actually appreciated the loyalty. If Shoto hadn’t parked himself at Izuku’s side these past seventy two hours like a very judgmental emotional support statue, Izuku would’ve probably crumbled into dust. Or set something on fire by sheer stress alone.

“Thank you,” Izuku said, voice begrudging but sincere. “Really. I mean it. If you weren’t my best friend—”

“You’d be dead by now,” Shoto supplied.

Izuku stared at him. “I was going to say I’d kiss you, but okay.”

Shoto paused, blinked, then nodded like that was somehow an acceptable reaction. “Neither is necessary.”

Izuku let out a strangled groan and dropped his face into his hands. God, he felt like hell. Not the fiery, dramatic kind. No, it was worse. Izuku had achieved the quiet, creeping, miserable existence of someone being slowly smothered to death by social expectations and their own idiot decisions. The classroom filled around them: backpacks zipping, chairs scraping, the low hum of chatter that never seemed to die in college lecture halls. Izuku felt all of it like sandpaper on his nerves.

And then, because fate was a petty bitch, he heard it. “Kiro’s staring at you again.”

Izuku didn’t lift his head. He didn’t have the strength. “Of course he is,” he whispered into the void between his palms. “Why wouldn’t he be? I’m the main character in his romantic fantasy hellscape.”

Shoto nudged his elbow. “Don’t start narrating your own downfall.”

Izuku peeked between his fingers. Kiro was, indeed, staring at him with the soft eyed devotion of someone gazing at a sunset. Or a cat picture. Or something far more emotionally charged than Izuku deserved to be the subject of.

And Kiro was getting up.

“Oh no,” Izuku breathed, sitting up straight on instinct because his body recognized danger like a squirrel on a highway. Shoto’s hand came down on his shoulder, keeping him firmly in place. “If you run, it’s over,” Shoto murmured.

“I wasn’t going to run,” Izuku lied instantly.

“You were about to vault over the desk,” Shoto said.

Kiro approached with that awful, nauseatingly gentle smile that made Izuku want to throw himself out the nearest window. “Izuku,” he said warmly. Too warmly. Like this was a romance drama instead of Izuku’s personal descent into madness. “Can we talk?”

Shoto didn’t even let Izuku breathe.

“No,” Shoto said.

Kiro blinked. “I wasn’t asking you, Todoroki.”

“Well, I answered anyway,” Shoto replied, expression frozen in the exact picture of someone who had run out of patience three days ago. “Izuku is busy.”

Izuku nodded frantically. “Very busy. So busy. Extremely booked and unavailable.”

“You’re sitting in class,” Kiro pointed out.

“Yes,” Izuku said, “I’m academically unavailable.”

Shoto pressed his lips together, which for him counted as a laugh. Kiro sighed, stepping closer, ignoring the subtle shift in Shoto’s posture. The way he angled his body like a barrier, shoulders squared just slightly. Izuku didn’t know if he wanted to cry or propose marriage out of gratitude.

“I just want to clear the air,” Kiro insisted softly. “You’ve been avoiding me—”

“No I haven’t,” Izuku lied, because he had absolutely been avoiding him with the desperation of a man dodging debt collectors. Three days of this. Three days of Kiro finding every excuse to approach him. Three days of Shoto intercepting like a bouncer at a nightclub. Three days of gossip bubbling through the department like someone had set off a grenade made of rumors.

Izuku wanted to scream. Or sleep. Maybe both.

“Kiro,” Izuku said, forcing himself to sound steady even though his brain was doing cartwheels. “This isn’t a good time.”

“It’s never a good time,” Kiro whispered, like they were in a tragic opera.

Izuku rubbed his temples. “I’m not doing this right now.”

Before Kiro could argue again, the professor tapped his hand on the board, calling the room to order. Kiro hesitated, eyes caught between hope and disappointment, then reluctantly retreated to his seat. Izuku slumped back, exhaling like he’d just outrun a bear.

Shoto leaned in, voice low. “You cannot keep doing this.”

“I know,” Izuku whispered. “Trust me. Every cell in my body is aware.”

“And yet,” Shoto continued, “you’re still lying.”

Izuku closed his eyes. “I’m waiting.”

“For what?” Shoto asked.

“For Uraraka to say something about the guy,” Izuku said, dread and excitement swirling in his chest like a cursed smoothie. “The fake boyfriend. The solution to everything.”

Shoto rested his chin on his hand. “Or the start of a new disaster.”

Izuku frowned at him. “Why would you say that?”

“Because,” Shoto said, “it’s you.”

Izuku pinched his thigh again. He needed it. He needed the distraction from the fact that everything in his life was spiraling with the chaotic momentum of a loose shopping cart rolling down a hill. But somewhere under the anxiety and exhaustion and catastrophic decision making… there was a tiny spark of hope. Or desperation, but Izuku doesn't want to admit it to himself.

Just one message from Uraraka.

#

Izuku had never missed Shoto more in his entire life.

And that included the time Shoto disappeared into the library for three days straight during midterms and Izuku was forced to emotionally fend for himself like some sheltered Victorian orphan discovering the cruelty of the world for the first time.

But this? This was worse. Because Shoto didn’t just leave him for lunch. That would’ve been survivable. Manageable. Endurable. Shoto abandoned him for the entire afternoon.

“International Red Cross emergency,” Shoto had said with that serene, unbothered voice, as if he weren’t casually leaving Izuku to be eaten alive by wolves. “I’ll be gone for a while.”

Izuku, in an impressive display of personal restraint, did not cling to his leg and scream. “Be safe,” he’d replied like a responsible adult. Yeah, Izuku is a responsible 22 year old man. But now, three hours later, he regretted not handcuffing them together.

Because Izuku Midoriya, pre-med biology student, stressed vegetarian, and chronic people pleaser, was seated alone in the cafeteria, poking the limp remains of a salad with a fork like it had personally betrayed him.

His phone buzzed. It was Shoto.

─────────────────────────────

SHOTOOOO

don’t die.

─────────────────────────────

Izuku stared at the screen. “I might,” he whispered to his salad. “I genuinely might.”

He shoved the phone away and tried to inhale something resembling food, but his stomach was basically a shriveled raisin of dread. The cafeteria was loud, too fucking loud, filled with conversations that felt like needles poking at his skin. Izuku didn’t have enough social stamina to sit with acquaintances. He didn’t have the willpower to pretend he was fine.

And yet, he had to survive the afternoon somehow.

When the bell rang and students began migrating toward the classrooms again, Izuku trudged along looking like someone being marched to their execution. He entered the lecture hall, found the closest seat near the wall, and told himself:

It’s fine. It’s one class without Shoto. You can do this. You are a functioning adult. You have dignity. You have strength. You have—

“Izuku!”

His soul left his body.

Kiro slid into the seat beside him with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever spotting its beloved owner across a field. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

Izuku exhaled through his nose so sharply it could’ve carved lines into stone. “Hi,” he said with forced politeness, gripping his notebook like it was a shield. Kiro beamed. “I saved you a spot in the last class, but I think you didn’t see me.”

Izuku had, in fact, seen him. From a safe distance, behind a vending machine, pretending he was deeply fascinated by a bag of trail mix he didn’t even want.

“Oh,” Izuku said weakly. “Yeah. Sorry. I, uh, had something.”

He prayed the vagueness would carry him. Kiro leaned closer. “No problem! Are you free later? Maybe we can—”

Izuku’s breath lodged somewhere in his chest. “No. I’m very busy.”

“With what?”

Izuku stared at him blankly. His brain flipped through imaginary schedule pages like a malfunctioning printer.

“Studying,” he blurted. “Bones. Children’s bones. Because pediatrics. Children have bones. Lots of small bones. I have to… memorize them.”

Kiro blinked. “Right. Totally.”

Izuku wanted to chew through his own pencil.

Class began. Izuku thanked every deity in existence, ready to glue his eyes to the board and forget the concept of social interaction until graduation. Except Kiro did not get the memo.

Because Kiro spent the entire lecture leaning in his direction like Izuku was the sun and he was a plant absorbing emotional photosynthesis.

If that wasn’t bad enough, his arm kept trying to drape over the back of Izuku’s chair. Like it was a slow motion attack. Inch by inch. The hand creeped closer, hovering dangerously close to Izuku’s shoulder, like a predatory spider deciding if now was the right time to strike.

Izuku wanted to scream into the void. Or into his textbook. Or into Shoto’s voicemail. His internal monologue was devolving rapidly.

Please no. Please don’t. Please stop. Why is this happening? Did I run over a deity in a past life? Did I anger someone powerful? Did I say something rude to a cat?

Every few minutes, Izuku had to subtly shift his chair an inch forward. Or angle his body away. Or fake adjust his bag so he created a barrier.

But the universe was cruel. The universe was a bitch. Because of course, Kiro whispered, “You’re kind of tense today. Are you okay?”

Izuku produced a noise so strained it might have been a dying kettle. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” No. “Completely.” Absolutely not. “Totally normal day.” Worst day of my life.

Kiro smiled, the warm, tender kind that made Izuku consider flinging himself through the classroom window. “I’m glad. I’m here if you need anything, Izuku.”

Izuku swallowed the death in his throat. “Thanks.”

He stared straight ahead, gripping his pen so hard it was a miracle it didn’t snap. Where is Shoto? Why did the Red Cross take him? Does the Red Cross understand I am fragile? They took my support system. They stole the only person strong enough to bench press Kiro away from me.

Izuku prayed for the mercy of a fire drill. An earthquake. A surprise blackout. A minor, non fatal plague. Anything. Izuku was desperate.

By the time the lecture ended, Izuku was so mentally drained he could barely lift his bag. Kiro, of course, stuck to his side as they walked out. Izuku felt the dull, throbbing panic rising with every step. “Do you want to grab something to drink before your next class?” Kiro asked gently.

Izuku scrambled for words. Any words. Any excuse.

“I can’t,” he squeaked, then cleared his throat because that wasn’t the voice of a man with dignity. “I mean, I need to go. Urgently. In a very academic way.”

Kiro tilted his head. “Academic… way?”

Izuku nodded solemnly. “Yes.”

Kiro looked confused, but thankfully someone called his name from the hallway, giving Izuku the opening of a lifetime.

Izuku bolted.

He didn’t run, no, he power walked with the desperation of someone escaping a crime scene he did not commit but was absolutely implicated in. As he reached the empty stairwell, he leaned against the wall, pressed a hand over his wildly beating heart, and muttered to himself:

“I need Shoto. I need Uraraka. I need that fake boyfriend. I need anything. Please. Please. I am begging.”

His phone buzzed. A message from Uraraka.

─────────────────────────────

Ochako

we found him (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡

─────────────────────────────

Izuku froze.

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh yes.

Oh god.

This was it. His salvation, his doom. his escape hatch and the next disaster all rolled into one.

─────────────────────────────

Ochako

we found him (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡

Izuku

please tell me you did not choose a criminal

─────────────────────────────

Chapter Text

Izuku felt the final bell vibrate through his bones like divine liberation. Freedom. Air. A life without the threat of unsolicited shoulder touches. He could practically taste the outside world— sunlight, wind, oxygen that wasn’t shared with Kiro’s unwavering devotion. He packed his things with the frantic joy of someone moments away from escaping prison. For the first time in seventy four hours, hope flickered in his chest like a cheap candle.

He was going to go home. He was going to lie down. He was going to sleep. He was going to—

“Izuku!”

The universe snapped the wings right off his freedom.

Izuku froze in the doorway, shoulders tensing so hard he could feel a migraine form behind his left eye. Kiro jogged over, bright eyed, glowing, too pleased for someone Izuku had avoided like he's some sort of tax fraud. “Let’s walk home together,” he said, with the confidence of a man announcing a mutual plan they had absolutely not made.

Kiro’s voice carried across the quad, sharp, cheerful, and absolutely relentless. Izuku’s stomach sank. He breathed for a second, imagining all the ways this could go badly, all the ways he could lose every shred of dignity he’d somehow maintained for the last three days.

Izuku blinked twice. A third time for luck.

Internally: Are you fucking kidding me.

Externally: a pleasant, harmless smile that did not at all reflect the scream clawing at his soul.

“Oh, um— actually, I need to stop by the student council office,” Izuku said lightly, as if this weren’t a lie so flimsy it was held together by wishful thinking and spite. “You should go ahead. I don’t want you waiting around.”

He waited, he hoped, and he prayed.

“Nope,” Kiro said, not even pretending to consider it. “I’m coming with you. I’ve got nothing to do anyway.” Nothing to do. Nothing. To. Do. Izuku felt his hope die right there. He had no choice. He couldn’t argue without inviting a full social assault. 

Izuku felt something inside him die, quietly, respectfully. The word tasted like defeat, and shoved his shoulders down as if he could physically compress himself into a smaller, less noticeable version. “Oh,” he said. “Great.”

It was not great. It was the opposite of great. It was catastrophic.

They stepped outside, and Izuku immediately lengthened his stride, trying to put at least two respectable body widths between them. But Kiro, like the plague, adjusted effortlessly, drifting back into his orbit until their arms almost touched. They walked together, side by side, and every brush of Kiro’s shoulder made Izuku flinch, careful not to step too close but also not so far that he looked suspicious. Kiro clearly wanted to loop an arm over him, to claim some sort of territorial victory, and Izuku spent the walk performing the delicate art of evasive maneuvers— small shifts, slight turns, strategic bag adjustments. All while keeping his face calm.

I need Shoto. Please bring me Shoto. I am begging for Shoto. Shoto, I miss you.

Izuku’s jaw ticked. He could feel the muscle twitching. He wanted to scream “personal space” into the sky until birds fled. Kiro didn’t notice the tension. Or he did, and he didn’t care, which was worse. He walked with that easy swagger, his sleeve brushing Izuku’s like they were already something. 

He leaned forward abruptly to dodge the contact, pretending to adjust the strap of his bag. “Sorry— the strap keeps slipping,” he lied easily, even though the strap was perfectly fine and he knew it and Kiro knew it and the entire universe knew it.

Kiro only hummed. A smug, knowing little sound that made Izuku want to rip a tree out of the ground with his bare hands.

“So… your boyfriend,” Kiro said casually, smirk tugging at his lips. Izuku felt his brain lock up. He didn’t even have to look at Kiro to know the grin was the one that said I don’t believe you for a second, and I’m going to enjoy this.

“Right,” Izuku said evenly, forcing himself to sound casual. The imaginary one. He let it hang, a technically true statement that still carried zero reassurance.

Kiro chuckled, obviously enjoying himself. “Come on. You don’t have to lie to me, Izuku. I can tell.” There it was. The tone that made him want to throw his backpack at the nearest wall. The one that made him want to disappear entirely.

Izuku pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to massage away the panic that was crawling up his spine. “Oh, absolutely. I lie for fun. All the time. And I also enjoy crafting elaborate stories about my personal life just to confuse people.” Sarcasm coated every word. “It’s my favorite hobby.”

Kiro leaned a little closer, enough that Izuku could feel the threat of personal space invasion, and grinned. “You really are something else, you know that?”

“Yes,” Izuku said through gritted teeth, “I’m a disaster. Everyone knows this. You’re just lucky to witness it live.”

Kiro smirked wider. “Maybe, but I think you’re terrible at lying. That’s why I need to make sure I’m not missing anything.”

Izuku clenched his hand around his backpack strap like it might save him. “Perfect. I love being interrogated while walking. Truly, the highlight of my week.”

As Kiro nudged him again, shoulder brushing his, Izuku silently prayed for a sudden fire drill, a minor earthquake, or literally anything to give him an excuse to escape. This was happening, whether he wanted it or not, and there was no way to stop it.

#

Izuku practically launched himself through the doorway of the student council office the second he reached it, tossing one last polite smile over his shoulder like a martyr bidding farewell to the living.

“Yeah, sorry. Non-student council members aren’t allowed in,” he said quickly, before Kiro could so much as lean in. “Rules. Very strict. Very official. I don’t make them.”

Kiro blinked, clearly confused, but nodded. “Okay… I’ll wait out here then.”

Of course he would. Of course he’d wait. Izuku wanted to simply disintegrate, turn into dust, blow away in a gentle breeze. Instead, he slipped inside and shut the door behind him, pressing his back against it like he was holding off a zombie apocalypse.

The office was empty. Blessedly, gloriously empty. No council members. No advisers. and most definitely no Kiro.

Izuku dragged in a deep breath, then another, hands on his knees. “Oh, thank god,” he muttered. “Thank every god. All of them. Even the weird ancient ones that demand incense and sacrifice. I owe every single deity an offering.”

He fumblingly yanked out his phone and immediately texted Uraraka before his sanity could sprint out the window.

──────────────────────────────

Izuku

i am going to wither away and die. i swear. shoto left me alone. ALONE. like an abandoned houseplant. kiro followed me all the way. i want to scream.

──────────────────────────────

Uraraka replied instantly because she actually cared about him. Unlike certain half red, half white hair themed. (Izuku knows it's not really Shoto's fault and he still loves him dearly. Bless you, Shoto.)

──────────────────────────────

Ochako

oh izuku, my favorite drama queen 💕

Izuku

ochako i’m serious i will die on the spot

Izuku

he is OUTSIDE. THE DOOR. waiting for me. 

Izuku

  should i jump out the window??? 

Izuku

i wouldn’t mind broken bones if it means getting the fuck away from this bitch

──────────────────────────────

He stared at the screen, waiting. One second. Two seconds. Three.

No reply.

Izuku’s blood pressure rose so fast he could hear it in his ears. He paced across the tiny office. “Come on,” he hissed. “Come on, Ochako. This is life or death. Where are you? Don’t leave me like he left me. I can’t do abandonment twice in one day—”

A knock rattled the door. Izuku froze, eyes widening.

“Izuku?” Kiro called gently. “Are you okay in there?”

Izuku slapped a hand over his mouth to keep the scream from leaking out. After a long, suffering inhale, he called back, “Yep! Totally fine! Just doing paperwork. Lots of paperwork. Very important forms.”

“Oh. Alright,” Kiro said. “I’ll wait out here.”

Of course he would. Because Izuku’s life was a comedy for the gods and they wanted an encore. Izuku pressed his forehead against the wall. “I am going to vomit,” he whispered. “I am actually going to throw up in the student council trash bin. Shoto isn’t here. I’m going to die alone. This is how it ends. Embarrassing and surrounded by photocopier toner.”

Just when he considered opening the window and accepting whatever fall awaited him, his phone buzzed.

Uraraka.

──────────────────────────────

Ochako

wait by the gate of ur campus. ur knight in shining armor will come and get u ✨

──────────────────────────────

Izuku stared at the message, fingers tightening around the phone like he was holding a divine prophecy. Izuku closed his eyes, breathing shakily, letting the relief sink in like someone settling into warm water after being chased through the wilderness.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. I can handle this. I just need to get to the gate alive. Easy. Totally doable. I’m an adult. I can walk.”

Then he remembered Kiro was still right outside the door.

“…Fuck.”

#

Izuku finally pushed the door open after forty five miserable minutes of pacing and talking himself down from several dramatic escape plans. He stepped out and immediately spotted Kiro on the bench across the hall, sitting there like it was completely normal to wait almost an hour for someone who wasn’t even talking to you.

Izuku felt his skin crawl. Forty five minutes. Who did that. Why.

He forced a smile anyway because the universe clearly hated him but he wasn’t going to give it the satisfaction. “Hey,” he said tightly. “Sorry. Took longer than I expected.”

Kiro stood, brushing imaginary dust off his uniform. “No problem,” he said easily. “I don’t mind waiting.”

Izuku absolutely did mind him waiting, but whatever. He had a mission. He had to get to the gate and not crumble into dust along the way.

“Just letting you know,” Izuku said, trying to sound casual, “my boyfriend’s going to pick me up.”

Kiro blinked, then nodded very slowly, like Izuku had just said something absolutely alien. “Sure. Yeah. Uh‑huh.”

Izuku’s eye twitched. The urge to grab a textbook and whack him with it was almost physical. “I’m being serious,” 

“Right,” Kiro said, smiling like someone who absolutely did not believe a single word. Because news flash, it is a lie. But Izuku wasn't also lying about someone picking him up either. “Serious.”

Izuku inhaled through his nose so sharply he almost choked on air. He turned away before his face betrayed how done he was and started walking toward the main path. Kiro followed immediately, of course, matching his pace without hesitation.

They crossed through the quad, the walkway full of students heading home. Izuku tried to create space between them, moving slightly to the right, then adjusting his bag, then pretending to look at something across the courtyard. It all failed. Kiro stuck to him like he was magnetized.

Then Kiro said, far too lightly, “You know… if you’re doing this whole ‘boyfriend’ thing to make me jealous, you can drop it. It’s not really working.”

Izuku stopped for one full second because his brain just refused to process how someone could be that confident and that dense at the same time. Then he started walking again before he could say something that would get him suspended.

“Wow,” Izuku said. “Thank you for your insight. Truly valuable. I’ll write it down.”

Kiro laughed, clearly thinking he was being charming. “I’m just saying, you don’t have to go through this whole story just for me.”

Izuku rolled his eyes so hard he almost got dizzy. Internally, he was screaming. I didn’t invent a fake boyfriend to make you jealous. I invented one to get your clingy ass away from me, and shocker, it’s failing because you do not leave. Ever.

Out loud, he settled for, “Believe what you want. I don’t owe you a presentation.”

Kiro walked a little closer again, ignoring the clear signals. “You’re cute when you’re annoyed.”

Izuku gripped his bag strap like it was the last thread holding his sanity together. “I’m choosing to ignore that.”

Kiro hummed, still smug. Izuku wanted to fling himself into a bush and stay there until graduation.

Izuku’s stomach was doing somersaults as they reached the main gates. The sunlight was harsh and blinding, the chatter of students a dull roar in his skull, and the air thick with the kind of suffocating expectation that made him wish the ground would just swallow him whole. 

He didn’t know what Uraraka’s guy looked like. Not a single thing. No height, no hair color, no distinguishing features, nothing. How was he supposed to find someone he didn’t know in a campus that felt the size of a small city?

He forced himself to wait. With Kiro, his eternal torment. Shoulder brushing against shoulder. Every second was like sandpaper against his nerves. He tried to focus on his phone, on anything, but it was useless. Ten minutes passed. Nothing. The absence of a savior felt like it physically pushed him closer to a meltdown.

Ten minutes of hell with Kiro.

Kiro let out a scoff, loud enough to punch straight through Izuku’s fragile composure. He slung an arm around Izuku’s shoulders, too easy, too comfortable, his smirk practically mocking him. 

“Looks like your boyfriend isn’t coming after all,” he said, laughing like the joke was hilarious and Izuku’s suffering was the punchline.

Izuku’s stomach dropped, and his eyes stung with the urge to cry. Not the dramatic, exaggerated kind. The real, suffocating, I-am-going-to-turn-into-a-frozen-puddle kind. He pressed his lips together and held it in. He couldn't give Kiro the satisfaction, he couldn't afford to ruin his reputation of appearing functional, competent, sane. Whatever that even meant anymore.

“Come on, just tell the t—” Kiro started, leaning forward with that irritatingly confident grin, but Izuku didn’t get to respond.

“Oi, Deku. I turn around and you just let another bitch’s arm wrap around you?”

Huh, Deku? Who's that—

The voice was low yet somehow, it managed to be so loud. And it carried that kind of presence that made your chest squeeze instinctively. Izuku and Kiro turned their heads simultaneously.

And then Izuku saw him.

Tall. Red eyed. Blonde hair that looked almost deliberate in its messiness. Broad shouldered. Handsome. Annoyingly, distractingly handsome. His jaw tightened for a moment because yes, that was the guy. His knight, savior, whatever euphemism Uraraka had thrown out. Izuku’s brain blanked. For a second, he couldn’t even form a thought. Then the gears clicked into place, panic-fueled.

That must be him. That had to be him. The man, the myth, the supposed savior that could finally get him out of this Kiro nightmare.

He shoved Kiro’s arm off his shoulders like it burned him and marched toward the guy, forcing his calm into every measured step. “Ah. There you are,” 

Kiro’s face fell into a frown, incredulous. “So… you really do have a boyfriend?”

The guy looked at Kiro with the kind of glare that could snap steel. “Yeah. He’s got a fucking boyfriend. Got a problem with that?”

Izuku felt the temperature rise in his own body at the tension radiating off the man. Kiro squared up in response, eyes narrowing like a predator ready to fight over territory. Izuku felt like he was watching a slow motion explosion, and he didn’t have the luxury of moving aside.

“Uh—” Izuku stepped in quickly, pressing his hands gently but firmly around the man’s arms. “He’s hungry,” Izuku said, tone clipped. “We should… go.”

He gave Kiro one last glance. A quick, strained smile, just enough to signal farewell without opening the door to argument or confrontation. Kiro’s jaw tightened, lips pressing into a thin line, but Izuku didn’t wait to see how long the silent standoff would last.

He pulled the man along with him, hands still on his arms to make it clear this wasn’t a polite suggestion. Their pace was brisk but controlled. He didn’t look back and he didn’t give Kiro another chance to speak. His heart was hammering so hard it was a miracle he didn’t collapse right there in relief.

I will be praying to all gods tonight and I will kiss the universe’s ass.

Chapter Text

The moment they were far enough from the gate that Kiro couldn't glare holes through his skull anymore, Izuku stopped walking and let go of the guy’s arm. He finally let go of the blonde guy’s arm and stopped walking. His nerves were still buzzing unpleasantly, the kind of leftover panic that made everything inside him feel too loud and too tight, but at least he wasn’t on the verge of fainting from stress. He drew in a slow breath, trying to convince his brain that he was, in fact, safe for the next three minutes. Then he turned toward the guy who had just saved him from what was undoubtedly the most humiliating end to his school day.

“Thanks,” he said, voice steadying now that immediate danger wasn’t clinging to him like humidity. “Seriously. If you didn’t show up, that was going to end extremely badly for me. You’re the guy Ochako told me about, right?”

The blonde tilted his head slightly, looking Izuku up and down like he was checking if he matched a description or if he was some defective product he wasn’t fully convinced about. Then he said, without missing a beat, “And you’re the mutt alien eyes and round face told me about.”

Excuse me?

“…Mutt?” Izuku repeated, staring at him like the universe was playing a joke on him again. “Seriously?”

The guy didn’t even flinch. He just lifted a shoulder in an unbothered shrug and looked like Izuku’s outrage was barely worth acknowledging with the faintest look of boredom. “That’s what you took from that?”

Izuku stared, weighing the possibility that he’d misheard, but no— this stranger had absolutely called him a mutt with the confidence of someone who did not care about social norms at all. It was amazing how quickly gratitude could evaporate. One second he was thankful this guy had rescued him, the next he was contemplating abandoning him on the sidewalk and pretending they never met.

Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. Izuku had just escaped social death and this man, this stranger, was already calling him a mutt like they’d known each other long enough to start slinging insults casually.

Izuku took a moment to process, then gave him a look that said he was weighing the pros and cons of throwing him back toward Kiro. “You’re kind of rude,” Izuku muttered, because someone had to say it.

The blonde rolled his eyes, sharp and impatient. “Yeah, whatever. I don't give a fuck.”

Izuku took a steadying breath, reminding himself to stay civil for the sake of his own sanity. Getting into an argument would only drain what little energy he had left after surviving Kiro’s harassment. So he forced himself to continue the conversation like a normal person. 

“What’s your name?” he asked, because if they were supposed to pretend to know each other, he at least needed that much.

The guy looked away with a quick scoff that suggested he was allergic to basic courtesy. “…Katsuki,” he said, like the name tasted sour. “Happy now?”

Izuku blinked again. The delivery felt unnecessarily hostile for something as simple as existing. “Katsuki,” he repeated, giving a small nod. “Alright. Nice to meet you.”

Katsuki looked back at him, eyes narrowed slightly. “And you’re Deku?”

Excuse me??

Izuku genuinely felt something inside him crack. “My name isn’t Deku,” he shot back immediately, disbelief coloring every word.

Katsuki raised his brows, unimpressed. “Round face said that was your name.”

Izuku stared at him for a second, weighing how much mental energy he had left for the day. Barely any. But he still managed to push out, “she probably sent it in a rush, and you misread the kanji. My name is Izuku. Not Deku.”

Katsuki didn’t even pretend to consider this nor did he ever try to look interested. He let out an annoying little snort. “Too long.”

Izuku’s jaw tightened. “What?”

Katsuki shrugged again, this time with the kind of dismissiveness that could make saints reconsider pacifism. Katsuki rolled his eyes again, like Izuku was making this harder than necessary. “I’ll still call you Deku. Easier to say.”

Izuku scoffed loudly enough that a few passing students glanced in their direction. This fucker. He had stepped in, yes. He had saved Izuku from Kiro, yes. Izuku was grateful for that, genuinely. But also, this fucker. This day was destroying neurons at an alarming rate. It really said something about his life that the man rescuing him was somehow causing a new kind of stress immediately afterward.

“You’re unbelievable,” Izuku muttered under his breath, rubbing his forehead because apparently the universe enjoyed assigning him problem men like it was a hobby. He started to wonder if miracles existed for patience because he desperately needs one.

Katsuki just crossed his arms and gave him a bland, irritated stare. “Good. Saves me the trouble of pretending otherwise.”

Izuku gave him a long, exhausted stare. He could already tell this arrangement was going to destroy at least three of his remaining brain cells. Maybe four if Katsuki kept talking like this. Izuku took another moment, staring at the sky as if it held answers. Of course his fake boyfriend would be someone like this. Of course the universe wouldn’t give him anything simple. He was really starting to consider whether walking into traffic would be less stressful than dealing with this blond menace.

Katsuki didn’t give him even a second of warning. One moment they were standing on the sidewalk, Izuku still mentally re-evaluating every life decision that had led him to this point, and the next Katsuki was already turning away like it was obvious what came next.

“Come on,” Katsuki said sharply, jerking his head forward in a way that was definitely more of a command than a suggestion.

Izuku blinked, stared, and didn’t move. “Come on where?” he asked, because unlike Katsuki, he didn’t possess psychic communication abilities.

Katsuki stopped walking, shoulders tensing like Izuku’s question had offended several generations of his bloodline. Then he looked over his shoulder with a glare that could peel tile. “Stop asking questions and just follow, fucker.”

Izuku felt the exact moment his soul tried to crawl out of his body to escape the situation altogether. His eyebrow twitched, actually twitched. There were witnesses. If the gods had any compassion left in them, they would’ve struck him with lightning on the spot so he didn’t have to deal with this blonde nightmare for another second.

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose as he seriously debated whether punching Katsuki in broad daylight would land him in juvenile. And he was already having a terrible day. He didn’t need prison added to the list.

“Wonderful communication skills,” Izuku muttered, rubbing his forehead because the migraine brewing behind his eyes was starting to feel personal. “Truly exceptional.”

Katsuki clearly heard him. Katsuki also, clearly, did not care. He huffed, loud and annoyed, as if Izuku’s existence inconvenienced him on a moral level, and kept walking. This fucker kept walking. Are any of you seeing this shit right now? Can you believe this shit? The fucking audacity, hello?

Izuku stood there for a second, staring at the guy’s back. He wasn’t sure what was more concerning. The fact that he was voluntarily following someone this rude, or the fact that he had apparently agreed to fake date this same person for the foreseeable future. His reputation was going to collapse.

But fine. Whatever. He was already in too deep. Turning around now would only make his life more miserable. He adjusted the strap of his bag, took another breath that did absolutely nothing to help, and forced his feet to move.

Katsuki walked like someone who expected the world to get out of his way. Straight line, no hesitation, not even checking if Izuku was keeping up. Izuku followed a few steps behind, arms crossed tight over his chest as he tried to make sense of his situation. He barely managed to escape Kiro without having a panic attack in public, and now he was trailing after a guy who talked like insults were a default setting.

Izuku finally spoke when Katsuki paused at a crossing. “You know,” he said, stepping up beside him, “if you want someone to follow you, you can just explain where you’re going. That’s what normal people do.”

Katsuki didn’t look at him. “I’m not normal people.”

Izuku snorted. “Yeah, trust me, I figured that out.”

Katsuki cut him a sharp look, but didn’t deny it. He shoved his hands into his pockets and continued walking the moment the light changed, like that was the only part of the conversation that mattered. Izuku followed again, dragging his feet out of spite because Katsuki would absolutely notice and he absolutely deserved it. Izuku wasn’t a saint. He also wasn’t about to be dragged around the city like some lost dog.

After a few more steps, Izuku finally demanded, “Are you planning on telling me where we’re going? Or am I supposed to guess until you get bored and yell at me again?”

Katsuki stopped abruptly enough that Izuku almost bumped into him.

He turned, expression flat in that irritated way Katsuki seemed to specialize in. “We’re going somewhere you won’t get jumped.”

Izuku stared at him for a moment, processing that. “That’s… vague.”

“Good. Don’t need you whining about details.”

Izuku lifted both hands, resisting the urge to strangle him. “Katsuki, I swear, if you keep talking like that, I’m filing a complaint with the universe.”

Katsuki’s lip curled slightly, not a smile but something that suggested he found Izuku annoying in a way he almost tolerated. “Shut the fuck up and walk. You're so fucking loud, you're busting my eardrums.”

Izuku threw his head back in frustration. “Oh my god, why am I doing this.”

But he walked. Because apparently this was his life now. And also because Katsuki, rude or not, had actually stepped in earlier. Izuku didn’t forget things like that. Even if the guy talked like verbal kindness was illegal. Still, Izuku couldn’t help the thought running through his mind as he followed behind him again.

If this is what fake dating feels like, I’m actually going to die before the month ends.

Katsuki didn’t slow down even once on the walk. Not to check if Izuku was behind him, not to make sure he wasn’t being trailed by Kiro, not to acknowledge that maybe normal people moved through the world with a basic awareness of other human beings. No, Katsuki walked like he owned the sidewalk, the buildings, the air, and Izuku was some optional DLC he hadn’t agreed to but was stuck with anyway.

By the time they reached the small cafe on the corner, Katsuki was already yanking the door open and stepping inside as if he had a personal vendetta against hinges. He didn’t hold the door, he didn’t glance back, he didn’t offer a single sign of common courtesy.

Izuku didn’t even react. He wasn’t expecting anything out of Katsuki. Honestly, he’d be more surprised if Katsuki did remember other people existed. He reached for the door, muttering under his breath, “Absolute menace,” and pushed inside.

The moment the warm air of the cafe hit him, he didn’t even get the luxury of taking a full breath. Not a single inhale. Because suddenly—

“Izukuuuuu!”

Izuku barely had time to register the high pitched squeal coming directly at him before a pair of arms slammed around his torso with the force of someone who forgot boundaries were a thing.

Ochako.

Of course. 

Izuku stumbled a little, bracing himself and letting out a quiet, resigned sound that was somewhere between “I should’ve known” and “Why does this keep happening to me.” He blinked several times, trying to figure out how she still managed to surprise him every single time despite doing this for years.

“Ochako,” he said, arms finally moving to return the hug because resistance was pointless. “You saw me yesterday.”

She squeezed tighter, as if proving him wrong by sheer stubbornness. “Shh, baby. Let me miss you.”

Izuku let out a slow exhale that wasn’t quite a sigh but lived in the same neighborhood. “You literally climbed through my window.”

“I knocked first!”

“You yelled ‘I’m coming in!’ through the window.”

“That’s still a warning!”

Izuku gave her a look that said she was unbelievable, but he already felt some of the awful tension from earlier loosening. Ochako had that effect on him. She was like an emotional reset button— loud, chaotic, and impossible to predict, but comfortable in a way that didn’t drain him.

He hugged her again, properly this time, and let her sway him back and forth like she hadn’t practically tackled him upon entry.

Behind Ochako, Katsuki grunted, sounding sharp and annoyed that sounded suspiciously like he wanted to tell them both to shut up but was holding back only because they were inside a business. Izuku didn’t turn to look at him yet. He wasn’t ready to deal with Katsuki’s attitude and Ochako’s excitement at the same time. He needed to process one disaster before facing the next.

Ochako finally pulled back just enough to look him in the face, her hands still planted on his arms. “Thank god you came! I wasn't really expecting you to come considering Bakugou’s nasty attitude.”

“Watch it, round face.”

Izuku rolled his eyes lightly, ignoring the blonde. “Probably because I didn’t know either. Your messenger over there didn’t give me much of a choice.”

Ochako blinked, then turned her head in Katsuki’s direction. “Yeah, he's just like that.”

“Unfortunately,” Izuku muttered, shooting a glare at Katsuki just to get it out of his system.

Katsuki scoffed, crossing his arms. “I saved your ass. Try gratitude sometime.”

Izuku refused to give him the satisfaction. He turned back to Ochako, forced a calmer expression, and said, “So, why are you here? I thought you had study group today. And isn't your university an hour away?”

“It was just a bluff. I wanted to surprise you,” she said brightly, tugging him toward the counter like she hadn’t almost suffocated him a minute ago. “We’re going to have an intervention about your… situation. And you're here pretty early. The others are still on their way.”

Izuku’s eye twitched. “I am only early because someone dragged me through the city without bothering to explain anything.”

Katsuki clicked his tongue, stepping past them. “You talk too much.”

Izuku nearly snapped. “You’re unbelievable.”

Ochako looked between them with growing amusement, eyes sparkling like she had just discovered a new form of entertainment. “Wow. You two.”

Izuku groaned. “Don’t start.”

She grinned. “I’m not starting anything. I’m just observing.”

Katsuki muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously insulting. Izuku ignored him, because he would absolutely throw something if he acknowledged it. Ochako tugged Izuku closer again, squeezing his arm. “Come on, let’s sit. I want to hear everything.”

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Chapter Text

Izuku dropped into his chair with the heavy fatigue of someone who had been forced to deal with nonsense since sunrise. Uraraka sat beside him with her elbows already on the table, eyes locked on him with a tight seriousness that made it clear she wasn’t letting him escape without a full report. Katsuki sat across from them, arms crossed, posture stiff, and expression carrying that familiar “I don’t want to be here” energy. 

Izuku noticed it immediately and resisted the urge to tell him to leave if he planned to act miserable the entire time. He needed the backup, even if the backup was abrasive and had the charm of a brick. Uraraka took the lead. “You exploded again. So start talking. What exactly happened?”

Izuku rubbed both palms over the tabletop, gathering enough patience to speak without sounding completely deranged. “It’s Kiro. Still him. He keeps following me around. He shows up in every hallway I walk through, sits close enough in lectures to make my skin crawl, and tries to get me to ‘explain’ my relationship. He keeps asking where my boyfriend is and when he can meet him, and every time I try to say I’m busy, he acts like I’m telling a bad joke.”

Uraraka nodded once, then frowned sharply. “That’s not normal. That’s actual harassment. He’s not ‘annoying.’ He’s crossing every boundary.”

Izuku let out a rough exhale. “I know. And the rumors aren’t helping. Everyone in the department won’t shut up about my ‘boyfriend.’ I’m hearing strangers discuss my private life with more confidence than I have about my own grades. Someone asked if my boyfriend was an athlete. Someone else insisted we’ve been secretly dating for years. It’s ridiculous.”

A loud scoff came from across the table. Izuku didn’t even look yet, he already knew who it was. Katsuki leaned back, unimpressed. “You’re dealing with the consequences of your own choices.”

Izuku’s head snapped toward him. “What does that mean?”

Katsuki didn’t hesitate. “You lied. Now you’re shocked the world responded.”

Izuku felt his jaw clench. Uraraka looked ready to throw a straw at Katsuki’s face. “Katsuki, could you not?” she said.

Izuku held up a hand. “No, let him get it out. He seems very invested in this lecture.”

Katsuki tilted his chin slightly. “You let that guy orbit you for years. You ignored it and hoped it’d fix itself. Now you’re drowning because you never handled the root problem. That’s on you.”

Izuku stared at him, irritation crawling up his spine. “Wonderful. Great analysis. Too bad it doesn’t fix the fact he won’t leave me alone.”

Katsuki didn’t react. He just kept staring, arms crossed, completely unbothered by how much he was getting on everyone’s nerves. Izuku felt a brief, sharp urge to flip the table just for the satisfaction of seeing Katsuki flinch. Oh, that bastard. 

Izuku forced himself to breathe and continued. “The issue now isn’t the lie. It’s that Kiro keeps showing up everywhere I am. He doesn’t listen when I say I need space. He treats every boundary as a suggestion instead of a rule.”

Uraraka’s shoulders fell. “That’s genuinely concerning, Izuku. You shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

“Yeah. No kidding.” Izuku leaned back, eyes narrowed. “It’s been a mess.”

Katsuki’s scoff broke the pause. “You could’ve told him to back off years ago. You avoid confrontation so much it hurts to watch.”

Izuku slammed both hands onto the table before he could stop himself. “Do you wake up committed to being irritating, or is it just your natural personality?”

Katsuki barely blinked. “If you want my help, you get the truth. Not sugar coating.”

Izuku flexed his jaw. “I don’t need sugar coating. I need you to stop acting like I created this disaster on purpose.”

“You created part of it.” Katsuki shrugged. “And now you’re stuck dealing with the fallout.”

Uraraka groaned into her hands. “Both of you need to calm down.”

Izuku nearly laughed at that. Calm wasn’t happening today. Katsuki lifted his chin slightly. “If you want to solve this, the fake dating needs to start. You need visibility. People need to see us together.”

Izuku resisted the urge to sink under the table. “So we’re doing this publicly.”

“Obviously,” Katsuki said. “That’s the point.”

Uraraka stepped in again. “We’ll take it slow. Appear together a few times. Walk through campus where people will see. It should be enough to convince Kiro that he can’t keep pushing.”

Izuku looked between them, pulse flickering with frustration and reluctant acceptance. “So the plan is… make it convincing.”

Katsuki nodded. “Wow. Congrats. You fucking get it. You actually have a brain. Never thought you had one.”

Izuku folded his arms. “You’re unbearable, fuck you.”

“Good,” Katsuki said flatly. “You need someone who won’t fold the second someone looks at him.”

Izuku had several responses he wanted to use, none of them productive. He swallowed them down because the truth was inconvenient, Katsuki wasn’t wrong. Izuku hated it, but the guy wasn’t wrong. Uraraka touched Izuku’s arm gently. “We’ll get through this. You won’t be stuck dealing with him alone anymore.”

Izuku sank further into his chair, and once the edge of the argument died down, everything he’d been holding in all day came rushing back up. He looked at Uraraka, the stress catching up to him again now that Katsuki’s bluntness wasn’t steamrolling the conversation.

“The whole department watched me run out of lecture. They probably think I had an emotional collapse over my fake boyfriend. And Kiro chased after me again during lab. He kept insisting we ‘talk it out,’ as if he’s entitled to a conversation every time he demands one. I swear, I’m one spilled pipette away from dropping out and transferring to a monastery.”

Uraraka rubbed small circles on his back. “Izuku, breathe. You’re safe now. You’re here. Nobody’s watching you through glass walls. Nobody is cornering you.”

Izuku snorted. “Give it a day. Someone in the biology building probably already drafted a petition asking to meet my imaginary man. Maybe they’ll do interviews. Maybe they’ll host a panel. ‘The Mystery of Midoriya’s Love Life: A Symposium.’ I’m going to lose it.”

Katsuki made a low noise in his throat. “You talk too much.”

Izuku snapped his glare toward him. “And you breathe too loudly.”

Katsuki didn’t even bother pausing whatever he was doing on his phone. He scrolled with the indifference of someone who had already decided everyone else in the room had subpar brain function. “Cry louder. I’m real invested.”

Izuku pressed a hand to his chest. “Wow. Truly inspirational support.”

Uraraka sighed, though she didn’t look surprised. “Katsuki, can you at least pretend you care about the situation for ten seconds?”

“No,” Katsuki replied without effort.

Izuku threw his head back, muttering, “I can’t believe this is my life. My hero here can’t even lift his gaze from his phone.”

“He doesn’t need to lift his gaze,” Katsuki said. “Your problems are loud enough to follow on audio.”

Izuku opened his mouth to retaliate, but the bell above the cafe door chimed with the entrance of a very familiar pair of footsteps. Or, rather, one person who walked like someone who didn’t bother hiding his presence. Shoto scanned the room once and spotted them. He didn’t hurry. Shoto never hurried. He walked over at that same steady pace he used for every situation, whether it was a normal day or Izuku spiraling into stress induced chaos.

“Good to see you’re alive,” Shoto said as he reached the table.

Izuku stared at him with the most offended expression he could muster. “Alive? Shoto, I almost died without you today.”

Shoto pulled out a chair. “You’re dramatic.”

Izuku scoffed. “You left me unattended.”

Shoto sat completely unbothered. “You’re not a toddler. You can survive a day without me.”

Izuku pointed at him. “I very clearly cannot.”

Uraraka laughed and shook her head. “It was rough, Shoto. Kiro cornered him again.”

Shoto exhaled once and looked at Izuku. “Nothing new. He’s exhausting.”

“Yes,” Izuku agreed. “And apparently I brought all of this onto myself according to the local fashion gremlin you haven’t met yet.”

Uraraka perked up. “Oh! Right.” She gestured toward Katsuki. “This is Katsuki Bakugou. He’s the one Mina told me about. The one helping Izuku with the fake boyfriend plan.”

Shoto nodded politely at Katsuki. “Thank you for helping him.”

Katsuki didn’t respond. He didn’t even look up.

Izuku stared at that display of social skills with a growing irritation clawing through his chest. The man genuinely refused to lift his gaze from his phone, not even for a greeting. Izuku considered snapping at him, but the mental image of the cafe’s hot drinks flying at his face stopped him. Knowing Katsuki, he’d find a way to blame Izuku for provoking him and still dump the coffee on him anyway.

Shoto watched Katsuki for a long second, then leaned toward Izuku and said in a voice that wasn’t even subtle, “He’s rude.”

Izuku whispered back, “He’s allergic to manners.”

“I can hear you idiots,” Katsuki said, still not looking up.

Izuku glared. “Then participate in the conversation instead of pretending you’re too important to acknowledge basic introductions.”

“I don’t need introductions,” Katsuki said. “I’m already here.”

Izuku curled his hands into fists under the table. “And here I thought Kiro was my biggest problem.”

Shoto folded his arms, unimpressed. “Is this really the person you’re fake dating?”

Uraraka jumped in before Izuku could answer. “He’s effective. Kiro backed off the moment Katsuki showed up.”

“That’s because he gives off the energy of someone who might fight strangers for entertainment,” Izuku muttered.

Katsuki finally looked up, only to raise a brow. “You say that like it’s an insult.”

Izuku wanted to shove him out of his chair. “It was.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you more.”

Shoto took a sip of his drink, which he had apparently acquired on the way over. “Izuku, I see why Mina picked him. He’s… intense.”

“Intense isn’t the issue,” Izuku snapped. “It’s the constant commentary. And the rudeness. And the god awful personality. And everything he’s said since he sat down.”

“You wanted results,” Katsuki said. “I’m results.”

Izuku stared at him and, for a moment, genuinely considered switching majors just to run away from everyone involved in this plan. “I can’t believe this is the person saving me from social disaster.”

Katsuki shrugged. “Be grateful.”

Izuku pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am. Unfortunately.”

Uraraka rested her chin in her hand, eyeing the group. “Well, now we’re all here. Izuku, keep talking. You weren’t done ranting.”

Izuku groaned into his palms. “Great. An audience.”

Shoto leaned forward just slightly. “Go on. You always feel better once you complain.”

Izuku peeked at him through his fingers. “The fact that you know that doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Keep going,” Shoto said.

Katsuki rolled his eyes. “This is going to be stupid.”

Izuku dropped his hands to the table and glared at all three of them, feeling the frustration building too strongly to bottle. “Fine. If you want to hear more, then buckle up, because I’m not done. Kiro cornered me three separate times today. Three. One of them was in a stairwell and I thought I was going to have to climb the railing just to escape. And then the department gossip chain updated itself for the tenth time this week. Apparently my boyfriend—” he jabbed a thumb in Katsuki’s direction without looking at him “—is either a gym trainer, a DJ, or a transfer student with a tragic past. Depends on which part of the building you stand in.”

Uraraka winced. “Oh, wow.”

Shoto reached into his bag and placed a small energy bar on the table in front of Izuku. Izuku blinked at it. “Is this a bribe?”

“It’s a peace offering,” Shoto said. “You look like your nerves ran away.”

Izuku took the snack. “Thank you. Also rude.”

“Accurate,” Shoto corrected.

Izuku exhaled hard, rubbing his eyes. “This day has been chaos. I’m tired. I’m annoyed. And if one more person asks me to show them a picture of my boyfriend, I’m going feral.”

Katsuki’s mouth twitched, almost amused. “Then we start tomorrow.”

Izuku stiffened. “Start what?”

“The act,” Katsuki said. “Public enough that rumors settle. Noticeable enough that your stalker gets the message.”

Shoto looked between the two of them. “You’re actually committing to this?”

Izuku answered with the exhaustion of someone who had no other options. “If I don’t, Kiro’s going to follow me for the rest of the semester. Maybe longer.”

Uraraka gave his shoulder a light tap. “We’ve got you. All of us.”

Izuku eyed Katsuki. “Debatable.”

Katsuki scowled. “I’m helping you, fucker.”

Izuku leaned forward. “You’re emotionally damaging me in the process.”

“You deserve it.”

Izuku groaned into his hands again. At least Shoto and Uraraka were here to keep him sane. Katsuki, unfortunately, was also here to do the opposite. Izuku pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a slow breath. “Honestly, with your attitude, I’m surprised you even agreed to this.”

Uraraka let out a loud laugh, leaning forward with both hands pressed to the table. “Oh, he didn’t agree because he wanted to.”

Izuku blinked. “Excuse me?”

Katsuki finally tore his eyes away from his phone long enough to throw Uraraka a sharp glare. “Don’t start.”

She grinned, fully committed to ignoring him. “He only showed up because Mina blackmailed him.”

Izuku stared at Katsuki without bothering to hide his confusion. “Blackmailed.”

“Yeah,” Katsuki muttered, dropping his phone onto the table with a dull thud. “A certain someone decided to threaten me. I’m suffering because of you, Deku. We’re both trapped in this arrangement because Mina has a big mouth and no sense of boundaries. So congratulations. I’m stuck fake dating a stranger I don’t fucking know.”

Izuku raised both eyebrows. “Well, that explains the attitude.”

Shoto let out a quiet, entertained sound. It wasn’t laughter. Shoto rarely laughed. but it had the tone of someone watching a mildly chaotic documentary.

Uraraka nodded. “She told him she’d tell their entire school something embarrassing he did while he was drunk if he didn’t help.”

Izuku’s eyes lit up with the purest form of curiosity he’d felt all day. “Oh? Interesting.” He shifted his attention to Katsuki, who was already glaring in warning. “Do tell. What did he do?”

Katsuki slammed a hand onto the table hard enough to rattle the silverware. “I swear to god round face, if you open your mouth and say even one word, I’m going to throw all your design blueprints into the street.”

Uraraka flinched dramatically. “You wouldn’t.”

Katsuki pointed at her. “Try me.”

Izuku’s grin stretched slow and wide, amusement finally breaking through the stress chewing at his nerves. “So you did something stupid while drunk, and Mina got it on camera?”

Katsuki glared at him with the intensity of someone mentally punching a wall. “Drop it.”

Izuku leaned back in his chair, savoring the moment. “No promises.”

Uraraka covered her mouth to hide her laughter and failed completely. “He begged her to delete it. Begged. Mina said he tried to bribe her with fabric swatches.”

Katsuki whipped toward her. “I did not beg.”

“You offered her three expensive rolls of imported silk,” Uraraka said, unable to hold back the grin. “That’s basically begging.”

Izuku let out a delighted sound he didn’t intend to make. “Silk. Wow. You were desperate.” And rich because holy fuck, have you seen how much silk costs these days? Let alone, imported silk?

Katsuki looked ready to throw himself across the table and strangle someone. “Keep running your mouth. See what happens.”

Izuku folded his arms with smug satisfaction. “Funny. That’s what Kiro says before he annoys me.”

Katsuki snapped, “Do not compare me to that bastard.”

Shoto watched the exchange with interest, elbow resting casually on the table, eyes shifting between the two of them as if he’d stumbled upon a strange but entertaining social experiment. “I didn’t expect the dynamic to be this… lively.”

Izuku side eyed him. “What does that mean?”

“It means you two argue the way some people breathe,” Shoto said. “It’s impressive in a concerning way.”

Izuku stared. “This is not impressive. This is barely manageable.”

Katsuki scoffed. “Speak for yourself.”

Izuku turned back toward Uraraka, pretending Katsuki wasn’t there. “How embarrassing are we talking? Because I want to know if I should be afraid of Mina or if I should be her biggest fan.”

Uraraka hesitated, eyes darting toward Katsuki again. “Well…”

Katsuki shot up slightly in his seat, fists braced on the table. “Try it.”

She raised her hands defensively. “I was just going to say it took her forever to convince you. That’s all.”

Izuku squinted. “That’s not all. That’s the tone of someone hiding the good part.”

Shoto sipped his drink, thoroughly invested. “He’s right.”

Katsuki growled, “I am seconds away from leaving.”

Izuku pointed at him. “You leave, and I’m messaging Mina for the video.”

Katsuki froze. Uraraka’s eyes widened with pure delight. “Izuku, you didn’t.”

Izuku shrugged. “I’m adapting to my environment.”

Shoto nodded. “Effective.”

Katsuki sank back into his chair with a frustrated exhale, glaring at everyone individually as if he were assigning blame one by one. “Unbelievable. I save your ass, get forced into this, and now I’m getting harassed on all sides.”

Izuku lifted his cup with both hands, warming his fingers against it. “Welcome to my life.”

Shoto added, “You’ll get used to it.”

Katsuki shot him a glare. “You’re too calm.”

“It’s easier when Izuku is not yelling at me,” Shoto said matter-of-factly.

Izuku snorted. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am,” Shoto replied. “This is just an observation.”

Izuku rubbed his temples, feeling the headache from earlier shift into something less sharp, more manageable. Somehow, with all three of them at the table— and Katsuki being the rude, unwilling participant he was, Izuku’s tension loosened. The situation was still a mess, but for the first time today, he didn’t feel like he was drowning alone.

Uraraka leaned toward Shoto. “You should’ve seen Katsuki earlier. He told Izuku to follow him without explaining anything.”

Shoto raised a brow. “That sounds inconvenient.”

Izuku let out a tired wheeze. “Thank you. Finally someone gets it.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes again. “You survived.”

“Barely,” Izuku shot back.

“Then be grateful.”

Izuku lifted his cup and took a steady drink. If he focused on the warmth spreading into his chest, he could almost ignore the fact that his fake boyfriend was glaring at him for breathing incorrectly. Almost.

Shoto set his cup down, studying the group with amusement. “This will be interesting to watch.”

Izuku groaned. “Fantastic. I’m becoming entertainment.”

Katsuki muttered, “You already were.”

Uraraka snorted. Izuku resisted the urge to kick him under the table. This was going to be a long fake relationship. And he wasn’t sure if that terrified him or gave him something to hold onto.

Chapter Text

Izuku never thought the beginning of his freshman year would come back to haunt him, but life apparently enjoyed dragging old memories to the surface at the worst possible times. Before Kiro became the relentless problem he was today, before the rumors, the stalker level persistence, and the uncomfortable attention— he had been nothing more than a stranger who walked into class late on the first day.

Izuku remembered it clearly. Everyone had shown up early out of fear of disappointing Mr. Aizawa, whose reputation for dryness and detachment had already spread through the department. Students sat upright, textbooks stacked neatly, pens uncapped and ready. The room felt stiff enough that even Izuku, who generally minded his own business, forced himself to sit straight with his notes organized alphabetically just to avoid any possible criticism.

Then the classroom door slammed open.

The door slid open with a loud clatter, and every head in the room turned. A boy stood there, slightly out of breath, hair still damp, and with the unfortunate expression of someone realizing he had made a terrible mistake. Aizawa didn’t shout, Aizawa never shouted. But he gave Kiro a pointed look that carried enough judgment to make the entire class straighten further.

“Kiro Hasegawa. You’re thirty minutes late,” Aizawa said without lifting his head from the roll sheet.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I got lost.”

Aizawa waved his hand lazily, signaling for him to sit. “The next time you're late, I'm kicking you out of this class. Sit down.”

It was the verbal equivalent of being swatted with a newspaper. Kiro nodded rapidly and scanned the room for an empty seat. Every row was packed except the one next to Izuku. Their eyes met briefly before Kiro walked over with that awkward shuffle students get when they know everyone is judging them or when they realize their dramatic entrance has given them a reputation they didn’t ask for. He dropped into the seat quietly, pulled out his textbook, and didn’t say a word. 

Izuku didn’t plan to talk to him either. He just wanted to focus on the lecture and pretend the room wasn’t filled with students sitting so stiffly they might pull something. But after a few minutes, Izuku noticed Kiro desperately flipping pages in his textbook, trying to find where everyone else was. He turned the pages too quickly, barely letting his eyes settle on the numbers. 

Izuku could feel the tension radiating from Kiro. The guy had walked into the worst possible situation— late, embarrassed, too rattled to find the correct page in the textbook. Izuku noticed him frowning, flipping through random chapters in a way that made it extremely clear he had no idea where the rest of the class was.

Izuku tried to focus on the material, but Kiro’s frantic page turning gnawed at the corner of his attention. It was irritating, distracting, and honestly a little painful to watch. So Izuku leaned the slightest bit closer, lowered his voice to a whisper, and said, “Page one twenty two.”

Kiro blinked at him in surprise, then glanced down at the number. A quiet, almost reluctant “Thanks” slipped out of him before he straightened his posture and tried to catch up.

Izuku didn’t think about it afterward. He didn’t consider it an act of kindness. He wasn’t trying to make a friend. He simply couldn’t stand the noise of someone flipping through pages in a panic. But apparently that small interaction carved itself into Kiro’s memory far more deeply than Izuku ever intended.

#

The next time they crossed paths was after practice. Kiro had joined one of the university’s basketball teams early into the semester. Rumors had started spreading about the sport requiring a ridiculous amount of conditioning, and Izuku believed it, because the guy walked out of the gym sweaty enough that the pavement beneath him looked threatening.

It was late afternoon. The sun hadn’t set, but the campus lights were already turning on. Izuku was on his way back from the library, earbuds in, mentally cycling through the list of assignments he needed to finish. He didn’t expect to see Kiro standing in front of the vending machines with both hands in his pockets and the frustrated posture of someone contemplating a minor crime.

Izuku slowed as he approached. Kiro looked up, recognition flashing across his face. “Oh. Hey.”

“Hey,” Izuku replied, pulling out an earbud. “You good?”

Kiro let out a groan and tilted his head back. “No. I forgot my wallet at the court.”

Izuku stared at him. “The court that’s on the opposite side of campus?”

“Yeah,” Kiro muttered, scowling at the vending machine. “I’m not walking all the way back there right now. I’ll go later.”

Izuku crossed his arms. “You look like you’re two seconds away from collapsing.”

Kiro nodded with a miserable sigh. “Yeah. I’m not walking back there right now. I’ll go later.”

“You’re not,” Izuku said bluntly. “If you faint, I’m not carrying you.”

Kiro huffed. “I didn’t ask you to.”

“Good,” Izuku replied. “I still won’t.”

Kiro continued staring at the vending machine as if it had personally insulted him. He muttered to himself about protein bars, hydration, and poor life choices. Izuku watched him for a few seconds, debating whether he really wanted to get involved. This wasn’t his business. He barely knew Kiro. They had spoken once. Technically twice.

But Kiro’s frustration was so obvious that ignoring it felt uncomfortable. Watching the boy wrestle with his pride and hunger was too much secondhand frustration for Izuku to ignore.

Izuku walked up to the vending machine and pulled out his wallet. “Do you want something, or not?”

Kiro blinked rapidly. “I mean— yeah, but I can’t pay you back right now. My wallet’s all the way—”

“I know where your wallet is,” Izuku interrupted. “You told me. And you’re not about to walk back across campus when you’re barely standing.”

“That’s dramatic,” Kiro muttered.

Izuku shrugged. “Doesn’t make it less true.”

Kiro hesitated, struggling between pride and exhaustion. “I don’t even know you.”

“Yeah,” Izuku said flatly. “Which is exactly why I don’t care enough to make this complicated. You don’t need to treat this like a personal debt. Just tell me what you want so I can keep walking.”

Kiro stared at him for another few seconds. Then, slowly, he let out a defeated exhale. “You’re persistent. Alright. Fine. Thank you.”

Izuku nodded, turned toward the vending machine, and bought him a drink and a snack. Basic stuff, nothing expensive. He handed the items over without ceremony. Kiro accepted them with both hands, his expression softening just slightly.

“Seriously,” Kiro said. “Thanks. I owe you…?”

“Izuku,” Izuku answered. “And you don't. Just don’t make walking across campus a habit.”

Kiro actually smiled. It wasn’t a huge grin, but it shifted his entire face into something lighter. “I’ll try.”

Izuku waved him off and continued walking, earbuds back in, brain already shifting to the next class.

#

Things shifted subtly, then steadily, until Izuku realized he had acquired someone who kept orbiting him. Kiro didn’t follow him around in an obvious or clingy way back then. Nothing concerning, nothing close to the obsessive determination he carried years later. But he started stopping by whenever their schedules lined up. Small conversations turned into long ones. Shared classes became an excuse to walk together to the building or out of it. Izuku didn’t mind at first. Kiro was decent company, loud enough to fill silence but aware enough to know when Izuku needed quiet.

Shoto came and went as he pleased, which was normal for him. His volunteer work with the International Red Cross took most of his time, and Izuku respected that. Some days, Izuku didn’t see him at all except during classes or through text messages reminding him to drink water or take a break. So, for most of the semester, it was just Izuku and Kiro— studying, walking between buildings, or sharing the vending machine snacks Izuku kept stocked in his bag. Somehow, the dynamic settled into routine.

By the time second semester rolled around, Kiro had become a noticeable figure in their department. His face was hard to miss, and his place on the basketball team boosted his popularity significantly. Students pointed him out when he passed by, some whispering about his performance, others about his appearance. 

Izuku got dragged into that circle of recognition too, but for very different reasons. He was at the top of the class with grades professors bragged about, and he had been elected secretary of the student council because apparently being organized and blunt made him “responsible.” Izuku called it being exhausted and done with everyone’s nonsense, but sure, responsible worked.

Most days slipped by without anything extraordinary happening. But the day everything tilted was painfully clear in Izuku’s memory. Their classroom was buzzing with pointless chatter before lecture, the kind that always made Izuku wish he could skip straight to the lesson. Students grouped together, talking loudly enough to give him a headache. And somewhere in that noise, someone made a comment that cut through the room.

A boy in their department— Rody, quiet, studious, openly gay, was placing his things on his desk. A few guys from the back of the room called out to him, tossing out names they wouldn’t dare use on anyone else. The usual disgusting commentary from people who thought ridicule counted as humor.

“Hey fa—”

Izuku had tolerated it before. He hated that he tolerated it, but he had been trying not to start fights every week. Today, however, he was done. Something snapped cleanly inside him.

“Seriously?” Izuku said, loud enough to silence the row in front of him. “You fuckers still doing this?”

One of the boys blinked at him. “What? It’s a joke.”

Izuku stood up slowly, gathering his things with controlled irritation. He turned toward them fully. “No one's laughing, asshole. It’s harassment. And it’s pathetic. You're pathetic.”

The boys exchanged glances, clearly surprised he was actually confronting them. Izuku didn’t care. He kept going, voice steady yet the words felt sharp. “You’re targeting him because he’s gay,” Izuku said. “Which, by the way, isn’t an insult. Or a weakness. Or whatever fragile explanation you idiots have constructed in your heads.”

Someone scoffed. “Why do you even care?”

Izuku raised an eyebrow. “Maybe because I’m gay.”

Silence cracked across the room so fast it was almost comical. Students turned in their seats, shocked expressions sweeping through the rows. Because oh my god, the department sweetheart goody-two-shoes, is gay? Izuku braced himself against the desk, unbothered by the stares. 

“And if any of you think being assholes about it is going to work on me,” Izuku continued, “go ahead and try. Really. I’ve survived Aizawa’s labs. You think any of you are going to scare me?”

Somewhere toward the back, a pen dropped. Someone else coughed into their fist. The atmosphere shifted violently, and Izuku almost relished it. Rody stared at him with wide eyes, clearly startled. Izuku gave him a small nod as if to say, you don’t owe anyone silence. But the reaction that cemented itself in Izuku’s memory wasn’t from the rest of the class.

It was from Kiro.

He was sitting a few desks away, a water bottle in his hand, posture suddenly rigid. His expression went blank in a way that looked too focused to be neutral. He watched Izuku with a stare that didn’t match the reactions around them. No surprise, no gossip driven intrigue, none of the immature curiosity the other students displayed.

Kiro looked stunned. Not confused. Not offended. Just stunned.

Over what, Izuku wasn’t sure at the time. Maybe because Izuku didn’t sugarcoat anything. Maybe because Izuku spoke like he meant every word, whether or not the room could handle it. Or maybe it was something else entirely— something Izuku didn’t catch, something he didn’t realize would matter.

Izuku sat back down once the noise died, pulled out his notebook, and waited for the lecture to start. The boys who had been teasing Rody didn’t say another word that day. Kiro, however, kept staring at Izuku even after Aizawa walked in. Izuku didn’t look back, but he felt it.

He just didn’t know yet what that look meant, or how deeply it would stick, or how it would slowly warp into something much more complicated. Back then, he just chalked it up to shock. Later, he would understand it was the moment Kiro’s attention shifted from casual acquaintance to something far heavier.

#

When Izuku finished recounting the story, the exhaustion hit him hard enough that he slumped into his chair as if the flashback had physically drained the energy out of his spine. The noise of the cafe felt distant as he stared at his empty cup, wondering why in every possible universe he had to be the idiot who accidentally created a long term problem because he didn’t want a sweaty athlete to starve in front of a vending machine.

Across the table, Uraraka just sat there with her mouth slightly open, eyes wide, hands frozen around her drink. She looked like she had planned to say something supportive but lost the script halfway through because nothing appropriate existed for the situation Izuku had described.

“Wow,” Uraraka finally breathed out, dragging the word until it lost all meaning. “That’s—” She stopped, frowned, opened her mouth again, then let out a small defeated sound. “I don’t know what that is. That’s… something.”

Izuku let out a groan and dropped his forehead onto the table with more force than necessary. “Yeah. That’s the official term. ‘Something.’ Very academic. Very accurate.” He stayed there for a moment, face pressed flat against the wood, contemplating if it was too late to throw himself into a river and start a new life under a bridge. “That’s the academic version of life-fucked-me-over-because-I-help-people.”

Shoto didn’t react much. He simply took a long drink from his cup and stared at Izuku with the same calm, almost bored expression that said he had already known ninety percent of the story and had mentally filed it under Izuku suffers again for reasons beyond his control. Izuku lifted his head just enough to glare at him.

“You didn’t warn me,” Izuku accused, voice muffled.

Shoto shrugged. “You wouldn’t have taken it seriously.”

Izuku grumbled into his palms. He hated that Shoto had a point. The day Izuku finally wins an argument with Shoto is the day the gods favored him. But today, unfortunately, is not the day. “Well, you’re right, but that’s not the point.”

The person who looked the most confused was Katsuki. He had completely abandoned whatever he had been scrolling on his phone. Both arms were crossed tightly over his chest, and he stared at Izuku like he had just been handed the worst puzzle in human history. His eyebrows were drawn so sharply upward that Izuku briefly wondered if the man knew how to look neutral.

“So let me get this straight,” Katsuki said, slowly and loudly, “You talked to him once in class. Then you bought him a drink because he forgot his wallet. Then you stood up to some idiots. And that’s all it took for him to get obsessed with you?”

Izuku lifted his cup, stared into its emptiness as if it were responsible for his misery, then set it down. “Apparently.”

Katsuki blinked. “Is he sick in the head or what?”

Izuku tilted his head. “Well, judging by recent behavior, yes. Definitely something loose in there.”

Uraraka leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. “Hold on— so all of this started because you were decent to him? That was it? That tiny interaction?”

Izuku shot her an offended look. “Why does everyone sound surprised that someone might like me for basic kindness? Am I that unbearable?”

“Not unbearable,” Shoto said calmly. “You’re just… outspoken.”

Izuku threw his hands up. “That sounds worse.”

“It is,” Shoto added.

Katsuki cut in before Uraraka could defend him. “Nah, this guy sounds messed up. People don’t just decide to latch onto someone for years because of two conversations. That’s not normal. That’s brain fucking damage.”

Izuku pointed at him sharply. “Thank you! That’s what I’ve been saying.”

Uraraka pressed her lips together, absorbing the entire tale again. “Izuku… this is seriously concerning. I didn’t know it started that early. I thought he only got weird in third year.”

“No,” Izuku corrected, rubbing his eyes. “Third year is when he started acting weird enough that people noticed. Freshman year was the warm up stage. The beta testing. The preview trailer for the stalker arc.”

Katsuki made a sharp sound in the back of his throat. “So you let him hang around?”

“I didn’t let him do anything. He just kept showing up. I wasn’t adopting him. I was tolerating him.” Izuku crossed his arms tightly. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” Katsuki asked, voice flat. "It's like comparing bananas and plantains."

"Because bananas and plantains are two different things—"

"Plantains are a type of banana, fucker. They're the same. Talk to a wall."

Izuku glared. “I hope your pillow is always warm on both sides.”

"Why are we talking about bananas?" Shoto butted in.

Katsuki clicked his tongue, but his eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of winning the exchange. Uraraka tried not to laugh into her drink, and Shoto shook his head slowly as if this level of chaos was expected from both of them. He snorted. “Says the guy that did a bare fucking minimum that it made an idiot lose his mind. That’s pathetic.”

Shoto nodded once. “Izuku has always had that effect.”

Izuku snapped his gaze toward him. “Don’t say it like I have some sort of cursed aura.”

“You do,” Shoto said.

Uraraka laughed behind her hand. “Yeah, you kind of do.”

Izuku slumped further, arms crossed over his chest. “Unbelievable. I’m surrounded by traitors.”

Izuku dragged a hand down his face. “Look, I didn’t know he was getting attached. He didn’t act creepy back then. He just looked tired and hungry all the time.”

Katsuki stared at him. “So does everyone in college. That doesn’t mean you start giving them free meals until they imprint on you.”

Izuku wanted to tell him to choke. “I didn’t think I was imprinting him! I thought I was helping someone avoid passing out in a parking lot.”

Uraraka rested her chin in her hand. “Kiro must have taken everything you did and turned it into something romantic. Or meaningful. Or obsessive. Or… whatever.”

Izuku let out a rough laugh. “Great. Love that for me. I accidentally became someone’s fixation. Very on brand.”

Shoto placed his drink down with a soft clink. “At least now you understand the timeline.”

“Oh sure,” Izuku said. “Now I understand perfectly. Flashback episode complete. Character arc ruined.”

Katsuki shifted in his chair. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, this guy’s attachment isn’t normal. So the fake dating starts soon.”

Izuku groaned so loud a nearby table looked over. “Can I not have a single emotional processing moment before we schedule our fake relationship rollout? Just one?”

“No,” Katsuki said plainly. “Fixing it takes priority. I wanna get this done as fast as posisble and get the fuck away from you.”

“Fuck you.” Izuku glared. “You’re very eager for someone who was blackmailed into this.”

Katsuki didn’t even blink. “Doesn’t change the fact that I’m the only one here with enough presence to scare the freak off.”

Izuku slumped. “That’s not comforting.”

Shoto nodded thoughtfully. “It’s true, though.”

Uraraka offered him a small, apologetic smile. “At least you’re not dealing with this alone anymore.”

Izuku looked around the table— Uraraka supportive but overwhelmed, Shoto calm enough to terrify most people, Katsuki sitting there with the personality of a brick wall someone glued anger onto. It was ridiculous, completely unorganized, barely functioning support. He exhaled slowly. “Yeah. Unfortunately.”

Katsuki snorted. “Ungrateful nerd.”

Izuku rolled his eyes and muttered, “Asshole.”

Shoto leaned back, assessing the group with quiet amusement. “This will be interesting.”

Izuku rubbed his temples, already regretting every decision that led him here. “God help me.”

Katsuki smirked. “No. You have us.”

Izuku stared.

“God really help me,” he corrected.

Chapter Text

Izuku knew he was in trouble the moment he stepped onto campus and saw Kiro scanning the courtyard. Kiro spotted him instantly and jogged over with forced cheer, waving as if they had planned to meet. Izuku didn’t slow down, keeping his eyes forward and headed to the lecture hall, pretending he had an urgent mission. That illusion broke the moment Kiro rammed into his shoulder with no hesitation. The collision was intentional, obvious, and irritating.

“Oops, sorry!” Kiro gave a soft apology that meant nothing. Izuku held his bag tighter and kept walking, refusing to acknowledge it beyond a stare that didn’t soften. His morning was already slipping into a level of inconvenience he didn’t have the patience for.

The lecture offered no relief. Kiro took the seat directly behind him even though there were six open rows. Izuku didn’t bother questioning the choice— annoyance already sat heavy in his chest. A few minutes into the class, the back of his chair jerked violently from a solid kick. Izuku went still. Another kick followed, then another. Each time, Kiro whispered an apology that carried no sincerity. 

If he kicks again, I'm pressing charges.

Izuku stared at the board, jaw tense, willing himself not to turn around and tell Kiro to remove his foot from the realm of physical contact entirely. Shoto glanced over from the next seat with an expression that suggested he was already halfway through drafting a threat on Izuku’s behalf. Izuku took a slow breath, maintained composure, and focused on the lecture even though every muscle in his back twitched.

15 more minutes. 15 more minutes. 15 more minutes.

By the end of class, Izuku was tense enough that his shoulders ached. He packed quickly and made for the exit, wanting at least a few minutes without Kiro’s presence. Spoilers: He didn’t get them. 

Because Kiro, oh fucking Kiro, that bastard, slipped into step beside him and casually brushed against him again, offering another apology that carried the same empty tone. Izuku continued forward without acknowledging him, but Kiro’s persistent movements gnawed irritation beneath his ribs.

“Oops, sorry again,” Kiro said.

Izuku stared at him. “You have excellent balance for someone who trips that often.”

Kiro smiled, refusing to acknowledge the jab. “I guess I’m just clumsy around certain people.”

I’m going to commit a crime.

Lunch only made things worse. Izuku waited in line at the cafeteria and found one remaining pork cutlet bowl, the exact meal he wanted. He reached for it, ready for the single functional moment of his day. Finally, the universe was offering something functional.

A hand got there first. Kiro’s hand. The fucker swooped in first, grabbing the bowl before Izuku could even blink. Izuku stared directly at him. Kiro doesn't even eat pork.

“You don’t even like pork,” Izuku said.

“It reminded me of you.” Kiro shrugged, holding the bowl against his chest. “We can share.”

Izuku stepped forward. “I’m two seconds away from throwing you into the dish pit.”

Kiro blinked, surprised for the first time all day. “You’re in a mood.”

Izuku didn’t respond. He took the bowl from Kiro’s hands, paid, and walked away, not offering any explanation or apology. Kiro followed him to the table as if the exchange hadn’t just happened. Izuku sat beside Shoto, placed the food down, and concentrated on eating before stress made him do something he’d regret. Kiro hovered before taking the seat across from him.

Someone behind them whispered, “Are they fighting? Is this boyfriend drama or Kiro drama?”

Oh, for fuck's sake. Suck my dick.

“I thought we could eat together,” Kiro said, watching Izuku carefully.

“No,” Izuku answered without hesitation.

Kiro waited, expecting more. Izuku didn’t bother entertaining it. Shoto didn’t lift his eyes from his drink when he added, “He said no.”

Kiro’s expression wavered, unsettled by the blunt refusal. “We always eat together on Tuesdays.”

“That isn’t happening today,” Izuku said as he picked up his chopsticks again.

Kiro continued standing beside the table, trying to look visibly confused by Izuku’s lack of patience. “Did something happen?”

Izuku raised his head. “You kicked my chair through an entire lecture and took my lunch. That’s what happened.”

“It wasn’t intentional,” Kiro said.

Izuku nodded once. “You’re right. It was worse. It was predictable.”

A few students had paused nearby, listening. Izuku didn’t care. He resumed eating, shutting the door on the conversation entirely. Kiro lingered for a few more seconds before stepping back.

“If you need anything later, text me,” Kiro said.

“I deleted your number,” Izuku replied.

Kiro looked almost amused. “I saved my other number in your phone last semester just in case, love.”

Izuku didn’t respond. He only said, “Leave.”

Kiro walked off at last, glancing back to see if Izuku would look up. Izuku didn’t give him even that.

When Kiro was finally gone, Izuku leaned back and pressed his fingers to his forehead. “I’m reaching the point where I’m going to do something impulsive,” he said.

Shoto nodded. “Yes.”

“He kicked my chair the entire morning.”

“I noticed.”

“He took my lunch.”

“You nearly hit him in front of everyone,” Shoto said bluntly.

Izuku exhaled slowly. “I’m very aware.”

“You can still do it if you want.”

Izuku stared at him in disbelief. Shoto returned to his food without concern. Izuku dragged a hand down his face. His frustration had reached a place where rational behavior was becoming optional. “I need backup. If this continues, I’m going to snap. I’m not dealing with him for another afternoon.”

Shoto nodded again, calm as always. Izuku forced himself to keep breathing, but irritation lingered behind his ribs.

Where the hell is Katsuki? I need him here before I commit to violence in public.

Izuku finished his lunch, his entire demeanour shows of someone silently evaluating the legal consequences of punching a classmate. He had eaten the pork cutlet mostly out of spite, but it helped settle the buzzing irritation under his skin. Kiro still had several more classes with him that day. Izuku did not trust himself to stay civilized through all of them.

Shoto stayed beside him without speaking, observing the situation with that irritating blankness he used whenever Izuku was close to flipping a table. Izuku wiped his mouth, tossed his napkin aside, and leaned back in his seat, trying to process the morning without physically shaking.

The entire day had been a string of interruptions, forced interactions, and repeated aggravations, and it wasn’t even afternoon yet. He needed a plan, and he needed it immediately, because the way things were going, he would absolutely snap in one of his next classes.

He reached for his phone, intending to text the one person who could put Kiro in his place, only to stop short when he opened his contacts. Katsuki’s name wasn’t there. Izuku froze, then scrolled again just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. 

No Katsuki. No number. No backup. 

His expression flattened. Of course. The universe has never done him a single favor when he needed it. He dragged his palm down his face, already regretting not forcing the phone exchange before Katsuki stormed out of the cafe the day before. Katsuki had spent the entire meeting being difficult, combative, and impatient, and then he vanished the moment they stepped outside without giving anyone a chance to speak, let alone exchange numbers. 

Izuku was too focused on holding himself together after Kiro’s ambush earlier to chase him down. Now he was paying for it. Shoto looked over when Izuku groaned. “What now?”

“I don’t have his number.”

Shoto blinked. “You didn’t ask?”

“He walked out the door before I could even open my mouth.”

“That sounds accurate.”

Izuku gave him a flat look. “That’s not helpful.”

Shoto returned to his food. Izuku inhaled through his nose, opened his messages, and tapped on Uraraka’s chat. If anyone had the number, it was her. He typed quickly, the words coming out sharper than intended.

──────────────────────────────

Izuku

ochakooo

Izuku 

my love my darling

Izuku 

can i pls have katsuki’s # :]

──────────────────────────────

He hit send and stared at the screen. The reply buzzed through almost instantly. Izuku narrowed his eyes. Is she in class or does she spend entire lectures glued to her phone? Well, considering it was Uraraka, the answer was obvious.

──────────────────────────────

Izuku

ochakooo

Izuku 

my love my darling

Izuku 

can i pls have katsuki’s # :]

Ochako 

###########

Ochako

here u go love ❤️❤️❤️

Izuku

im gonna kiss ur feet oh my gof thank u

Ochako

am afraid my gf wouldnt like that :((

Ochako

kiss me on the cheeks instead!!

Ochako

also, plz domt bully him 2 much 🌸

Izuku 

no promises❤️❤️❤️

Ochako

sweetie hes going to burn my drafts if u do:(

──────────────────────────────

Izuku stared at the suspiciously rapid reply. “Does she even pretend to pay attention during lectures?” he muttered.

Shoto didn’t look up. “She multitasks.”

“She doesn’t.”

Shoto shrugged. “You asked. She delivered.”

Izuku doubted that. Uraraka thrived in chaos. She probably kept her notifications on loud during tests. He didn’t question it further and checked the number she sent. He copied it into a new message window and paused for a moment. There wasn’t much point thinking about phrasing when Katsuki barely tolerated his existence. Izuku typed the simplest version of the request.

──────────────────────────────

Izuku

hey

Izuku

it's izuku

Izuku

u free this afternoon?

──────────────────────────────

He sent it and placed the phone on the table. The response came before he even finished adjusting his sleeve.

──────────────────────────────

Katsuki

No. Fuck off.

──────────────────────────────

Izuku stared at the message with a completely blank expression. Shoto leaned over slightly. “Predictable.”

Izuku didn’t argue. He picked the phone back up, typed again without hesitation, and sent the message with the emotional restraint of someone past the breaking point.

──────────────────────────────

Izuku

hey

Izuku

it's izuku

Izuku

u free this afternoon?

Katsuki

No. Fuck off.

Izuku

🖕🏻🖕🏻🖕🏻 go jump in traffic

──────────────────────────────

He shut the phone with more force than necessary and set it face down on the table. Shoto nodded once, taking a drink. “Productive conversation.”

Izuku leaned back in his chair and exhaled deeply, the frustration pulling at every part of him. “I can’t deal with this. Kiro is everywhere and the one person who’s supposed to help me is telling me to go die on the street.”

“Technically, you told him that.”

“I was provoked.”

“You still need him.”

Izuku rubbed his forehead. “He’ll get over it.”

“You threatened him with a vehicle.”

“He deserved it.”

Shoto didn’t disagree. Izuku leaned back and crossed his arms, letting out a long breath. The morning had drained him completely, and he still had to return to the main building where Kiro would absolutely find another excuse to invade his personal space. Katsuki’s refusal stung less than Izuku expected, but only because he already anticipated it. 

Katsuki wasn’t cooperative on his best days. Expecting immediate support was unrealistic. Still, Izuku needed him. He needed the presence, the bluntness, the intimidation, anything that would create enough distance between him and the disaster currently attached to him.

He stared at his silent phone and tried not to think too hard about how much worse the afternoon could get. Kiro had already spent the entire morning bumping into him, kicking his chair, and taking his food. There was nothing stopping him from escalating further. Izuku ran a hand through his hair, the exhaustion settling deep. 

I need him to show up. I don’t care how irritating he is. I just need him to deal with Kiro before I start screaming in the hallway.

The phone remained still. Katsuki didn’t reply again. Izuku resisted the urge to slam his head into the table.

#

Izuku survived the rest of the day with a level of mental endurance he didn’t know he possessed. His classes crawled along, each one worse than the last, and by the time he walked out of his virology and pathology lecture, he felt spiritually defeated. That subject drained him more than any exam, assignment, or forced group project he had endured over four years. 

Two straight hours of complicated material delivered at a pace no reasonable person could keep up with left him drained to the point where his brain felt overheated. The professor had spoken for two hours without pausing once, and Izuku had reached a point where he wasn’t sure whether he was absorbing information or disassociating. 

He exited the building feeling heavier than he had that morning, rubbing his temple with the heel of his hand and trying to convince himself he was still capable of functioning. He had survived classes, survived the professor, survived Kiro’s endless interruptions, and he was ready to go home and fall asleep on the nearest surface.

Shoto joined him after class, looking entirely unaffected, which annoyed Izuku further purely on principle. They walked down the hallway in silence until they reached the exit of the science building. Shoto checked his phone, read a message, and turned to Izuku.

“I have to go,” Shoto said. “Fuyumi needs help at the restaurant.”

Izuku blinked. “Now?”

“Apparently someone quit again.”

Izuku scoffed under his breath. “Your family owns the place. Just fire the entire staff.”

Shoto ignored that. “If I don’t show up, she’ll handle everything by herself and forget to eat. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Izuku nodded. “Good luck.”

“You need it more than I do. Try not to get arrested.” Shoto said before heading toward the parking lot.

Izuku watched him leave and shook his head. Shoto always vanished the moment things got chaotic, which was impressive considering the amount of chaos surrounding Izuku at all times. He's been labeled magnet of chaos or the problem child on many occasions for a good reason.

He adjusted his bag, rolled his shoulders, and headed down the hallway toward the main exit. He could already taste freedom. The sky outside was visible through the glass doors, and the thought of walking home without dealing with anyone from his department filled him with relief—

He didn’t make it ten steps.

Kiro emerged from a classroom and immediately zeroed in on Izuku. Izuku didn’t even have time to dodge before Kiro slung an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in as if they were close. Izuku’s entire body went rigid at once.

Get your arm off me before I dislocate it. 

Kiro jogged up beside him. “Hey, relax,” he said, hands raised defensively. “I’m not trying anything. Don’t look at me like that.”

“What is it, Kiro?” It wasn't even a question for Izuku, at this point.

“I’ve been looking for you. Let’s go get ice cream.” Kiro said, cheerful and relaxed. As if he wasn't harassing him the entire day.

Izuku smiled. The expression was forced, sharp, and stretched thin enough to hurt. “I can’t. I need to go home.”

Kiro tilted his head with exaggerated confusion. “So early? Come on, you love ice cream.”

“I have things to do,” Izuku said.

Kiro tightened his arm around his shoulders, walking him forward without asking. “Your boyfriend isn’t picking you up?”

Izuku stopped walking. His expression didn’t change, but his patience cracked. He removed Kiro’s arm from his shoulders, firmly enough that the message was clear. “He’s busy.”

Kiro raised an eyebrow, far too entertained. “Too busy for you? That’s rough.”

Izuku’s smile remained, but his eyes hardened. If I had a bucket, I would dunk his head in it until he reconsidered all his life decisions.

“My boyfriend has a lot in his plate,” Izuku said. “He doesn’t follow me around all day.”

Kiro smirked, unfazed. “Maybe he should. People might start thinking he’s imaginary.”

Izuku inhaled slowly, gripping the strap of his bag so he didn’t reach for Kiro instead. “You have a lot of opinions for someone who can’t take a hint.”

Kiro stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know. If things aren’t going well, you can just say so.”

Izuku blinked once. “There’s nothing wrong with my relationship.”

Only that the said relationship is absolutely fake and the fake boyfriend is an asshole, but sure. There's absolutely nothing wrong with it. Yeah, let's roll with that.

Kiro let out a thoughtful hum that grated on Izuku’s nerves. “If you say so.”

Izuku wanted to end the conversation entirely. He could feel the anger sitting tight in his chest, the kind that pushed him toward decisions he would absolutely get scolded for by both Shoto and Uraraka. The only thing stopping him from snapping was the image of Katsuki rolling his eyes and telling him he was stupid for letting things escalate. That alone held him together with the thinnest possible thread.

“I’m leaving,” Izuku said. “Don’t follow me.”

Kiro didn’t move out of the way. “We could walk together.”

“No,” Izuku said.

Kiro smiled again, refusing to let it drop. “You always say that.”

“And I always mean it,” Izuku replied.

He stepped around Kiro, refusing to look back, and continued toward the exit with purposeful steps. Kiro didn’t call after him, but Izuku could feel him staring. The hallway felt too quiet, unbearably quiet for Izuku. Izuku pushed open the doors and stepped outside before he did something that would require legal representation.

I swear, if he doesn't fuck off, I’m going to end up on the news.

Kiro slid into step beside him anyway. “We’re heading out in the same direction. We might as well walk out together.”

Izuku huffed through his nose. “Do whatever you want.”

Kiro grinned as if Izuku had just agreed to a pleasant outing. Of course, he didn't take the hint. That's Kiro. The absolutely motherfucker and a menace to Izuku's entire being.

He fell into stride beside Izuku, keeping close enough that they could have been mistaken for walking together. Izuku leaned forward slightly, focusing on the gate ahead. He could practically feel the air outside, the relief of stepping off campus and finally having a break. His mind was already halfway home, sorting through the tasks he’d abandoned earlier— laundry, dishes, reviewing his notes, and ignoring the fact that Katsuki’s last message told him to fuck off.

Izuku pushed open the hallway door and stepped outside. Students were leaving the campus in smaller groups, but the air felt louder than usual. There were whispers near the gate, but none were not directed at him. It wasn't sharp enough to be gossip about his fabricated boyfriend, but loud enough to disrupt the usual end-of-day chatter. People weren’t whispering his name this time, he didn’t hear his own department mentioned. Instead, he heard fragmented comments from groups ahead of him.

“Did you see that?”

“That car can’t be real.”

“Whose ride is that?”

“It’s blocking the damn lane.”

Izuku slowed down instinctively, brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of the crowd’s attention. Great. Another distraction. If this turns into a rumor about me owning a car, I’m transferring school.

Izuku’s guard shot up instantly. His entire week had been one long string of public humiliation, and he wasn’t willing to participate in another round by accident. For a second, he assumed the crowd was staring at him again. His paranoia spiked. He considered turning around and heading for a side exit. He even briefly evaluated whether climbing the fence would be faster. But then he realized no one was looking at him at all.

They were staring at something outside the gate.

Izuku scanned the line of sight and caught a glimpse of a sleek black Porsche parked directly in front of the school. It stood out so aggressively that even he stopped walking. The car looked brand new, low to the ground, polished to perfection, and sitting there as if it owned the sidewalk. Izuku blinked, taking in the details. He wasn’t a car person, but even he could recognize price when he saw it.

Who drives that to a college campus? The curiosity pulled him forward despite every warning going off in his head.

He changed direction without warning and walked toward the gate, weaving through a few students who were slowing down to stare. Kiro scrambled behind him, trying to keep up. “What are you doing?” 

Izuku ignored him and continued approaching the car. He wanted to know who it belonged to. Some professor? A parent? Someone who definitely wasn’t a student?

He didn’t get the chance to guess.

The tinted driver’s window rolled down. Izuku’s entire body went still.

It's none other than Katsuki Bakugou staring at him from the driver’s seat, one arm braced casually against the door, the other resting on the wheel. His posture was relaxed, but there was nothing soft about his expression, as if showing up in a luxury car outside a busy college gate was something completely normal. Izuku’s brain stalled hard enough that he felt the exact moment his thoughts stopped moving.

His eyes locked onto Izuku instantly, and the stare was so pointed that Izuku forgot how to move for a moment. Katsuki looked entirely unsurprised to see him, which made the situation worse because Izuku definitely hadn’t expected this. 

Katsuki jerked his chin. “Get in, loser.”

Izuku blinked, waiting for an explanation, clarification, anything that made sense. None came. A few students nearby slowed down, whispering to each other as they openly stared. Izuku’s mouth opened, but nothing coherent came out as his brain lagged behind reality. Katsuki lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed by Izuku’s delayed reaction.

“Well?” Katsuki asked. “Standing there doesn’t help anything. Move.”

Izuku snapped upright. “Fine,” he muttered, recovering enough dignity to move. “I heard you.”

He reached for the passenger door, yanked it open, and slipped into the seat so quickly it barely registered with anyone around them. He didn’t look back. He didn’t give Kiro time to interrupt. He didn’t wait for students to connect the dots.

He didn’t waste a second before sliding into the seat, pulling his bag with him. The door hung open for a moment, letting the outside noise filter in. Katsuki’s gaze shifted past Izuku toward the sidewalk.

Kiro stood there, stunned and stiff, mouth slightly open. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even blink. Katsuki looked him over once, raised an eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth pulled upward in a very seemingly and obviously smug smirk that held nothing friendly.

Izuku saw Kiro’s expression falter. He opened his mouth to speak, but Izuku didn’t give him the chance. He slammed the door shut with finality.

The interior of the Porsche settled into comfortable quiet. Izuku stared ahead, gripping the edge of the seat, trying to process the fact that Katsuki Bakugou, the same asshole who told him to fuck off two hours ago, had shown up in a luxury car with zero explanation.

Katsuki clicked the lock button with his thumb. “You looked like you were about to get strangled.”

Izuku let out a breath through gritted teeth. “I handled it.”

“Sure you did,” Katsuki said. “You look ready to collapse.”

Izuku stared straight ahead. “I had a long day.”

“So I noticed.”

Izuku turned his head slowly, looking at him with suspicion and frustration. “You told me to fuck off.”

“You told me to jump into traffic.”

“That was justified,” Izuku snapped.

Katsuki gave him a blunt, unimpressed stare. Izuku crossed his arms and leaned back, trying to untangle the stress sitting in his chest. Izuku didn’t know if he wanted to argue or drop his forehead against the dashboard. Because whether he liked it or not, Katsuki showed up. He showed up despite the fact that his university was an hour away from Izuku’s. 

“Thanks,” Izuku muttered, “for you know, showing up. Even if you told me to fuck off.”

“Oh no,” Katsuki let out a snort, and that wasn't a good sign. “You owe me shit.”

Izuku didn't even have the energy to snap back. So he simply said, “fine. what?”

Katsuki started the engine, the sound almost startling Izuku because for god's sake, he's a broke college student and doesn't know that luxury cars sound a whole lot different than regular cars.

“You're gonna be my model today.”

Chapter Text

“So by ‘model,’ you mean a mannequin you can push around.” 

Izuku said as soon as Katsuki shoved another pile of unfamiliar fabric into his arms, standing in the center of the company studio with an armful of clothing he didn’t remember agreeing to hold. The interior studio of the design company was bright enough to trigger a headache, and Katsuki acted as if everything in the room belonged to him. He marched between tables and dress forms with the authority of someone who didn’t care that he was still an intern, grabbing tools and rolls of fabric, hurling half of them toward Izuku’s chest without warning.

The room smelled faintly of new fabric and industrial detergent, and every table around him was stacked with tools he couldn’t name. Katsuki had already darted across the workspace three times, grabbing scissors, spare muslin, a handful of pins, and several scraps of fabric that held no apparent connection to each other.

Katsuki didn’t bother looking at him when he answered. “Shut up and stand still.”

Izuku shifted the fabric against his chest with a pointed frown. “I’ve been standing still. You’re the one treating me as furniture.”

“Keep talking and I'll stitch that pretty little mouth shut.”

Izuku opened his mouth to argue, to point out that he had already been standing still for ten minutes, only to have Katsuki circle him again with a measuring tape, tugging it with unnecessary force around his shoulders. Izuku inhaled sharply, steadying himself. The measuring tape snapped away, whipped back into Katsuki’s hand, and was immediately replaced with another strip of cloth Katsuki threw over his forearm.

“This is definitely illegal,” Izuku muttered. “There’s no way this is OSHA-approved.”

“Stop talking,” Katsuki said, already digging through a drawer stuffed with thread spools. He grabbed one with a color that made no sense with the rest of the fabrics and threaded his needle with irritated precision. “You’re the one who begged for backup. This is the cost.”

“I asked you to look threatening,” Izuku said. “I didn’t agree to unpaid labor.”

Katsuki returned, planted himself directly in Izuku’s space, and adjusted a rough sketch of a collar he had pinned loosely against Izuku’s neckline. Izuku stiffened automatically, not because of the proximity—he had survived far worse pressures this week—but because Katsuki’s expression dropped into a level of concentration that suggested he might stab through Izuku’s shirt and into his skin without realizing it.

“This can’t be part of the internship,” Izuku muttered. “There’s no world where this is listed in your job requirements.”

Katsuki stepped behind him, hooked the tape against Izuku’s spine, and made another quick measurement. “You volunteered.”

“I didn’t,” Izuku said, deadpan. “You kidnapped me with your car, dragged me to the city—which is an hour away from mine, mind you—and informed me of my new ‘responsibility.’ That’s not volunteering.”

Katsuki ignored him, tossed the tape onto a table, and returned with a heap of cloth that looked freshly torn from a larger roll. “Lift your arms.”

“You could at least pretend to respect my human rights,” Izuku said, lifting them anyway.

Katsuki arranged the fabric across Izuku’s torso, pressing and folding until the shape began holding against itself. He moved with an impatience that somehow didn’t interfere with his accuracy, pinning fabric at angles that suggested a clearer design forming in his head. His expression remained focused, jaw set, attention razor-sharp on every adjustment.

“Hold still,” Katsuki said, already reaching for another pin.

Izuku rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “You said that five times.”

“And I’ll say it again until you get it.”

Izuku let out a long breath through his nose. “You know, I came here to discuss strategy for dealing with Kiro.”

“And you’re doing that,” Katsuki said while adjusting the cloth near Izuku’s collar. “This is all part of the process.”

“I don’t see how being turned into a clothing rack contributes.”

Katsuki picked up a pin cushion, strapped it to his wrist, and gave Izuku the briefest glance. “You need the practice.”

“For what?”

“For shutting up.”

Izuku stared at him. “That’s rude.”

“Not rude,” Katsuki said, threading a needle with a speed that suggested he had done it thousands of times. “I'm simply stating facts.”

Izuku pressed his lips together and remained silent only because the needle in Katsuki’s hand was lifted at an angle no normal person should trust. Katsuki worked swiftly, pinning edges, tugging at seams, dragging fabric into shape with easy skill. Every time Izuku thought Katsuki had finished adjusting something, Katsuki circled around him again, tugging at seams, adding new pieces, removing others, building something out of scraps that shouldn’t have made sense together.

The growing mess of material on Izuku’s torso somehow began forming a pattern—sharp lines, layered texture, and a structure that didn’t match the chaos the pieces came from. Izuku watched Katsuki’s hands move without hesitation.

The realization settled without warning.

“…You’re surprisingly good at this,” Izuku said.

Katsuki stopped, lifted his gaze with slow offense, and scowled hard enough to qualify as a threat. “Of course I’m good at it.” His tone bristled with unfiltered pride and pure irritation. “I don’t do things halfway. Moron.”

Izuku raised an eyebrow. “The confidence you have should be tested in a lab.”

Katsuki’s expression flattened. He picked up the nearest pin cushion, selected a sharp needle with serene menace, and pointed it directly at Izuku’s sternum. “Say that again.”

Izuku glanced at the needle, then at Katsuki, then back at the needle. “You’re proving my point.”

Katsuki stepped closer, not enough to brush against him but enough to crowd the air between them. “I’m holding this needle for work,” he said, which was an obvious lie. “You’re the one making it personal.”

“You’re the one threatening me.”

“I’m encouraging compliance.”

“That’s not what encouragement looks like.”

Katsuki scoffed and went back to stitching, muttering something under his breath about ungrateful, uncooperative clients. Izuku stayed still only because the fabric had become a cage of pins pressed dangerously close to his ribs, the fabric clung to him with an entire ecosystem of pins. Katsuki moved around him again, adjusting angles, flattening folds, and pulling the garment into shape with infuriating ease.

Izuku watched him, taking in the focus, the control, the irritation that fueled every movement yet somehow sharpened his handwork instead of disrupting it. Katsuki seemed built for this environment, surprisingly. Tools at his fingertips, creativity running without apology, confidence filling every step as if doubt had never existed in his vocabulary.

Izuku exhaled slowly. “So… this is what you do here?”

Katsuki didn’t look up. “This is the watered-down version. They won’t let interns handle the bigger collections until the season shifts. I’m proving they’re idiots for waiting.”

“And I’m the test subject for your rebellion.”

“You’re the one who walked in,” Katsuki snapped, pinning the final piece along the seam without flinching. “Shut up and lift your arm.”

Izuku lifted it. The pinned fabric pulled into a smooth, clean line across his side, forming a structured silhouette that looked far more intentional than the scraps Katsuki had started with. Izuku stared at the mirror across the studio, surprised at the transformation. It wasn’t polished, but it wasn’t far from it.

“…You did that in ten minutes,” he said, unable to hide his genuine disbelief.

Katsuki’s shoulders lifted with the kind of pride that didn’t need to be loud to be obvious. “Told you. I’m good at everything.”

Izuku snorted. “Your personality could disagree.”

“Try me,” Katsuki said, needle raised again, although his focus had already returned to the fabric. “You’re one comment away from getting jabbed.”

“I’m aware,” Izuku replied, unbothered. “You’ve threatened me five times already.”

“I’ll make it six.”

Izuku remained still. Katsuki kept working, bending close to correct one of the folds, his concentration so absolute that Izuku could practically sense the shift in his breathing when he found an angle he approved of. The studio stayed quiet except for the sounds of scissors, thread, and Katsuki’s intermittent cursing when a stitch didn’t land exactly where he wanted it.

After several adjustments, Katsuki stepped back a small distance, eyes narrowing as he examined the entire outline. “Don’t move.”

“You’ve been saying that since we walked in,” Izuku said.

“And you’re still talking.”

Izuku crossed his arms until Katsuki forcibly uncrossed them to adjust the garment again. The silence stretched longer this time, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Katsuki finished another round of stitching, pulled back again, and inspected the final alignment of the makeshift garment with a short, satisfied breath.

Izuku took in the result. “It’s good. Really good.”

Katsuki lifted his chin. “There was never a reality where it wouldn’t be.”

Izuku huffed. “Your confidence should be monitored.”

Katsuki reached for another needle without breaking eye contact. “Keep going. I dare you.”

Izuku decided silence was the safer option only because he valued the integrity of his skin, but the corner of his mouth lifted anyway. And Katsuki noticed.

And pretended he didn’t.

Izuku held still while Katsuki adjusted the last pin, every movement sharp with precision and irritation. Another five minutes passed with Katsuki tugging at edges that no longer needed correction, refusing to stop until the garment satisfied him on some internal scale only he understood. 

Izuku waited, resigned to the process, quietly counting how many times Katsuki scowled at a seam that already looked fine. Eventually, Katsuki pulled away in a decisive step, dropped his hands to his hips, and exhaled a long breath through his nose.

“That’s it.” Katsuki nodded once, examining Izuku with the critical stare of someone appraising an expensive sculpture. “Don’t touch anything. You ruin it, I’ll sew your shirt shut so you can’t take that off either.”

Izuku ignored the threat. “Are we done?”

“We’ve been done for the last thirty seconds,” Katsuki said, already cleaning his workstation. “You’re slow.”

Izuku refused to rise to that. He stepped toward the mirror at the far end of the studio, careful not to disturb the layers Katsuki had constructed. When he finally reached it, he stopped. Katsuki’s design sat on him far better than any intern’s improvised mock-up had any right to. 

The fabric draped in structured panels, each one layered to create depth without swallowing his frame. Deep burnt brown ran down the sides, trimmed with a muted gold that Katsuki had somehow made work despite grabbing it at random earlier. A darker green laid across the torso, angled in clean lines that guided the eye downward, while the sleeves—stitched in a rich copper—balanced the entire palette in a way that made the outfit feel seasonal.

It looked distinctly autumn-themed without being loud. Warm tones, structured edges, everything sharpened into a cohesive silhouette. Izuku raised his eyebrows at his reflection, unable to hide his reaction.

“…Huh.”

Katsuki snorted from behind him. “That all you’re giving me?”

Izuku took another moment, studying the way the panels layered across his shoulders, the clean alignment of the seams, the way the colors warmed his complexion without overwhelming it. “You did well,” he said, the words clear and fully intentional. “It actually looks great.”

Katsuki didn’t hide the pride swelling across his face. His chin lifted, his posture straightened, and he looked two seconds from bragging even without opening his mouth. “Obviously it looks great. I was the one doing it.”

Izuku rolled his eyes hard enough to feel it in his temples. “You could just say thank you.”

“Why would I thank you for noticing something that was guaranteed?” Katsuki shot back, waving a hand toward Izuku’s reflection as if the entire thing were common knowledge. “I’m good at what I do. You finally realized it. Congratulations.”

Izuku crossed his arms. “Your arrogance is gonna require medical intervention.”

“My arrogance,” Katsuki said, pointing a pair of scissors at him, “is earned. Yours isn’t.”

Izuku arched a brow. “What arrogance do I have?”

“That outfit you walked in with,” Katsuki said instantly. “That alone is offensive.” He motioned downward, grimacing. “Skinny khaki jeans, red shoes, and a plain white shirt? Seriously? You’re a walking hazard. I should get paid extra for fixing whatever disaster you think you dress in.”

Izuku stared at him, unimpressed. “There’s nothing wrong with my clothes.”

“There’s everything wrong with your clothes,” Katsuki said. “The shoes don’t match the pants, the pants don’t match the shirt, and the shirt doesn’t match anything.”

“It’s practical.”

“It’s ugly.”

“It’s normal.”

“It’s a crime. I wish you'd get arrested.”

Izuku clicked his tongue. “Not everyone wants to dress like a fashion week finalist.”

“Well, you should,” Katsuki said, turning away to toss spare fabric into a bin. “You’re dating one.”

Izuku opened his mouth, closed it, then narrowed his eyes. “Fake dating.”

“Same thing,” Katsuki replied without looking back.

Izuku continued glaring at his back, annoyed at the confidence radiating from him. When Katsuki reached toward a drawer to put away the scissors, Izuku lifted his hand and flipped him off with full commitment.

Katsuki didn’t see it, which was perfect. Fuck you, Katsuki.

Izuku held the gesture for another second, savoring it, then dropped his hand before Katsuki turned again. Katsuki faced him. “Did you say something?”

“Nothing,” Izuku said, voice smooth and unbothered. “Absolutely nothing.”

Katsuki narrowed his eyes but didn’t push. He stepped forward again, straightening one of the shoulder pieces he had already inspected earlier. “You’re wearing this out.”

Izuku blinked. “I’m what?”

“You heard me.” Katsuki tugged at a seam with brisk impatience. “If I spent almost an hour building that on you, you’re not taking it off to go home in that tragic outfit you arrived with.”

Izuku raised an eyebrow. “You’re bossy.”

“You’re annoying.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

“You dragged me into your relationship mess,” Katsuki said, stepping back again, satisfied with his last adjustment. “This is nothing.”

Izuku huffed, staring at himself in the mirror again. The outfit really did look good. Annoyingly good for Izuku’s liking. Katsuki leaned against the nearest table, arms crossed, expression smug. “Admit I improved you.”

“No.”

Katsuki clicked his tongue, unimpressed. “Coward.”

Izuku rolled his eyes again, refusing to give him the satisfaction of another compliment, even though the design was genuinely impressive. But when Katsuki looked away to grab his water bottle, Izuku let his gaze fall to the autumn-toned layers on his torso.

And silently admitted he kind of loved it. That bastard is too good at it and Izuku wants to strangle him for it.

#

Izuku let out a long, exhausted breath once Katsuki declared the fitting over, only for the blond to spend another ten minutes reorganizing tools with the aggression of someone punishing the furniture. The bickering didn’t stop during cleanup. Katsuki criticized the way Izuku stood, mocked the way he folded a spare cloth wrong, and lectured him about the weight distribution of pins as if Izuku had been personally responsible for insulting his ancestors. Izuku threw verbal jabs where he could, refusing to let Katsuki collect all the points. 

When Katsuki told him he moved with the grace of a startled pigeon, Izuku informed him that his personality caused premature aging. Katsuki told him to shut up, as always. Izuku told him to hydrate and calm down. It went on and on until both of them ran out of insults that didn’t escalate to homicide.

By the time they stepped out of the studio, it felt closer to an hour than thirty minutes. The company building emptied during their stay, leaving the hallways quiet except for their footsteps and Katsuki’s muttering about incompetent coworkers who couldn’t organize a single drawer. Izuku ignored the commentary and focused on the cool air greeting them once they exited the front doors.

Night had settled fully across the city. The skyline glowed with sharp, electric reds and cool whites from the surrounding towers, casting long reflections across the storefront windows. The sidewalks were busy enough to feel alive but not crowded enough to annoy Izuku. The mix of neon and warm signage lit the streets with a strangely comfortable brightness, the kind that made everything feel cleaner and louder at the same time.

Katsuki stretched his arms once they reached the sidewalk. “We’re eating.”

Izuku glanced at him. “You’re not asking.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

Izuku considered arguing on principle, but his stomach twisted in a reminder that he hadn’t eaten since lunch. His morning had been hell, his afternoon catastrophic, and his evening involved becoming Katsuki’s unwilling mannequin. The idea of food didn’t sound awful. “Fine. But you’re choosing it. So if it’s terrible, I’m blaming you.”

“It won’t be terrible. I’m not you.”

“I hope your self-esteem pays rent,” Izuku muttered.

“It doesn’t need to,” Katsuki grunted. “It owns the property.”

Izuku snorted despite himself. “Idiot.”

Katsuki ignored the insult and walked ahead, guiding them down the block without waiting for Izuku to catch up. Izuku followed only because Katsuki clearly knew where he was going and Izuku didn’t want to wander around the city in a handmade autumn-themed outfit Katsuki spent forever on. That would invite too many questions.

They stopped at a small Japanese restaurant tucked beneath an orange awning. Warm light spilled through the windows, and the aroma drifting from the door reminded Izuku that he was starving enough to commit crimes. Katsuki opened the door without ceremony and jerked his head for Izuku to enter.

Inside, the place was cozy in a no-nonsense way. Wooden tables, laminated menus, an open kitchen, and a handful of customers hunched over bowls of ramen. Izuku sat across from Katsuki at a small table near the wall. Katsuki barely glanced at the menu before snapping it shut. Izuku raised a brow.

“You already know what you’re ordering?”

“Obviously.” Katsuki didn’t bother lifting his head. “Why would I waste time? I know what’s good.”

Izuku looked at his own menu. “I swear, if you get something weird—”

“It’s not weird,” Katsuki cut in. “It’s good.”

“I doubt your definition of good matches anything in the human food pyramid,” Izuku replied, tapping his thumb against the table in a slow rhythm. “Your taste buds have evolved into a different species by now.”

Katsuki snapped the menu shut with a heavy sound. “You talk too much.”

“And you rush too much.” Izuku lifted his own menu higher. “Try patience. It’s a skill.”

“Try shutting up,” Katsuki shot back. “Also a skill.”

Izuku sighed loudly enough to make two people at the next table glance their way. “If this is how you treat waitstaff, I hope they spit in your food.”

“They won’t,” Katsuki said. “I tip well.”

“That doesn’t erase your attitude.”

“It makes up for it.”

Izuku pressed his palm against his forehead. “You’re impossible.”

Katsuki smirked. “You’re dramatic.”

A server came by, and Katsuki ordered without hesitation. “Spicy tofu and the extra-spicy ramen. Add chili oil.”

Izuku slid his menu down just enough to see Katsuki. “You’re kidding.”

Katsuki didn’t blink. “Why would I kid?”

“That’s pure pain in a bowl.”

“It’s delicious.”

“It’s a hazard,” Izuku said. “Is this why you’re always angry? Because your diet is ninety percent combustibles?”

Katsuki crumpled a napkin and threw it directly at Izuku’s face with zero hesitation. It bounced off Izuku’s forehead and dropped onto the table. Izuku stared at it, then at Katsuki. “You’re childish.”

“You’re irritating.”

“You didn’t deny my theory.”

“Shut up,” Katsuki said, reaching for his water and taking a long sip. “Focus on your own mediocre food.”

“I haven’t even ordered yet.”

“And it’ll still be mediocre.”

Izuku shut the menu with unnecessary force. “Fine. I’m ordering the pork katsudon. And miso soup. Normal food. Balanced food. Food that doesn’t dissolve stomach lining.”

“Coward food,” Katsuki muttered.

The server came back, and Izuku placed his order politely—mostly to contrast Katsuki’s attitude. Once the server left, Izuku rested his elbow on the table and studied Katsuki openly.

“You eat this level of spice every day?”

“Most days.”

“And you haven’t burned a hole through your throat?”

Katsuki narrowed his eyes. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m stating observable concerns.”

Katsuki folded his arms. “Don’t worry about what I eat.”

“Hard not to. It explains so much.”

“Try finishing that sentence,” Katsuki warned, “and we’ll see who ends up wearing the chili oil.”

Izuku hummed lightly, leaning back in his seat and refusing to look intimidated. “You wouldn’t waste food.”

Katsuki scoffed. “I’d waste it on you.”

Izuku drummed his fingers against his thigh as he watched Katsuki take another sip of water, completely unbothered by the fact that he had just ordered food that would liquefy most people’s taste buds. Izuku shifted in his seat, expression flat. “So this is your normal? Setting your mouth on fire every night after work?”

Katsuki set the glass down with a controlled thud, not even trying to hide the judgment in his stare. “It’s not fire. It’s flavor. Something you clearly don’t understand.”

Izuku raised a brow slowly, letting the movement stretch. “Flavor shouldn’t feel like punishment.”

“You’re dramatic,” Katsuki said, folding his arms across his chest as if that sealed the debate entirely. “You treat mild seasoning like an attack.”

“I don’t,” Izuku replied. “I treat seasoning with respect. You treat it as a weapon.”

Katsuki’s nostril twitched. “You have the palate of a retiree.”

Izuku narrowed his eyes. “You have the palate of a dragon.”

Katsuki glared. “That better not be an insult.”

“It’s observational science,” Izuku said, tone measured. “Your organs are probably charred.”

Katsuki reached for another napkin, rolled it into a tight ball and held it between his fingers like ammunition. Izuku watched him with an unimpressed stare, refusing to blink even when Katsuki threatened to throw it directly at his face. “Do it,” Izuku said. “Waste another napkin. Make the environment suffer for your temper.”

Katsuki dropped it instead, letting it bounce off the table before rolling away. “You’re annoying today.”

“I’ve been annoying all week,” Izuku said calmly. “You’re just noticing.”

Katsuki leaned forward, resting both forearms on the table. His eyes narrowed in a way that suggested he was examining Izuku rather than arguing with him. “You get snarky when you’re comfortable.”

Izuku felt his pulse jerk but refused to shift his expression. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means you’re not walking on eggshells for once,” Katsuki said, voice a touch lower than his earlier sharpness. “No fake politeness, fucking hate it when you do that. You’re being a pain, which means your head isn’t buried in whatever crap Kiro put you through.”

Izuku’s jaw tightened. “Don’t analyze me.”

“You’re easy to analyze,” Katsuki shot back. “You’re transparent.”

“I am not.”

“You are,” Katsuki insisted, sitting upright again. “The second you get overwhelmed, your face does that thing. That blank stare. That quiet breathing. That way you pull your shoulders in. Today you’re doing none of that. You’re just being rude.”

“Rude—excuse me?” Izuku exhaled sharply. “You’re irritating.”

Katsuki shrugged. “You’re easier to deal with when you’re irritated.”

Izuku stared at him, and for a brief moment the air at the table shifted, as though the constant clashing had carved out a small space between them where tension became something more tolerable. Izuku felt something in his chest tug in the exact same way his own irritation sometimes intertwined with amusement. This was annoying. Katsuki was annoying. Everything about this was annoying. 

And yet, it felt easier than the rest of Izuku’s week. His brain wasn’t spinning through excuses to avoid someone, and no one was invading his space or demanding answers he didn’t want to give. Katsuki was volatile, rude, and barely tolerable—and somehow more comfortable to be around than half of the people Izuku interacted with.

Ridiculous.

The city lights outside the restaurant reflected across the polished window beside them, casting a warm glow over their table. Izuku rested his chin in his hand, studying the way Katsuki’s expression softened only slightly when he focused on his water, tension settling into something steadier.

“You dragged me here,” Izuku said.

“You needed to eat.”

“You bossed me into it.”

“You wouldn’t have eaten otherwise.”

Izuku paused, because that was technically true. His schedule had been a mess, and he hadn’t been hungry until now. “You’re nosy.”

“You’re exhausting.”

Izuku shrugged. “Fair.”

Katsuki blinked, caught off guard by the lack of retaliation. Their eyes met for a second. Izuku looked away first.

Chapter Text

Izuku steadied a rack of labeled test tubes on the counter, checking each one twice before reaching for a sterile pipette. Shoto worked quietly beside him, sorting slides. It should have been a peaceful laboratory session, a simple afternoon assignment for their clinical analysis class—but Izuku’s stupid, dumb brain kept drifting back to the week’s event. 

Every time he focused on transferring the diluted sample into the next tube, something about Katsuki’s stupid face or that stupid handcrafted autumn outfit intruded on his concentration. It was annoying how persistent the memory was.

They worked in silence long enough for Izuku to convince himself the session would remain uneventful. But then again, Shoto chose violence. He always does on times Izuku wishes for peace. Because Shoto, our dear loving Shoto Todoroki, is a menace to Izuku.

“Izuku,” Shoto said in his usual calm tone, rinsing a glass slide. “How was your date with Bakugou?”

Shoto didn’t even bother to look up when he spoke. The question was delivered without hesitation, as if it were something he had been waiting to slot into the conversation.

Izuku’s grip slipped. The pipette jerked, smacked the edge of the tube, slipping dangerously close to bouncing off the edge of the tube, and nearly snapped in two. He caught it with his two fingers before it fell, but barely. His pulse kicked up immediately. 

“It wasn’t a date,” he said, setting the pipette down with more force than necessary. He dragged a box of gloves closer just to give his hands something to do. “And why are you asking me that while I’m handling someone’s blood? You’re trying to make me contaminate this entire experiment. I'm using your blood if I do.” 

Shoto placed the slide on a drying rack and didn’t bother offering an apology. Shoto rinsed another slide at the sink, taking his time with it before responding. “So you were with him a few days ago.”

“Fuck you. That doesn’t mean it was a date,” Izuku said, reaching for the reagent bottle to distract himself. His hands felt too warm, which he blamed entirely on Katsuki’s involvement even in conversations he wasn’t present for. “Also, how did you even know I was with him? I didn’t tell you anything.

Shoto tilted his head slightly, the closest thing he ever had to curiosity. “You posted a picture of your dinner. That was unusual. You never post meals, and you never go anywhere without prompting.” He set a slide under the microscope and adjusted the lenses. “Because of that, I knew to ask.”

Izuku stared at him for a long moment, resisting the urge to throw a glove at his head, bottle in hand, brain stuttering through every possible explanation he could invent. “It was a picture of food,” he said finally, enunciating each word with affronted patience. “A bowl of katsudon and a cup of miso soup. That’s it. Katsuki didn’t even appear in the frame.”

Shoto didn’t look impressed. He reached for a stack of gloves and replaced his pair methodically before continuing. “You don’t go out to eat. You don’t go anywhere after class unless someone drags you. You’ve rejected every group invitation except the ones I remind you about because I personally escort you out of the dorm. You would not suddenly leave campus or your dorm voluntarily unless someone physically pulled you outside.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” though, it wasn't. He did tend to avoid unnecessary social events, mostly because they exhausted him or became uncomfortable far too quickly. Another reason floated to the surface—Kiro’s persistent behavior made being out in public feel unpredictable. 

Izuku pushed that thought aside and returned to the samples. “I can go places without you. I’m perfectly capable of leaving my own room.”

“Well, you didn’t,” Shoto replied, placing another slide under the microscope. “Until Bakugou.”

“Stop saying it like that.” Izuku exhaled through his nose, annoyed at how much accuracy was hidden in that deadpan delivery.

Shoto nodded to the rack of reagents. “You were out at night. You were in a city you don’t travel to on your own. You were eating food that required actual effort to get. And you were wearing an outfit you did not own last week.”

Izuku groaned and rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Are you interrogating me? I should start charging you consultation fees.” 

He went back to his station, trying to focus on the pipetting steps, but the conversation stuck in the space between them. “And it wasn’t a date. He practically bullied me into going with him. It was forced nutrition.”

“I’m connecting information,” Shoto said, adjusting the microscope’s focus. “You being outside past seven in a city an hour away from here already eliminates ninety percent of the population. The only logical conclusion is Bakugou.”

Izuku froze at that wording, then forced himself to continue mixing a reagent. “Shoto, don’t start with your weird emotional diagnostics. I came here to do lab work, not get psychoanalyzed.”

Shoto nodded thoughtfully. “Then stop acting obvious.”

Izuku turned. “Obvious how?”

Shoto rested his hands on the table, eyes steady. “You went out. You stayed. You ate. You weren’t tense the next day. You weren’t drained. You weren’t avoiding eye contact. You weren’t stuck in your head. You showed signs of resting.”

Izuku blinked, thrown off by how plainly Shoto listed each detail. “Why are you tracking my habits like I’m a case study?”

“Because you are my friend,” Shoto said simply. “And because when you behave outside your usual patterns, it’s noticeable. Bakugou being the factor makes it even more noticeable.”

Izuku groaned under his breath, picking up another test tube mainly to avoid looking at Shoto’s neutral expression. “You’re making it sound dramatic. We were just—” He paused, searching for a word that didn’t sound incriminating. “—talking. And eating. And he forced me to model some stupid design for his internship.”

Shoto lifted his eyes from the microscope, silently prompting him to continue.

Izuku scowled at the reminder. “Fine, it wasn’t stupid. It was actually good. Disgustingly good. That’s not the point.” He shook the tube gently, annoyed at the way Shoto waited without saying anything. “It wasn’t a date.”

Shoto wiped his hands on a lab towel. “You looked unusually energized the next day.”

“I was not,” Izuku said immediately.

“You were,” Shoto corrected, tone steady. “You actually made a full breakfast. You didn’t glare at your coffee. And you didn’t sigh even once during lecture.”

Izuku wanted to drop his forehead onto the counter. “I sigh because you talk in observations.”

“And I observed,” Shoto continued, entirely unfazed, “that you enjoyed your time with him.”

“That doesn’t make it a date.”

“Did he pay?”

Izuku paused for a second longer than he should have Shoto nodded as if that answered everything. “It was a date.”

“It wasn’t—” Izuku’s voice rose before he forced it back down to a lower volume. “He dragged me there. Literally dragged me through the city because he said I needed to eat. It wasn’t romantic. It was bullying.”

Shoto arranged another slide, calm as ever. “Bakugou only bullies people he tolerates.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

A faint, almost invisible shrug. “It wasn’t meant to.”

Izuku set the test tube in its slot and resisted the urge to throw his gloves into the trash with unnecessary force. The entire conversation felt like an ambush, and being analyzed by Shoto while handling blood samples made it more irritating by the second. “You’re reading too much into this.”

“I’m reading the correct amount,” Shoto replied.

Izuku shot him a glare. “You aren’t my therapist.”

“I’m not,” Shoto agreed. “But I am your lab partner. And your friend. And the person who watches you ignore your phone until someone forces you to interact with the outside world.”

Izuku blinked, taken off guard. “Why does that sound like an accusation?”

“Because it is,” Shoto said, switching to his next sample. “You don’t go out. You don’t eat properly. You don’t relax. So when you post a picture of dinner, it becomes meaningful.”

Izuku groaned again, voice muffled by the sleeve of his lab coat as he rubbed his face. “It was just food.”

“You never post food.”

“It was an accident.”

“You don’t take pictures of accidents.”

Izuku stared at him. “…Shoto, do you hear yourself?”

“Yes,” Shoto said simply. “You were with Bakugou.”

Izuku clenched his jaw, grabbed another pipette, and exhaled sharply. “You know what? Fine. Believe whatever theory you want. It still wasn’t a date.”

Shoto placed the last slide on a tray, straightened his lab coat, and gave Izuku a measured look. “Then let's say it's not a date. But it was still something unusual for you.” He tilted his head slightly, voice steady. “And you didn’t seem bothered.”

Izuku felt his jaw clench again. “I was bothered. He threatened me with needles.”

“And yet,” Shoto continued, “you seem less drained than usual. Which means it didn’t exhaust you. Which means you didn’t hate it. Which means the interaction stayed in your thoughts in a way that wasn’t negative.”

Izuku inhaled sharply, annoyed at how thoroughly Shoto dismantled every attempt at denial. He reached for another pipette, only to stop halfway and mutter, “You’re exhausting.”

Shoto picked up his pen and wrote a note on his data sheet. “You say that every time I’m correct.”

Izuku rolled his eyes and returned to his samples, refusing to respond. The silence grew for several moments, long enough that Izuku thought the interrogation had ended. Then Shoto placed the pen down, folded his arms, and added one final remark.

“For the record, I don’t think it was a date.”

Izuku straightened in relief—

—until Shoto added, “But it wasn’t nothing.”

For the love of god.

Izuku groaned loudly, nearly knocking a tube over. “Why do you talk?”

“To inform you,” Shoto said, grabbing the next tray of samples. “You react strongly when something affects you. This clearly affected you.”

Izuku turned away, face souring, refusing to let Shoto see how hard that landed. “I hope the centrifuge breaks,” he muttered.

Shoto adjusted his gloves. “If it does, it will be your fault.”

Izuku glared at the machine, deciding he hated the entire day. And Shoto, who knew him too well, said nothing more—because he knew Izuku would spend the rest of the week thinking about the conversation even without another word added to it. Because again, Shoto is a menace. Bless you, Shoto.

#

Shoto wasn’t wrong, and that was the infuriating part. Izuku spent the entire week catching himself replaying every sentence Shoto said in the lab, which only made everything worse. 

Every time he attempted to focus on class notes, Shoto’s voice would cross his mind with some condescending observation about Izuku’s habits, and the moment he tried to push the thought away, another image shoved itself into place—Katsuki dragging him through the city, Katsuki shoving fabric at him, Katsuki threatening him with a needle, Katsuki insisting he eat something substantial. 

It was ridiculous how persistent the memories were, and it irritated him more than he wanted to admit.

He blamed Shoto for this. He loved Shoto, obviously, but at the same time, he wished he could throw Shoto into a locked supply closet for at least six hours just so his brain could reset. The problem was that Shoto, the menace, was right far too often. Izuku hated that. If anyone else had said all those things, Izuku would have dismissed it, but Shoto always delivered his observations as if he's someone who didn’t believe in being wrong.

Fuck you, Shoto. I love you, you're dear to me and I’d willingly take a bullet for you—but fuck you.

A week after the lab incident, Izuku found himself in a dim public study hub, surrounded by what could generously be called academic chaos. 

It was eleven at night, long past the point where his focus should have been functioning, but prelim week was approaching and the sheer volume of material they needed to absorb could crush the spirit of lesser students. Izuku was determined to maintain decent grades even if he had to sacrifice sleep, dignity, and several points of sanity to accomplish it.

Shoto, on the other hand, refused to accompany him. Shoto claimed that ruining his sleep schedule was unnecessary because, in his own words, “I will remember the material regardless.” 

Izuku had glared at him for a solid ten seconds, to which Shoto simply said, “I’m being honest.” Shoto barely studied and still managed to secure top marks without effort. It was difficult when Shoto was comfortably asleep in his dorm while Izuku sat hunched over a desk surrounded by textbooks and raging thoughts of a certain blonde.

Damn that handsome walking encyclopedia.

The study hub was quiet, but not peaceful. The blinding lights beamed overhead, and a handful of other students occupied distant tables, each buried in their own academic tragedies. Izuku’s table was a disaster—an avalanche of notes, open books, crumpled scratch papers, and three empty cups of cheap instant coffee he regretted drinking. The caffeine didn’t help. It only made his heart race while his brain stubbornly refused to stay on track.

Izuku pressed his palms against his temples and closed his eyes briefly, trying to force his thoughts back toward cellular markers and diagnostic methods. Instead, his brain betrayed him by replaying Shoto’s words in a straight, unwavering loop.

“You enjoyed your time with him.”

“You showed signs of resting.”

“It wasn’t nothing.”

Izuku wanted to place his face directly into the desk. Preferably with enough force to forget the last week entirely. He muttered into his hands, “I hope Shoto wakes up with bedhead for the rest of the month,” although he doubted the universe would grant him that level of vengeance. Shoto had hair that refused to misbehave—it was another trait Izuku begrudgingly accepted.

He flipped through a thick textbook on pediatric physiology, searching for the chapter on developmental markers. The pages blurred slightly, evidence that three coffees were probably three too many. Every section he tried to read looped back into distracting thought patterns he couldn’t root out. 

He tried to blame the caffeine, but he knew better. The real problem was that Shoto had planted the idea so firmly that Izuku couldn’t think of anything else without circling back to the same displeasure.

He grabbed his pen and started rewriting definitions just to keep his hands moving. The words came out neat enough, but his mind wandered. He remembered the restaurant—the way Katsuki refused to ask for anything politely, the way he insulted Izuku between bites of food, the way he insisted the meal was necessary because Izuku supposedly ignored his own health. 

The worst part was that Izuku hadn’t been bothered, not in the way Shoto assumed he should have been. Instead, he’d found himself arguing back, matching Katsuki’s energy, annoyed but not overwhelmed, irritated but not drained.

That was the part he didn’t want to think about, but his brain clung to it relentlessly.

Izuku leaned back in his chair, letting his head fall against the cushioned backrest while he stared at the ceiling. “This is Shoto’s fault,” he muttered. “Entirely his fault. One conversation and I’m suffering for an entire week.” 

He inhaled deeply and tried to redirect his attention to the next chapter, but his focus wavered again. He tapped his pen against the table, watching the scattered papers tremble slightly. “I should revoke his friend privileges temporarily. Just to prove a point.”

He reached for one of the empty coffee cups, rolled it between his hands, then discarded it into the nearby bin with more force than needed. His eyes drifted across the study hall, taking in the dim atmosphere and the sight of other equally exhausted students. A pair of them were asleep on their textbooks. Another student stared blankly at a laptop screen, tapping the trackpad. They were collectively suffering, united by academic pressure and poor life choices.

He rubbed his eyes and took another bite of the snack he had forgotten he brought—a stale granola bar that cracked apart in his fingers. He barely tasted it, but at least it gave him something to chew while he forced himself to focus on the next set of notes. Pediatric developmental anomalies. Early diagnostic frameworks. Case study correlations.

All manageable topics, but everything in his head kept drifting back to one point. Shoto knew him too well and Katsuki was too present in his thoughts.

Izuku dropped his pen onto the notebook and let out a frustrated exhale. “I hate both of them,” he muttered under his breath. “Equally. Fully. Completely.” His foot tapped rapidly under the desk, a physical attempt to keep from drowning in the sudden strange twisting feeling building in his chest.

The universe reminded him it held an active grudge against him. 

Because naturally, on top of Shoto’s emotional diagnostics echoing in his skull and prelim material threatening to drown him, his phone vibrated harshly against the cluttered desk, jostling his pen and interrupting what little concentration he had managed to scrape together. 

He glanced down with an expectation it would be some mundane notification he could ignore, maybe an automated reminder or a message from a class group. 

But no. The universe and the gods above absolutely loved seeing the poor man suffer because instead, Katsuki’s name appeared at the top of his screen with the kind of timing that suggested fate had finally decided to laugh directly in his face.

Katsuki

I can see you’re still awake, Deku.

He glared at the screen. Of course Katsuki would show up now, at the exact moment Izuku was trying to force his brain to cooperate after hours of drowning in notes, textbooks, and caffeine that had long passed the point of usefulness. 

His mind already felt stretched thin thanks to Shoto’s psychological commentary echoing through it all week. The last thing Izuku needed was Katsuki and whatever brand of chaos he intended to bring. Still, Izuku typed back, because ignoring Katsuki usually resulted in worse consequences.

Katsuki

I can see you’re still awake, Deku.

Izuku

im suffering

Katsuki

Good.

Izuku

🖕🏻🖕🏻🖕🏻🖕🏻🖕🏻🖕🏻🖕🏻

Izuku dragged out a long breath, reached for the emoji panel and selected the most appropriate response for his current emotional state. It felt cathartic in the shallowest way possible. The message sent with satisfying finality. 

Katsuki didn’t respond right away, which annoyed Izuku even more. If Katsuki wanted to bother him at this hour, fine, but the least the blond could do was keep the conversation moving instead of vanishing after delivering a single insult. Seconds stretched into a minute, then two, and Izuku felt himself tapping his foot in growing impatience. When the silence became unbearable, he grabbed his phone again.

Izuku

y are u even awake

Katsuki

An idiot begged me for help with his fashion design project. He dragged me into his disaster. I hate him.

The response came quickly, as if Katsuki had been waiting for the question.

Izuku could practically hear the bitterness in those words. He could almost picture the scene with perfect clarity—Katsuki surrounded by fabric, swearing at a terrified classmate while stitching something with violent precision. The mental image eased Izuku’s mind just enough for him to type a response he probably wouldn’t have sent if he were in a worse mood.

Izuku

y are u even awake

Katsuki

An idiot begged me for help with his fashion design project. He dragged me into his disaster. I hate him.

Izuku

if he begged you he must have been desperate

Izuku

impressive, rlly

Katsuki

🖕🏻

Izuku let out a faint snort under his breath and leaned back in his chair, letting the tension slip out of his shoulders even if he hated acknowledging it. His fingers hovered over the keys before he typed again.

Izuku

in in a public study hub rn

Izuku

trying to survive the night

He expected Katsuki to respond immediately with a comment about Izuku’s destructive habits or his obsessive study behavior, but nothing appeared. Izuku stared at the blank screen for a few seconds, waiting for the typing indicator to show up, but Katsuki didn’t offer even that. He raised a brow, mildly thrown off by the sudden silence. Katsuki was not known for restraint, especially not in arguments or late-night conversations.

With a small shrug, Izuku dropped his phone back into the nest of scattered papers and forced himself to refocus on his textbook. He turned the page and tried to push through the next block of information. He managed only a few sentences before his phone buzzed again.

Izuku

in in a public study hub rn

Izuku

trying to survive the night

Katsuki

At this hour? Ew, nerd. I didn't ask, I do not care.

Katsuki 

What study hub.

"This motherfucker." The abruptness of the question made Izuku blink. Katsuki rarely phrased things in ways that felt genuinely curious, so the message carried enough weight to momentarily distract him from the textbook. He typed out a simple response, not sure what Katsuki intended to do with that information.

Izuku

in in a public study hub rn

Izuku

trying to survive the night

Katsuki

At this hour? Ew, nerd. I didn't ask, I do not care.

Katsuki

What study hub

Izuku

fuck u ure an ass

Izuku

im @ ridgepoint study commons

He expected another sarcastic response from Katsuki—something about his terrible time management or his chronic self-neglect. Instead, nothing came through. The chat stayed still. Izuku watched the screen for a moment, waiting for an insult, a complaint, or even another emoji, but nothing happened. Katsuki remained silent. Izuku’s confusion flickered again, but he pushed the feeling aside, deciding Katsuki had probably gone back to terrorizing whatever unfortunate student dragged him into their project.

“Huh,” he muttered, a touch thrown off. He tossed his phone onto the table, the device landing among loose sheets of notes, and returned to his textbook. The silence stretched again, and Izuku mentally cursed the universe for it.

He placed the phone face-down between his open notebooks and returned to reading, the overhead lights glaring down on him as he forced his tired brain to process another dense chapter. He sank into the quiet of the study hub, surrounded by equally exhausted students. Izuku adjusted his notes, ignored the lingering thoughts swirling behind his focus, and tried to pretend his night wouldn’t get any worse.

He should’ve known better. Because after a good hour and a half, his phone vibrated again.

The universe wasn’t finished with him yet.

Katsuki

You better not keep me waiting here outside if you don't want me to chuck a pile of cowshit at you.

Chapter Text

Izuku snapped his laptop shut the moment his phone buzzed against the edge of his notebook. The notification preview alone made his pulse spike.

This fucker.

He shoved loose papers into his bag frantically, the corners bending because he refused to waste another second arranging them before shoving his laptop next, the zipper catching twice before he yanked it closed with a frustrated exhale. He slung the bag over his shoulder before the zipper even closed entirely, letting it hang awkwardly as he nearly tripped over a chair in his haste. The other students barely glanced up, too far into their own academic misery to care that someone was fleeing the room at an unhealthy speed.

The study hub was nearly empty at this hour with only two other students still slumped over their desks with dead eyes and caffeine poisoning. He had been hunched over the same set of slides for hours, scribbling notes and rereading paragraphs that refused to stay in his brain. His shoulders ached, his neck throbbed, and his vision had started doing that irritating blur at the edges that signaled his exhaustion had reached a dangerous threshold. 

He told himself he would take a break after finishing the last problem set on hematology, but then another lecture summary pulled him in, and then a practice quiz, and then a set of flashcards Shoto insisted would help him. Not even when his stomach churned from eating nothing since lunch made him realize it was well past midnight. Not until a certain blonde decided to text him that he's waiting outside the study hub. 

He's crazy. Fucking crazy. 

He pushed through the doors into the cold night air, the temperature sharp enough to sting his eyes. The moment he stepped outside, the freezing air slapped him across the face, sharp enough to chase out a fraction of the exhaustion fogging his head. He rubbed his eyes, blinked several times, and then froze entirely.

A seemingly familiar black Porsche—expensive enough that he didn’t even bother trying to identify the model—sat idling in front of the building. Its headlights cut across the pavement in clean lines, and through the glare he saw the unmistakable silhouette of one person who refused to text beforehand before showing up.

It was none other than the fucker Katsuki Bakigou leaning against the driver’s side door with arms crossed and posture rigid with that specific brand of impatience that usually preceded threats. He looked like someone who had marched out of his internship, gotten into his car, and driven straight here with no hesitation. Izuku marched straight toward him, dumbfounded. “Are you insane?!”

Katsuki didn’t uncross his arms. “Get in.”

Izuku stopped in front of him, out of breath from the rush as the certain fatigue had finally turned into hallucinations. “It’s past midnight. What the hell are you doing here? Your city is an hour away—an hour—and you drove here for what? A jump scare? Do you not understand how unhinged that is?”

Katsuki’s eyebrows lowered in the exact way that signaled he was moments from calling Izuku dramatic. “You’re the one who’s insane. Studying until this hour? Are you trying to die?”

Izuku scoffed, rubbing the back of his neck because it ached again. “The subjects aren’t elementary worksheets. Of course I’m still studying. I’m barely done with anything. I still have protein structures to review, multiple choice sets to finish, and—”

“I don’t care,” Katsuki cut in, pushing off the door. “Get in the car. You’re done for the night.”

Izuku stood rooted to the pavement, clearly in disbelief. “I literally just told you I’m not finished. I have hours left. I can’t just drop everything because you showed up with your fancy car and your attitude.”

Katsuki stepped closer, not enough to crowd him physically, but enough to let Izuku know that he is stubborn and impossible to argue with. “You sit for hours until your brain stops functioning, then you wonder why you feel like garbage. Anyone can see you’re about to keel over.”

Izuku narrowed his eyes. “You’re lecturing me when you’re the one who drove here at midnight in a car that probably costs more than my future apartment.”

Katsuki scoffed. “I came here because you don’t take care of yourself.”

“That’s not your job.”

“Either this or you're getting thrown into an asylum.”

Izuku narrowed his eyes. “So your solution is kidnapping.”

“It’s called intervention.”

“That’s not intervention. That’s abduction.”

“Get in the car before I drag and throw you in myself.”

Izuku clenched his teeth, ready to argue again but Katsuki’s glare didn’t waver even a fraction. The blonde stood there without blinking, clearly serious, and clearly ready to escalate if Izuku didn’t comply. A few students exited the building behind Izuku and slowed at the sight of the Porsche, their attention snapping between the car and Katsuki, pretending not to stare at the tense standoff happening beside it. Izuku felt his temper spike. The last thing he needed was an audience for whatever this disaster was.

He refused to let Katsuki win the argument but also refused to let this turn into a spectacle. His shoulders sagged in a reluctant surrender as he swung his bag strap higher. “You’re impossible.”

Katsuki didn’t smile, but his chin lifted slightly with the satisfaction of someone winning an argument. A smug bitch he is. He opened the passenger door with a sharp tug, not giving Izuku the chance to rethink anything. “Get inside. You’re one comment away from being thrown in.”

Izuku glared at him but moved toward the open passenger door anyway. His body protested the movement, fatigue dragging each step, and finally slid into the seat. The plush interior only worsened his mood. Everything smelled clean and expensive, and what soured Izuku’s temper even more is that the entire car smelled like Katsuki. And the bastard sure does know how to smell fucking good. Izuku was sure he probably uses around 30 body wash in a single shower.

Katsuki shoved the door closed once Izuku was inside, circled the car, and slid into the driver’s seat. Izuku buckled up with a forceful click that expressed every bit of his frustration, adjusting it with a huff. He then glared at the closed glove compartment in front of him. “Normal people don’t drive across cities without warning.”

Katsuki started the car with a low rumble. “Normal people don’t study until they forget what day it is.”

Izuku stared at the windshield. “I’m not that bad.”

“Bullshit.”

Izuku opened his mouth to argue but stopped when he realized Katsuki had a point, not that he would ever admit that out loud. He closed his mouth with a tight click, sinking back into the seat. Katsuki pulled the car out of the parking lot, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift—which Izuku thinks is hot if only the fucker doesn't have a bullshit of an attitude. He pressed his fingers to his temple, trying to ease the throbbing pain behind his eyes.

Katsuki glanced at him briefly. “When was the last time you ate?”

Izuku exhaled slowly. “Lunch.”

Katsuki clicked his tongue. “You’re an idiot.”

Izuku lifted his brow. “You drove an hour past midnight to berate me. If anyone’s an idiot here, it’s not me.”

Katsuki gave him a sideways glare sharp enough to cut. “I came here because you’re an idiot who doesn’t know when to stop.”

Izuku stared forward. His exhaustion made everything impossibly heavy for him to handle—the choice of words, the tone of Katsuki’s voice, the stupid tension that always simmered between them. He wanted to argue and snap back with something petty, but the truth sat uncomfortably in his chest. He was clearly exhausted and obviously cranky. He had been pushing himself for days, and Katsuki standing outside the study hub in the freezing cold was probably his last straw.

He stared at the passing buildings, trying to focus on anything else. Until Katsuki’s voice broke the silence. “You’re going to eat something.”

“I didn’t agree to that.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Izuku sunk deeper into the seat. He let out another slow breath, too drained to fire back with a proper insult. Though despite all that, it all seeped into him before he could resist it. His thoughts drifted in uneven waves, circling the same exhausting truths he never wanted Katsuki to notice. He hated how much calmer he felt in the car. He hated how relieved he was that Katsuki came. He hated the silent reassurance Katsuki provided without acknowledging it.

He hated every bit of it because it meant Shoto had been right.

#

The glow spilling from the convenience store windows felt unusually comforting after the hours he had spent trapped in academic misery. The moment he stepped inside, the warmth from the heaters and the sight of stocked shelves hit him at once. Rows of packaged meals, steaming food behind glass, drinks lined up neatly. The faint smell of warm food drifting from the store hit him, and Izuku’s stomach clenched so sharply that he frowned down at himself. Apparently his hunger had finally decided to make itself known after being suppressed for hours

All of it reminded him just how long he had been running on nothing. And for a college student like Izuku who seemingly consumes either 2 boiled eggs or cheap cup of noodles to survive the entire day because he was too busy shoving his nose on textbooks and slides and thinks he has no luxury to waste any more time and that includes cooking home-cooked, actual meals—this was absolute heaven.

Shelves were stocked with instant meals, snacks, bottled drinks, and enough ramen varieties to feed an entire dorm. Izuku didn’t even bother pretending he wasn’t impressed. He stood at the entrance for a moment, absorbing the sight of ready-to-eat meals and warm pastries sitting behind heated glass panels.

Katsuki raised an eyebrow. “You look starved.”

Izuku huffed. “I forgot. That doesn’t mean you get to comment.”

Katsuki snorted and grabbed a basket near the counter, tossing another into Izuku’s chest without warning. Izuku caught it against his ribs, glaring again. “You could hand things like a functioning adult.”

“I don’t want to,” Katsuki replied, already heading for the aisles. “I enjoy being difficult.”

Izuku followed, eyes darting to the neatly arranged shelves. His hunger overrode his sour mood faster than he liked to admit. He grabbed a pack of chicken katsu, a cup of chicken soup, a bottle of tea, and a pack of rice balls. Everything looked edible at this hour, and he wasn’t in the mood to pretend he had standards. 

Katsuki, on the other hand, went straight for the instant noodles with neon-red packaging and spice warnings printed on the side. He tossed two different brands into his own basket that made Izuku stare at him.

“That could kill someone,” Izuku pointed out, eyeing the labels. “I don’t understand how you consume anything that aggressively spicy. Your tongue is probably numb.”

Katsuki shot him a deadpan look while adding a second pack. “These are nothing.”

“The packaging is practically screaming. A normal human being would combust.”

“Good thing I’m not normal.”

Izuku clicked his tongue. “You brag about the strangest things.”

Katsuki gave him a sour expression. “Stay out of my basket unless you want to get punched.”

Izuku lifted his chin. “I’m just pointing out that your choices concern me. At this point I’m convinced you have no functioning taste buds.”

“That why you keep staring?” Katsuki asked. “Didn’t know you were fascinated with my tongue.”

Izuku nearly choked on air and immediately turned away, shoving a boxed meal into his basket more forcefully. “Your ego is unbearable.”

Katsuki shrugged. “You’re the one talking about my mouth.”

Izuku clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to throw a pack of chips at him. The bickering continued all the way to the counter, neither of them willing to give an inch. By the time they reached the register, the cashier—a young man who looked as though he had been awake for far too long, heavy eyebags, and an expression that suggested he regretted every life decision that led him to this night shift—looked between them warily.

Katsuki set his basket down first. Izuku set his beside it and dug into his pocket for his wallet, reaching for his card. Before he could slide it out fully, Katsuki slapped his hand away with a sharp smack that echoed louder than it needed to. Izuku glared. “What is wrong with you?”

“You’re not paying.”

“I can pay for my own food.”

“No.”

“That’s not an explanation.”

“I don’t care. Put it away.”

Izuku ignored Katsuki’s words and tried again, shifting his hand toward the card slot, only for Katsuki to swat his hand aside with a scowl. “Stop fighting me. I’m not letting you pay for everything,” Izuku said, refusing to back down. “I didn’t ask you to buy my dinner.”

Izuku moved his hand toward the reader again, stubborn enough to see this through, only for Katsuki to intercept him once more with a shove to the wrist. “Stop being difficult.”

“You’re the one being unreasonable. I didn’t ask for you to cover anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Didn't ask for your goddamn opinion.” Katsuki leaned forward with enough presence to make Izuku step back. “Put the card down or I’ll take your wallet. I’m paying.”

“I told you, you don't have to.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It does. I’m not arguing.”

“You are literally arguing.”

The poor cashier cleared his throat, exhausted eyes darting between them, clearly praying to every higher being that this wouldn’t escalate. His eyes flicked to the security camera as though silently apologizing to whatever employee would review the footage later. They stayed locked in that standoff long enough for the cashier to blink several times, silently questioning if he should call security or simply pretend he didn’t exist. 

Izuku contemplated the argument for a few seconds longer, ready to launch into a full rant, but Katsuki had already shoved his own card into the reader with enough force to show he was done negotiating. Izuku reached forward again out of sheer stubbornness and was promptly blocked by Katsuki’s palm flat against his chest. Katsuki paid, snatched the bag from the counter, and shoved it into Izuku’s arms as if to finalize the victory.

Izuku glared at him through the plastic handles. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Good,” Katsuki said. “Now sit your stubborn ass down before you pass out.”

They walked to the small dining area beside the drink machines after prepping their meal (accompanied by more bickering, of course). It consisted of two metal tables and mismatched chairs that squeaked whenever someone sat on it, but Izuku couldn't care less. He was starving and he was ready to chow down his food in a single bite.

Katsuki dropped into a seat and tore open the lid of his instant noodles, the steam rising quickly. Izuku sat across from him, unpacking his own food with tired hands. The warmth of the meal settled something tense inside him. His hunger surged, forcing him to eat almost immediately, though he tried to hide just how desperately he needed it.

Katsuki ripped open the lid of his spicy noodles and stirred the contents with a glare aimed at the steam rising from the container. “Don’t spill anything.”

Izuku didn’t even look up. “Why would I spill anything?”

“Because you eat messy.”

Izuku snapped his gaze up. “I do not eat messy.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I don’t.”

“You do,” Katsuki insisted, tapping his chopsticks against the side of the container.. “I’m not letting you in my car if you start slobbering everywhere.”

Izuku stared at him, offended beyond reason. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“It means you’re clumsy. And you’d get sauce on the seats.”

Izuku stabbed his chopsticks into the chicken katsu with a scowl. “I’m not a pig.”

Katsuki shrugged. “That’s questionable.”

Izuku reached across the table and punched Katsuki’s shoulder, enough to make a point. Katsuki didn’t flinch, only scoffed while stirring his noodles. Izuku muttered under his breath, stabbing a piece of chicken katsu. “I should’ve let you choke on your spice packets.”

“You wish,” Katsuki replied, lifting his noodles. “You talk too much for someone running on fumes.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t be running on fumes if certain blondes didn’t drag me out in the middle of the night.”

“You were already falling apart. I just prevented the collapse. I know, I'm fucking awesome. You're fucking welcome.”

Izuku took another bite, trying and failing to hide how much better he felt with actual food in his system. The convenience store’s cheap tables, flickering lights, and stale air shouldn’t have been comforting. Yet somehow the simple act of eating, sitting across from Katsuki, and not drowning in coursework made his shoulders relax in a way he hadn’t experienced all week.

#

The walk back to the car carried a strange shift in Izuku’s mood, one he didn’t notice until they were halfway across the parking lot and he caught himself humming under his breath. His body felt lighter, his shoulders no longer dragging down as if weighted by every lecture he had tried to cram into his skull. The food had settled in his stomach and wiped away the worst of his attitude.

Only fifteen minutes earlier he had been ready to throw Katsuki into incoming traffic, and now he was fighting back a stupid urge to feel grateful. Katsuki, of course, an observant bastard he is, picked up on it almost immediately. Izuku saw the exact moment Katsuki glanced at him, saw the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, saw the suspicion forming, eyes narrowing as if Izuku had committed some crime by appearing even slightly content.

Katsuki clicked the key fob and stopped in front of the passenger door, staring at him as if Izuku had suddenly sprouted horns. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Izuku blinked, confused only for a second before his frown settled back into place. “What?”

“You were miserable ten minutes ago,” Katsuki said, unlocking the car with a sharp click. “Now you’re acting like someone dumped sunshine on your head. You’re unstable.”

Izuku scoffed as he slid into the passenger seat. “You act like food doesn’t change people’s lives.”

Katsuki shut the door harder than he should, climbed into the driver’s side, and tossed a judgmental stare across the interior. “Not in that amount of time. You have a problem.”

Izuku fastened his seatbelt, rolling his eyes. “You’re the one who dragged me out to eat. This is your fault.”

“It’s concerning,” Katsuki muttered, starting the engine. “I’m sending you to a doctor.”

Izuku let out a loud exhale. “Oh, shut up. You’re dramatic.”

Katsuki shot him a glare as he pulled out of the parking lot. “You’re the dramatic one. I bring you food and suddenly you’re a functioning human being again.”

Izuku smirked despite himself. “See? You admit I’m functioning.”

“That’s debatable.”

Izuku shrugged, settling into the seat comfortably, feeling the warmth from the car heater seep into his bones. He relaxed without his own permission, and that alone made him irritated again. He refused to show it, though. He was too tired to fight another pointless battle, because the certain blonde bastard sitting next to him does not know how to back down, unfortunately for Izuku.

Katsuki’s voice cut through his thoughts soon enough. “What’s your address?”

Izuku stared at him, deadpan. “Wow. Straight to the kidnapping site.”

Katsuki raised a brow. “Do you want to walk?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then put your address in.” Katsuki held out his phone, screen glowing with the blank GPS input. “Unless you want me to take you to a forest.”

Izuku snorted, grabbing the phone. “You’re threatening me with nature? Pathetic.”

“I’m threatening you with murder,” Katsuki corrected. “Hurry up.”

Izuku entered the address with a huff before handing the phone back. “There. And if I end up missing tomorrow, I’ll make sure the police check your basement.”

“I don’t need a basement. I have a car.”

Izuku stared at him, unimpressed. “You need therapy.”

Katsuki ignored him entirely, letting the GPS load before driving onto the main road. The air in the car settled quietly, broken occasionally by the faint buzz of the AC, and the sound of Izuku’s breathing that he had been struggling to keep it steady for the past five minutes. He hated that Katsuki noticed every small shift in his mood, hated that Katsuki silently glanced over at him every few minutes as if checking he wasn’t about to pass out. Izuku told himself it was annoying, nothing more. Definitely nothing to think deeply about.

The drive back to his apartment was faster than he expected. Before he could fully register it, Katsuki was already pulling up in front of Izuku’s building, headlights casting long shadows across the pavement. Izuku unbuckled his seatbelt slowly, hesitating for a moment before turning to Katsuki. “Thanks,” he said, eyes darting everywhere but the man beside him. “For the food. And the drive. And… whatever.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes so hard Izuku was surprised he didn’t strain it. “Don’t get sappy.”

Izuku glared immediately. “I wasn’t being sappy.”

“You sounded sappy.”

“Oh my god, I—”

Katsuki cut him off by reaching across the console and ruffling Izuku’s hair with his entire hand, fingers threading through the curls with enough force to pull a sharp gasp out of him. He shoved Izuku’s head to the side before leaning back in his seat.

“Don’t die,” Katsuki said, lifting his middle finger without breaking eye contact. “I don’t have time to deal with your funeral.”

Izuku blinked, stunned at the sudden physical contact, and the even more jarring warmth spreading down his neck. He managed to snap out of it enough to flip Katsuki off right back. “Don’t worry. I’ll haunt you.”

“You already do.”

Izuku scoffed, grabbed his bag, and shoved the door open. His feet hit the pavement, and he glanced back just in time to see Katsuki watching him with an expression that bordered on annoyed concern before starting the car again. Izuku barely managed five steps toward the entrance before he felt a rush of embarrassment crawl up his neck.

Izuku marched through the halls, fighting the urge to grip his chest because it felt ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, that his heart had decided now was the perfect time to start racing again. The heat climbing up his neck didn’t help either. Katsuki’s hand had been warm. Katsuki’s cologne had been stronger in the car. Katsuki’s face had been entirely too close.

Izuku wanted to rip his hair out. 

By the time he reached the elevator, the sensation hadn’t faded. If anything, it sank deeper. Sure, Katsuki was handsome. Anyone with functioning eyes could see that. The stupid blonde hair looked good on him. His jawline made no sense. His stupid height and stupid shoulders and stupid large hands all made no sense. And he smelled good. Far too good. Sweet, warm, and delightful in a way that didn’t match his temper.

Izuku pressed—punched—the elevator button forcefully before stepping in when the doors opened. The ride up didn’t help. The heat under his skin refused to fade.

And Izuku hated how aware he was of all of it.

The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open, and Izuku stepped out into the hallway. He still couldn’t shake the heat crawling across his skin as it clung to him like the consequences of a bad decision.

He stopped dead in his tracks the moment he unlocked and opened his apartment door. He found a familiar figure sitting on the couch, wrapped in pajamas, sipping from a mug with absolute serenity despite being the reason Izuku was forced to study alone earlier. His dear Shoto glanced up slowly, hair mussed and eyes half lidded in that perpetually bored manner.

“So,” Shoto said, voice mild but carrying weight. “Bakugou.”

Izuku closed the door behind him with the force of someone contemplating slamming his head against the wall. “Don’t even start.”

Shoto tilted his head. “I’m not starting anything.”

“You are absolutely starting something.” Izuku pointed a finger at him, dropping his bag to the floor. “You ditched me. You said studying ruined your sleep. Why are you awake?”

Shoto tapped his mug with his finger. “I was asleep. Then I woke up because my body said it was time.”

Izuku stared. “Nature called. In the middle of the night. Convenient.”

Shoto nodded. “It was urgent.”

Izuku threw his hands up. “Whatever.”

“I walked out of the bathroom,” Shoto continued calmly, “and from the window, I saw a very familiar green haired boy exit a very expensive car. With a very familiar blonde person sitting inside the very expensive car.”

Izuku pinched the bridge of his nose, praying for patience he did not have. “It’s not what you think.”

Shoto sipped from his mug. “I didn’t say what I thought.”

“Then don’t.”

Shoto blinked once. “Interesting.”

Izuku groaned—long, dramatic, and full of regret—before dragging himself toward his room. Of course Shoto found it interesting. Everyone found it interesting. Everyone except Izuku, who was currently fighting the urge to combust.