Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The green room smelled like stale beer, sweat, and Kirishima’s disgusting body spray. Their band—Dynamight—had just finished a sold-out show in Osaka, and the adrenaline was still crackling.

Kaminari flopped onto the couch, legs over the armrest. “Man, I love tour breaks. Two weeks off starting tomorrow. I’m going straight to Okinawa with Jirou. Beaches, girls, zero responsibilities, I'm going to live life the way god intended.”

“Respectable,” Sero said, taping up a ripped poster for fun. “I’m hiking Fuji again with my cousins. Spiritual reset, bro.”

Katsuki was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, scrolling his phone typing furiously. 

“Katsuki what about you?"

Silence.

Kirishima perked up. “Yeah, man! Have you guys ever thought of the fact that we don't have any idea what Katsuki does over breaks?"

All heads turned.

“Tch.” He didn’t look up. “None of your damn business.”

Kirishima gasped, “See? This is what I’m talking about! We’ve been in this band for a whole year and we know literally nothing about his personal life. Zero childhood stories. Zero family vacations. Zero exes. Nothing!”

Katsuki turned back to his phone.

Mina narrowed her eyes. “Is it… illegal? Are you secretly in witness protection?”

“No.”

“Are you training with some underground fight club?” Kaminari tried. It made sense. They’d all seen Katsuki shirtless before—backstage quick-changes, hotel rooms, that one time the air-conditioning died in Nagoya and he’d stripped off his soaked tank top mid-soundcheck without a single fuck to give. The entire crew had gone quiet. Not because it was weird or anything but because holy shit.

The guy was carved. Not just “hits the gym” carved; we’re talking obscene amounts of muscle packed onto a frame that shouldn’t legally be allowed to hold it. Shoulders that looked like they could definitely bench-press a van, and Kaminari could go on forever about those abs despite being very much into girls.

On stage it was worse. The second the lights hit him, shirt half-unbuttoned or ripped off entirely by the encore, the crowd lost their damn minds. Phone lights turned into a screaming ocean. Girls (and guys too) were throwing bras, letters, once a whole bouquet of roses that Katsuki had thrown back into the crows because “it was blocking my pedal, fuck off.” Security had to form a human wall after every show just to keep fans from climbing the barricade trying to touch him.

So yeah, the idea that he was sneaking off to beat the hell out of something after hours didn’t sound that far-fetched.

Mina’s eyes were sparkling. “Oh my god, imagine him in those tiny fight shorts—”

“No.” Katsuki snapped. 

“Nah, nah, hear him out. Secret fight club would explain why he’s always so pissed. Adrenaline withdrawals.”

Kirishima rubbed his chin, pretending to be deep in thought. “It’d be super manly, gotta admit. But… it doesn’t quite fit. He’d brag about it if he was beating people up for sport. Our Bakugou? He’d tattoo the win record on his forehead.”

“There is no fucking fight club!” Katsuki finally roared, slamming his phone down.

“You extras watch too many damn movies!”

But the damage was done. The idea was planted.

For the rest of the night, every time Katsuki growled or flexed or did literally anything, someone whispered “fight club” under their breath and dissolved into snickers.

He threatened to murder all of them at least seven times before they finally moved onto a new idea.

“Visiting your secret evil twin in prison?” Kaminari threw out, wiggling his eyebrows at him.

Sero snorted. “Wait. Wouldn’t Bakugou be the evil one?”

“Die.”

Kaminari threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, but hear me out! Why is it that you're soooo much more grumpier when you're back? Do you not relax over break?!"

“Secret girlfriend,” Sero announced triumphantly after a while. “That’s the only explanation. He goes to see some mysterious rich heiress who keeps him in a gilded cage for two weeks and sends him back angrier than before.”

Kaminari’s eyes went wide. “Oh my god, there's no way Bakugou is in a relationship, look at him bro."

Eventually the chaos dialed down to background giggles and the occasional “gilded cage” muttered under someone’s breath just to watch Bakugou’s scowl deepen.

“Fine,” Sero said at last, wiping his eyes. “We surrender. No secret sugar mommy. You’re just naturally this pleasant.”

“Tch.” Bakugou dropped back onto the couch, arms crossed so tight his sleeves creaked. “Order food before I blow the kitchen up.”

“Pizza?” Mina asked, already pulling out her phone.

“All the seasoning packets for Bakugou,” Kaminari sing-songed.

“Order it and die,” Bakugou said without heat this time.

Forty minutes later the common room smelled like garlic knots and pepperoni. They ate sprawled across every surface—Kaminari and Sero on the floor sharing a box, Kirishima demolishing an entire large by himself.

By ten-thirty the boxes were stacked, the trash was bagged (Bakugou’s doing), and the lights were dimming. Tomorrow everybody was leaving to celebrate their well earned break and almost everyone had an early flight or an early train.

One by one they drifted upstairs. Kirishima punched Bakugou’s shoulder lightly on the way past. “Night, man. Try not to dream about your mystery heiress.”

Bakugou flipped him off.

“You good, man?” Kirishima asked Sero who had flung himself on the couch the minute he had entered.

“No,” came the muffled reply from the depths of the couch. “I am not good. I spent nine days trapped in a minivan with my cousins. Nine. Days. They discovered reggaeton two weeks ago and decided volume knobs don't exist. My aunt made us do ‘family karaoke’ every night. Every. Night. They put me on tambourine, Eijiro. Tambourine. I’m the bassist. I have a custom five-string that cost more than their car and they handed me a plastic egg filled with beads.”

Mina cackled as she petted Sero's hair pitfully.

Denki sat up, grinning like a shark. “Dude, you should’ve just come with me. Day three some dude offered us his yacht if we played Wonderwall acoustic at sunset. We did it like twice. I’m basically famous on that beach now. They named a smoothie after me too! It’s pineapple and coconut I think."

Kirishima dropped into the beanbag across from him, elbows on his knees. “Okay, so—when’s Katsuki getting back? Anyone hear from him?”

“No. Last thing he texted was ‘don’t touch my stuff,’ which is not news and also not helpful.”

"I mean we still have a couple days before we have to get back to work." put in Jirou.

Denki pointed a lazy finger in the air. “—Which brings us back to what he was even doing all break. There wasn't a single text from him all break, which is not unusual but he didn't even read any of our messages.”

Mina perked up, eyes bright. “Alright, alright, let’s go over a few things first. We know it's not his parents. Remember when we met his mom backstage after Tokyo and she was yelling at him for never coming over even once during breaks? Can't be her."

“Right,” Kirishima nodded. “And two, he doesn’t have siblings he’d be visiting. Or cousins. Or any extended family he actually knows.”

Denki leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “I’m telling you, secret girlfriend. Rich older woman. She whisked him away on a private jet and he’s been living out some weird sugar-baby fantasy this whole time.”

“Ten thousand yen says when he walks through that door he’s either (a) tanned and suspiciously well-rested, (b) covered in mysterious bruises, or (c) followed by an entire legal team because he blew up something he definitely wasn’t supposed to.”

The theories got wilder and dumber until even Mina ran out of steam. Someone turned the lights down, someone else threw a blanket over Sero (who was already half-dead on the couch), and within twenty minutes they were all passed out as the exhaustion of the days' travels settled down on them. Denki was snoring with his mouth open, Kirishima had one arm flung over Mina, and there was pin drop silence. 

They woke up a couple hours later to the sound of keys turning.

The door creaked open.

Kirishima blinked awake first, hair squashed on one side, and nudged Mina with his foot. Sero surfaced from sleep with a confused grunt.

Katsuki stepped inside, hoodie up, duffel bag slung over one shoulder. The overhead light caught him for half a second and every single one of them (even mostly asleep) registered the same thing at once. He looked kinda... sad.

Red eyes dulled, mouth set in a line that wasn’t a scowl so much as a surrender.

“Welcome back man.” Kirishima said, smiling at him like usual.

Katsuki gave the smallest nod. Barely a dip of his chin.

Then he walked straight past them, boots dragging, and disappeared down the hall. A second later his door slammed shut.

The four of them stared after him, suddenly very awake.

"Hey, um, should we check in?"

"Are you insane, no way. Let's just wait till dinner."

Katsuki didn’t come down for dinner.

Eventually Kirishima volunteered. “I’ll take him a plate."

Upstairs, he knocked softly, then opened the door just a crack.

He froze.

There was an empty bowl on the desk already—he had eaten, at least, which was a relief.

It was unlike Bakugou to skip meals.

Bakugou himself was pacing, phone jammed against his ear, free hand dragging through his hair hard enough to leave red lines on his scalp.

“Yeah—yeah, don’t turn it off—what the fuck, I told you—no, listen—"

He sounded… upset. Desperate in a way Kirishima had never heard. Katsuki glanced over his shoulder, and flicked his fingers in a clear get out. 

Kirishima backed up without a word, pulling the door shut with a soft click. He stood there a second, tray still in his hands. When he heard Katsuki voice again—"Deku, please, you know that's not what I—"

Kirishima turned around immediately. As much as he was interested to know more about his friend, he felt uncomfortable eavsdropping this way. He made hsi way downstairs ideas running through his mind.

“Well?” Mina demanded.

Kirishima ran a hand through his hair. “Guys,” he said, leaning in, voice low and breathless, “I think it absolutely is a secret girlfriend.”

"WHAT?"

Kirishima nodded solemnly. “He was on the phone. And he sounded… emotional. Like upset-upset. And he was telling them not to turn it off.”

“Not to turn what off?” Denki asked dramatically.

“I don’t know, his phone probably,” Kirishima hissed. “But the bowl on his desk was empty. He ate—which means he was awake. And he didn’t yell at me. He just—signaled to leave.”

“Secret girlfriend,” Kaminari said, slamming his fist into his palm like he’d solved world hunger. “It’s gotta be.”

“Definitely,” Mina squealed, grabbing Jirou’s arm. 

Denki raised a finger. “Counterpoint: what if it’s not a girlfriend—what if it’s, like… his secret crime boss mentor?”

Sero pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bro. Why would he cry over a crime boss?”

Denki shrugged. “Toxic work environment?”

Jirou deadpanned, “That’s literally this band.”

“I’m just saying,” Denki shrugged again, “Bakugou hasn’t exactly shown any interest in anyone. Ever. Like, romantically.”

"It could be because he's taken?"

They stayed up far too long, their whispering theories about Bakugou's alleged love life until Mina had fully constructed a fictionalized rom-com in her head and Sero was begging her to publish it.

Eventually, exhaustion smothered their commentary again, this time from dinner. Nobody even bothered moving to their actual rooms. They just… passed out where they sat.

Kirishima fell asleep last, staring at the hallway where Katsuki’s door sat closed, wondering, not for the first time, what kind of person could shake him like that.

The apartment slipped into silence.

Knock knock knock.

A sharp, hurried rap at the front door.

Denki jerked awake so violently he whacked his knee on the table. “Ow—what—who—what time is it?"

(8:17 a.m., according to the clock on the microwave)

Sero emerged from beneath the beanbag looking confused. “Did we order breakfast? Please say we ordered breakfast.”

Mina rubbed her eyes, hair sticking up in five different directions. “We were all asleep Sero. And Bakugou would never order takeout twice in a row.”

Denki shuffled toward the entryway. He peeked through the peephole—

—and froze.

“Um,” he said, voice cracking. “Guys?”

Sero groaned. “What now?”

Denki swallowed.

“Why is Midoriya Izuku standing at our doorstep?"

For a full three seconds, nobody moved.

Then—

“WHAT?!” Mina's shriek was muffled by Kirishima throwing his hands over her mouth.

Denki staggered back from the door like he’d just seen a ghost. “I’m not kidding! It’s him! Green hair, freckles, the—he looks exactly like the leaked grainy photos from that airport sighting last year!”

Sero scrambled upright. “No way. No way. Why would MIDORIYA IZUKU be at our door?!”

Denki danced in place with both hands over his mouth. “What do we do? Do we let him in? Do we wake Bakugou? Do we pretend we’re not home? Do we ask for an autograph—”

“Mina,” Jirou cut in, pinching her nose, “you answer the door. You’re the least likely to say something stupid.”

Mina threw her arms up. “I take offense to that!”

Another sharp knock rattled the door.

Kirishima’s heart was punching his ribs now. “Okay—okay game plan. We open the door, act normal, and—”

“Morning!” Mina chirped far too brightly as she swung the door open.

Kirishima nearly facepalmed.

Standing in the hallway was Midoriya Izuku in a hoodie, messy curls, backpack slung over one shoulder and dark circles under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days. Up close he looked nothing like the elusive genius myth the industry whispered about—he looked human, nervous, exhausted.

And determined.

“Um—hi,” Izuku said, voice soft but steady. “Is Kacchan here?”

“Is… is Kacchan here?”

Katsuki froze in the doorway of his room, one arm still halfway in the sleeve.

His heart stopped, lurched, then started hammering so hard he could hear it in his ears.

What the fuck.

What the actual fuck is the nerd doing here?

He had imagined this moment a hundred times on the train ride home last night: Izuku showing up, Izuku forgiving him, Izuku kissing him stupid in the doorway like some shitty rom-com. And every single time Katsuki had told himself it wouldn’t happen. That Izuku was too stubborn, too hurt, too proud to chase him across the country just because Katsuki had thrown a tantrum and said things he didn’t mean.

They had spent a wonderful month together. Before things went to shit.

Mornings where Katsuki woke up first (always), because Izuku slept like the dead once he actually let himself relax. Katsuki would lie there for long minutes, propped on one elbow, tracing the freckles across Izuku’s nose with his eyes, memorizing the way his lashes fluttered when he dreamed. Sometimes he’d brush green curls off Izuku’s forehead just to feel the softness against his fingertips. Izuku always made this tiny contented sound in his sleep and burrowed closer, one arm flopping over Katsuki’s waist like it belonged there.

Izuku took his coffee with an obscene amount of milk and two sugars, but only if Katsuki made it. If he made it himself he drank it black like a psychopath. They fought over it every morning (quiet, fond bickering that always ended with Izuku stealing sips from Katsuki’s mug and Katsuki pretending to be annoyed while letting him).

and Afternoons where they ended up on the couch with a documentary playing in the background while Izuku slowly pressed kisses onto his back talking to him so, so lovingly.

There were lazy afternoons in bed where they didn’t bother getting dressed at all. Izuku tracing every scar on Katsuki’s torso with gentle fingers and softer questions. Katsuki kissing every freckle he could reach, mapping constellations across Izuku’s shoulders until Izuku was trembling and pliant beneath him, whispering please and Kacchan and I love you like prayers.

Evenings where Katsuki cooked and Izuku cut vegetables just a little slower than necessary because he was talking too much, his hands moving in the air to match every excited story.

(They cooked together, badly. Izuku was banned from anything involving open flames after the Great Takoyaki Incident of Month Two of their relationship, but he was slowly allowed to chop vegetables if Katsuki hovered behind him with both arms around his waist, chin on his shoulder, pretending to supervise but really just breathing him in.)

There was one night it rained so hard the streets turned into rivers. They got trapped under a convenience store awning and Izuku had looked up at him with raindrops clinging to his lashes. His freckles stood out darker against his damp skin, his lips parted just a little as he caught his breath, and there was this soft, open look in his eyes that made the rest of the storm feel far away. Katsuki’s brain short-circuited the second Izuku looked up at him. 

Midoriya Izuku was breathtaking. 

Katsuki coulnd't help thinking, that if he died right then, staring at Izuku drenched and radiant and looking at him like Katsuki was the only thing left on earth, he’d go out the luckiest bastard who ever lived.

Izuku giggled and tilted his head, “Kiss me like the movies, Kacchan.”

So Katsuki did. Slow and deep and filthy, one hand cupping Izuku’s jaw, the other braced against the wall behind him, until they were both breathless and soaked and laughing against each other’s mouths like idiots. And if anyone saw them right now, Katsuki wouldn't even care. He’d just kiss that laughing mouth shut while the rain kept falling, falling, like the heavens were jealous and trying to drown him for looking at something so unfairly, perfectly beautiful.

Nights where they lay on Izuku’s rooftop making love under the stars. They'd come up here with blankets and Izuku had talked and talked and Katsuki had drank it all in.

Eventually the talking stopped.

Eventually Izuku rolled over and kissed him like he was starving for it, slow and deep, hands sliding under Katsuki’s tank top to map muscle and scar tissue like he was trying to memorize him all over again. Katsuki kissed back harder, always harder, rolling them so Izuku was beneath him, blanket bunching under Izuku’s shoulders, city lights flickering gold in green eyes.

They learned each other by starlight.

The way Izuku’s breath hitched when Katsuki mouthed along his throat, the way his fingers dug into blond hair when Katsuki sank his teeth gently into the join of neck and shoulder. The soft, broken sounds Izuku made when Katsuki opened him up slow and careful with lube-slick fingers, the way he arched and whispered Kacchan like a prayer every time Katsuki pressed inside. (Katsuki didn't know he did the same.)

Katsuki learned to go slow (something he’d never been good at in any other part of his life). He learned how to take Izuku apart with his mouth alone, how to crook his fingers just right until Izuku was shaking and muffling moans against his own forearm so the neighbors wouldn’t hear. Learned the exact movements that made Izuku’s eyes roll back and his thighs clamp around Katsuki’s hips like he never wanted to let go.

And Izuku (quiet, thoughtful, beautiful Izuku) learned how to wreck Katsuki right back. Learned how to sink to his knees on the blanket and take Katsuki into his mouth like it was worship, green eyes (god, those eyes) were darker than Katsuki had ever seen them, pupils blown wide, green reduced to a thin ring of wildfire, locked on Katsuki’s the whole time, freckles stark against flushed skin in the moonlight. Learned how to ride him slow and deep, hands braced on Katsuki’s chest, rolling his hips in a way that made Katsuki see stars brighter than the ones above them. Only when Katsuki was trembling on the edge did Izuku pull off, lips swollen and shining, and crawl up his body pressing tiny butterfly kisses as he went up.

After, they’d stay tangled together, sweat cooling on their skin, blanket kicked to the edge of the roof. Izuku always ended up with his head on Katsuki’s chest, ear over his heart, tracing idle patterns through the dusting of blond hair there.

Some nights it was Izuku who took the lead, pressing Katsuki down onto the blanket with a shy (devastating, thought Katsuki) smile.

He’d kiss Katsuki until his head spun, hands gentle but sure as he opened him up, murmuring praise against sweat-damp skin—“You’re so beautiful, Kacchan, you’re perfect, let me take care of you.” Katsuki would curse and arch and cling to Izuku’s shoulders and let himself be taken, let Izuku sink into him slow and deep, let himself be ridden until he was shaking and gasping Izuku’s name into the dark like it was the only word he knew. Afterward Izuku would hold him through the aftershocks, kissing the tears Katsuki pretended weren’t there, whispering I’ve got you, I’ve got you until Katsuki could breathe again.

Some nights they didn’t even make it to sex. Some nights they just lay there, legs tangled, counting shooting stars and making quiet promises.

“I’m gonna buy you the moon,” Katsuki muttered, half-asleep, Izuku’s back to his chest, arms wrapped around him from behind. It's something he said out of habit now, after constantly declaring it their entire childhood. Izuku had made him say it way past the age they both understood it wasn't possible and he still loved to hear Kacchan say it.

The first time Katsuki ever said it, they were five and lying on the grass behind Izuku’s apartment building, on a sticky summer night. The cicadas were louder than the TV.

Izuku had his tiny All Might notebook open on his chest, but he wasn’t writing. He was staring straight up, eyes wide, mouth parted rambling on and and on about everything that happened in his day.

“Kacchan,” he’d whispered, reverent. “Do you think the moon’s lonely up there? It’s so pretty. I wish I could keep it.”

Katsuki, already half-annoyed at how easily Izuku got lost in things, kicked at the dirt. “It’s just a rock, idiot.”

But Izuku kept looking. Every night after dinner, if the sky was clear, he’d drag Katsuki outside. “Come on, Kacchan! The moon’s out again tonight. Look how big it is!”

Katsuki went because Izuku asked, and because secretly he liked how Izuku’s whole face lit up silver under it, freckles glowing like someone spilled stars across his cheeks.

One night Izuku sighed, dramatic and five-year-old tragic. “When I grow up I’m gonna live somewhere I can see it all the time. It’s my favorite thing.”

Katsuki scowled at the sky.

“Fine. When I’m in the biggest band in the world, I'll have loads on money and I’m gonna buy you the damn moon so you can stop whining about it.”

Little Izuku had gasped, rolled over, and tackled him in a hug. “Really, Kacchan? You’d do that for me?”

"Obviously.”

It became their thing.

Every time the moon was full and Izuku’s eyes went soft, Katsuki would mutter it again.

Every time Izuku had a bad day, he’d find Katsuki after school, and whisper, “Kacchan… is the moon still mine?”

And Katsuki, no matter how pissed he was at the world, would always hug him and answer the same.

“Still got your name on it, nerd. Not going anywhere.”

They grew up and the world got uglier. But the moon remained Izuku's.

“Still gonna buy you the moon one day.” Katsuki would say, when they were walking back home after a fight.

Izuku would laugh, wet and broken and healing. “I know, Kacchan. You’ve only been promising since we were five.”

“You still like looking at it?” Katsuki always asked, like he was scared the answer might’ve changed.

Izuku would turn in his arms, and say yes, nose bumping Katsuki’s, and whisper, “It’s not my favourite thing anymore though.”

"Oh." Katsuki would look down, expression turning sour. Izuku would laugh and call him silly Kacchan, saying 'Looking at you is my favourite thing now, Kacchan.'

And Katsuki would go red.

(Izuku twisted just enough to kiss him, sleepy and sweet.)

Up above them, the moon hangs full and smug, like it knew all along.

They fought once the whole month (tiny, stupid, stupid thing). It ended the same way it always does: slammed doors, ten minutes of stubborn silence, then one of them caving and crawling into the other’s lap with mumbled apologies and kisses that tasted like forgiveness.

He edged toward the corner, heart thudding in a way he absolutely refused to label as anything other than irritation. Definitely not relief. Definitely not that weird twist he always got when he hadn’t seen Izuku in a while. Definitely not anything humiliating.

He tried to breathe, but all he could think about was the last fight they had before Katsuki had left.

Izuku casually dropping, oh by the way I’m leaving for a world tour with All Might again soon and...

Like it didn’t matter that Katsuki had built his whole rhythm of the week around seeing him. Like it didn’t matter that he’d only found out right before he was supposed to leave for the night. They’d argued. Katsuki throwing every accusation he could find, Izuku firing back with that surprisingly sharp anger he hid under all the politeness. Even mid fight Katsuki was grateful to be the one to see all of Izuku's sides. No one knew Midoriya Izuku better than he did. Izuku hadn’t back down. He never did with Katsuki. His voice was tight, his jaw set, his hands moving in those short, irritated gestures he only ever showed when he was tired or frustrated or when Katsuki had gotten too close to a nerve.

He kept saying it wasn’t fair to blame him, that plans change, that Katsuki couldn’t expect him to fit perfectly into every part of his schedule.

And Katsuki kept biting back that yes, he could—because he did. Because he organized everything, every stupid detail of his week, just so he could see Izuku without looking desperate. He’d shown up with that expectation sitting heavy in his chest, and now he felt stupid for caring so much. (But he was wrong, he was so so wrong because Izuku did the same.)

But even while they argued, Izuku with a sharp tone he rarely let anyone hear, and Katsuki with his pulse hammering from too much, honesty and insecurity pressed into too many insults, there was this quiet, steady awareness under all of it. Izuku always looked different when he was angry. Nothing held back.

And even mid-fight, Katsuki liked that he got to see that. He liked that Izuku trusted him enough to raise his voice, to let his irritation slip through the careful way he usually carried himself. He liked that Izuku didn’t hide from him.

No one else ever got this version of him, frustrated, confused, trying so hard to explain himself without sugarcoating anything. No one else got the small tremor in his hands or the crease between his brows or the way he’d keep glancing away and then back like he didn’t want to lose sight of Katsuki for too long. Katsuki knew all of it. Every shift in expression. Every tiny tell. Every piece of Izuku that wasn’t for public display.

And maybe that was why, even when they were both out of breath from arguing, Katsuki didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to step back. Because this, Izuku standing in front of him, annoyed and honest and completely unfiltered, felt like something he’d been trusted with. Something he never ever wanted to let go of.

It spiraled fast—too fast—both of them saying things they didn’t really mean, both of them too wound up and too tired to back down first.

Katsuki had stomped out anyway, still fuming. He got as far as the train platform before his phone buzzed.

Katsuki answered with a sharp, “What?”

Izuku’s voice came through immediately—soft, rushed, anxious. Kacchan, I’m sorry, I should’ve told you earlier, I didn’t mean to make you feel—

Katsuki cut him off, snapping right back into it, pacing up and down the platform with pure frustration. “Don’t apologize now! What, you only remembered once I was gone? You always do this, Deku. You—”

Izuku tried again, still gentle, still trying to soothe him, 

“Kacchan, I said I was sorry, I was so excited to have you back, I forgot. What more do you want—”

“I want you to stop acting like this isn’t a big fucking deal!” Katsuki had shouted into the phone, pacing the tiny train corridor like a caged animal. The countryside blurred past the window, green and gold and meaningless. “A whole year, Izuku! A whole year of radio silence and band bullshit and All Might this, All Might that—like I’m just some side character you can put on pause whenever it’s convenient!”

“That’s not fair and you know it! Just say you don’t want me to go,” Izuku had muttered, quieter now. “It’s simpler than all this.”

And Katsuki froze, because he’d never heard Izuku ask for the truth so directly.

And because the truth was already sitting on his tongue. But Katsuki was every bit as stubborn as his boyfriend so, 

“Not fair? You waited until I was literally walking out the door to drop this on me! You knew for weeks and you didn’t say shit because you were scared I’d—” Katsuki’s voice had splintered, ugly and raw. “You were scared I’d be proud of you, is that it? Or scared I’d ask you to stay?”

“I was scared you’d make me choose.”

Katsuki had laughed, bitter and broken. “Yeah? Well congratulations, nerd. You chose.”

He hadn’t meant it. God, he hadn’t meant it.

But the second the words left his mouth he felt them land like grenades.

Izuku’s breath hitched, and then the line clicked dead.

Katsuki had stared at the screen. Call ended. 00:47.

He called back immediately. Straight to voicemail.

Again. Voicemail.

Again. Again. Again.

“Izuku, pick up the fucking phone—”

He sat down hard on the floor of the corridor, back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest like he was twelve again and the world was too big. The phone slipped from his fingers and clattered away. He hated fighting with Izuku when they were so far away. Katsuki was bad with words. He could do so much more by just being there with Izuku, just being with him.

“I didn’t want to fight before you left,” Izuku had whispered. “I just… I thought if I told you earlier you’d be mad the whole break.”

Turns out waiting made it worse.

Turns out Katsuki was always going to be mad because the idea of a whole year without Izuku felt like having a lung ripped out.

Turns out he was terrifyingly, stupidly in love and it hurt so much when Izuku wasn't around.

He’d scrubbed his face raw in the shower at six when he'd gotten home, trying to wash away the evidence that he’d cried like a goddamn child, but his eyes were still swollen and the skin around them felt tight. He looked like shit. He felt worse. He called again.

Izuku picked up.

And Katsuki fell apart.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Izuku, I didn’t mean—” he blurted, the words tumbling over each other in a rush as if worried Deku would hang up again. “I didn’t mean it like that!” Katsuki kept going, pacing the same three steps across his room, hand in his hair, breath catching. 

“I was an asshole,” Katsuki kept going, terrified that if he stopped talking Izuku would hang up again. “I was scared and I got pissed and I said the worst possible shit because I'd never make you choose Izuku! You were waiting for a world tour, fuck and I'm so happy for you—"

“Kacchan, slow down—”

“No! Because you’ll hang up again and then—” His voice cracked, mortifyingly obvious. “—and then I’ll just sit here like a fucking idiot, and I can’t— I can’t do that again, okay? I can’t. I didn’t mean any of that shit I said. I’m just— I’m just—”

“Kacchan—”

“I’m proud of you, okay?” His voice cracked wide open. “I’m so fucking proud of you it hurts, and I hate that you didn't tell me I hate it, I hate not getting to see you for a whole year, I hate waking up without you hogging the blankets and muttering shit in your sleep, I hate it so much it feels like I’m dying, but I’m proud, Izuku, I’m so proud I could burst and I should’ve said that first, I should’ve—”

Izuku was crying. "I'm sorry Kacchan,"

"It's not your fault Izuku,"

“I miss you already,” Izuku said, small and wrecked. 

"Please just don't...don’t turn it off," Katsuki began as Izuku apologised again.

"—What the fuck, I told you—no, listen—"

“Don’t hang up again,” Katsuki pleaded, hating how small he sounded. “Please. Even if I’m an idiot. Even if I yell. Just— stay on the line.”

“I won’t,” Izuku promised. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Katsuki slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, knees to his chest, phone still glued to his ear. Eventually he had fallen asleep.

Now the nerd stood at the doorway looking tired and confused but so, so adorable.

He was moving before his brain caught up, crossing the room in long strides, ignoring the wide-eyed bandmates frozen in the doorway like statues. His palms were sweating. 

He crashed into Izuku hard enough to lift him half an inch off the ground, arms locking around his back like if he let go Izuku would vanish. Face pressed into green curls that smelled like airplane and home and Izuku.

Izuku’s arms came around him instantly, fierce and desperate, one hand fisting in the back of Katsuki’s hoodie, the other sliding up to cradle the nape of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” Izuku whispered against his shoulder, voice thick and wet. “I’m sorry, I didn't mean to—"

“Shut up,” Katsuki rasped, but there was no heat in it. His voice was wrecked. “Just— shut up, Izuku.”

He was shaking.

He could feel Izuku’s heartbeat hammering against his own, too fast, like they were syncing up again after being out of rhythm for twelve hours that had felt like years.

I almost lost this.

The thought hit him like a punch to his stomach.

He had almost lost this because he’d gotten scared and lashed out like he always did. Because Izuku had said “I’m going on a tour with All Might for a whole year” and Katsuki’s brain had short-circuited into you’re leaving me, you’re choosing him over me, you don’t need me anymore.

And instead of saying that (instead of saying I’m proud of you, I’m terrified, I’m gonna miss you so much it feels like dying), he’d yelled. He’d accused. He’d said cruel, stupid things he didn’t mean.

And Izuku had hung up on him.

And Katsuki had deserved it.

But Izuku was here.

Izuku had flown (or taken a bullet train, or both) all night just to stand in his doorway looking for him.

Because Katsuki had said, voice cracking on the last call before the phone died:

“I’m just gonna miss you so much, Izuku.”

And that had been enough.

Katsuki pulled back just far enough to cup Izuku’s face in both hands, thumbs brushing over wet cheeks, over freckles he had memorized like constellations.

“Don’t you ever,” he said, voice low and trembling, “do that again. Don’t you ever shut me out when I’m being an asshole. Yell at me. Hit me. Throw something. Just— don’t leave.”

Izuku’s eyes filled again, fresh tears spilling over. “I won’t,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I love you. I love you so much, Kacchan, I didn’t mean—”

Katsuki kissed him.

Like he was drowning and Izuku was oxygen. Like if he kissed hard enough he could rewrite the last twenty-four hours. Like he could pour every ounce of I’m sorry and I’m scared and I need you into it.

Izuku made a broken sound and kissed him back just as desperately, fingers tangled in blond hair, pulling him closer.

Behind them, someone (Denki) whispered, “Holy shit—”

Someone else (Kirishima) hissed, “Shut up, shut up, shut up—”

Katsuki didn’t care.

He didn’t care that his band was watching.

Izuku was here.

Izuku was his.

And for the first time in twelve hours, Katsuki could breathe again.

"Who the FUCK would've guessed he was dating the number one most eligible bachelor of Japan? Midoriya Izuku, lead performer of Plus Ultra, working with All Might, dating Bakugou Katsuki."

Denki was actually on his knees, hands clasped like he was praying to the gods.

"The guy who turned down a Vogue cover because ‘I don’t want people to focus on my face instead of the message.’ That Midoriya Izuku is upstairs right now making out with our Bakugou Katsuki like it’s the end of the world.”

Mina had both hands over her mouth, eyes sparkling with tears of joy. “They’ve been together this whole time. This whole time! Every break, every mysterious disappearance, every time Katsuki came back looking grumpier than usual! He missed his damn nerd!"

Jirou had her phone out, scrolling through old footage with the intensity of a detective. “Look at this. Look. Tokyo Dome, last year. Watch Bakugou during the bridge of ‘Ground Zero.’ He does that little smirk (right there) and looks straight up at the VIP balcony. That’s where Deku always sits. I thought he was just being cocky. He was flirting. He was flirting with the number one singer in front of sixty thousand people.”

Sero was lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to the universe. “No wonder he never let anyone come home with him after shows. We all thought he was just allergic to feelings. Turns out he was rushing off to go get railed by Midoriya Izuku who also happens to be the sweetest man alive."

It was true.

Within five minutes of untangling from his Kacchan, Izuku had bowed three times. Apologised for 'showing up unannounced' atleast six. Offered everyone snacks he brough from his hometown, and thanked Denki for “letting me sit here, if that’s okay?” when Denki wasn’t even using the chair.

They were charmed. Completely and thoroughly charmed by Izuku.

How did the world's sweetest, most polite man end up with Japan's loudest, grumpiest motherfucker?

Kirishima bit into the cookie Izuku gave him earlier and moaned. "I’m proposing. Someone tell Bakugou I’m proposing.”

From the kitchen came Katsuki’s distant bellow: “I will kill all of y—"

Followed by Izuku's soft, mortified, "Kacchan! Be nice to your friends—"

And then a suspiciously long silence.

Sero rolled onto his stomach, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Yeah. Sweetest man alive."

If I could reach the velvet sky so high,
I’d pluck the moon from where the nightbirds fly.
No diamond ring, no gold could ever do,
I’d buy the moon and bring it home to you.

Would you keep it shining, keep it near?
This rock that cost my soul so dear?
Just say the word, and watch the world swoon,
For you, my darling, I would buy the moon.

I’d teach her to wane only when you sleep,
To wax full and bright when your heart needs keep

If the heavens are stubborn, if they guard their light,
For you, my love, I'll steal the night:
Wrap you in shadows as soft as a sigh,
Paint your tomorrows with firefly eyes.

The stars would grow shy in the glow of your eyes,
The oceans fall silent beneath your sighs.
No treasure in heaven or wonder below
Could rival the light in you, my love.

If heavens are stingy and lock up their store,
I’d hollow my chest and give even more—
Your heartbeat my lantern, your breath a pretty tune,
My arms the horizon that cradles your moon.
No kingdom of light, no empire of stars
Could ransom the wonder of all that you are.

(Oh, Midoriya Izuku the man that you are.)

So take not the moon, love, she’s lonesome and cold;
Take me—I’m the fever, the fire, the gold.
I’ll buy you the moon, no matter the price,
For one of your smiles is my paradise.

I’d tear the moon from her ancient chains,
rip silver from heaven with bleeding hands,
let galaxies scream as I wrench her free—
no price too high, no god I’d not flee.
I’d strangle the night, choke darkness to death,
just to crown you with light on my dying breath.

Take me—break me—unmake me—remake me again,
I am ash, I am thunder, I am madness and amen.
The moon is a pauper next to the way you glow;
I’d shatter it all just to let you know:
You are my religion, my rapture, my doom—
I’d buy you the moon… then burn it for you.

I’d claw through the void, devour the black,
swallow the silence and never give back—
I’d murder the dawn if it rose without you,
slaughter the dusk if it dared bid adieu.
My soul is a wildfire, my blood is a flood,
I’d trade every vein for one drop of your love.

Come, love and let the heavens fall ragged and torn;
I’d rather reign ruined with you than be born
to a universe empty of all your grace.
Kiss me—destroy me—consume me—erase
every law ever written in starlight above:
I’d murder eternity itself for your love.

Song written by Bakugou Katsuki, from Dynamight. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Text